Hmm, I don't usually put this character in the third person, but it felt right today!
The jeweller The wind rattled windows and lifted the lids from old-fashioned metal garbage cans. The lids frisbeed through the air, smashing into the windscreens of erratically parked cars and bouncing off the trunks of old trees, leaving new white scars in their wake. Bushes trembled and rustled, losing branches and leaves gradually like reluctant strippers, and here and there backyard oddities, like trampolines, brightly coloured childrens' toys, and pink flamingos, hurtled down streets. The hurricane had arrived. The jeweller's shop still had its lights on, though the metal shutters at the front were down and the jeweller was half-way through putting his stock away. The safe at the back of the shop was open and the display boxes with their rings, necklaces and watches stacked neatly inside. The display window at the front was nearly empty and he would have been finished a half-hour ago if it weren't for his visitor. "Look Mac," said the jeweller for what felt like the fiftieth time. "I told ya, I told ya already. There ain't nobody in this town who's going to cop to selling the Mayor that ring." "But it's unique," said MacArthur. Time had not been kind to him, nor had Mother Nature, Mad Frankie, and just about everyone he'd ever met in his life. His voice sounded like it was fifth-hand and should have been discarded when it was third-hand; his clothes made homeless people feel bad and want to donate some to him; he walked as though he'd lost the instruction manual and was using muscles intended for other things in order to get his legs to move. The jeweller resisted the urge to try and clean out his ear with his finger as Mac's voice grated on his eardrum. "Yeah, I get that Mac. I really do. But you're saying that that means you can find the guy who made it. I'm telling you that that means the Mayor can find the guy who tells you who made it." MacArthur sighed. He knew that the jeweller was right, but he'd been relying on his general presence to be more unpleasant than the thought of Mayor Monkeybutt's eventual revenge. "That's Hurricane Janet outside," he said slowly, the misshapen wheels and toothless cogs turning in his head as he thought. "Maybe... maybe someone's paperwork could get caught up in it and end up in my hands?" The jeweller, who was starting to worry that Mac's presence was corroding the gold signet rings, eyed him, wondering if this was a good enough excuse to get rid of him.
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Hmm, I don't usually put this character in the third person, but it felt right today!
The jeweller
The wind rattled windows and lifted the lids from old-fashioned metal garbage cans. The lids frisbeed through the air, smashing into the windscreens of erratically parked cars and bouncing off the trunks of old trees, leaving new white scars in their wake. Bushes trembled and rustled, losing branches and leaves gradually like reluctant strippers, and here and there backyard oddities, like trampolines, brightly coloured childrens' toys, and pink flamingos, hurtled down streets. The hurricane had arrived.
The jeweller's shop still had its lights on, though the metal shutters at the front were down and the jeweller was half-way through putting his stock away. The safe at the back of the shop was open and the display boxes with their rings, necklaces and watches stacked neatly inside. The display window at the front was nearly empty and he would have been finished a half-hour ago if it weren't for his visitor.
"Look Mac," said the jeweller for what felt like the fiftieth time. "I told ya, I told ya already. There ain't nobody in this town who's going to cop to selling the Mayor that ring."
"But it's unique," said MacArthur. Time had not been kind to him, nor had Mother Nature, Mad Frankie, and just about everyone he'd ever met in his life. His voice sounded like it was fifth-hand and should have been discarded when it was third-hand; his clothes made homeless people feel bad and want to donate some to him; he walked as though he'd lost the instruction manual and was using muscles intended for other things in order to get his legs to move. The jeweller resisted the urge to try and clean out his ear with his finger as Mac's voice grated on his eardrum.
"Yeah, I get that Mac. I really do. But you're saying that that means you can find the guy who made it. I'm telling you that that means the Mayor can find the guy who tells you who made it."
MacArthur sighed. He knew that the jeweller was right, but he'd been relying on his general presence to be more unpleasant than the thought of Mayor Monkeybutt's eventual revenge.
"That's Hurricane Janet outside," he said slowly, the misshapen wheels and toothless cogs turning in his head as he thought. "Maybe... maybe someone's paperwork could get caught up in it and end up in my hands?"
The jeweller, who was starting to worry that Mac's presence was corroding the gold signet rings, eyed him, wondering if this was a good enough excuse to get rid of him.
Greg - ah, a bit of a different angle on a familiar character. I like it!
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