All in Comedy
Shots off the starboard bow at dusk, the captain rosy-red like the sunset sky. The sound of drums carried over the steady grumble of the engines, and lights flickered over the stark white paint of the ship’s sides. The crush of people swirled like the sapphire waves below. Sparkling wine flowed freely – everyone knew fresh water was limited on a ship, so alcohol was the responsible choice to preserve rations.
Andres Paolo was a dead man walking to a hopped up beat, and he knew it. It was hard to say who wanted him dead - or at least who wanted him dead enough to pay assassins. The usual strings of scorned ex-lovers, disgruntled fans and irate club owners were long on ire but generally short on cash and/or real desire to inflict lasting physical harm to his person
She had left holes in his life, big gaping holes that tugged at the edges of things and unravelled them. Strings and strands of memory and emotion, drawn into a swirling vortex that gave nothing back. The spaces on the hallway wall, where happy eyes had been, stared disapprovingly at him when he came home of an evening, chill wind ushering him through the door and whipping his coattails around his legs so the wet fabric stuck to him and sent ice creeping under his skin to reach fingers to the marrow of his bones.
To look at, it’s nothing special at first glance. Agriculture, with cows and sheep plodding over gently rolling green fields, golden swathes of grains hemmed in by low rock walls on one side, wire or trees on the other. Oats, obviously. They grow a lot of them here.
The day had started off well for professor Frank Rouass, but had taken an unexpected nose dive around lunchtime, when an alarm had been set off. What kind of alarm, Rouass was unsure - the knock-out gas had been piped through the ventilation at approximately the same time, and it left his recollection blurry.
“I don’t know!” Amanda bellowed back from behind the relative safety of the kitchen island bench, clutching her grandpapa’s recipe book to her chest. Eyes screwed shut, as if it might go away if she didn’t look at it, she pulled her knees closer to her chest. “You were supposed to be a pie!”
What do you mean you want to hear about the crayon incident?
Look, it’s not important. Those crayons were just very flammable. We’re talking about cats here, pay attention.
