Crazy rural English try to understand the appearance of a benign intergalactic probe on Dry Avenue.
The truth arrived in two chunks. On such a glum day one couldn't rely upon the landscape to outline vague shapes, but, Greta saw all she needed of them. Patchy-gray amalgamations, crystals layed in, pretty blue lights telling her a poppingbox 'hullo!' in all of five clicks. A very thin language and not one used to describe superflous things. 'Hullo!' it said again, and then, 'we're wanting irradiated quartz and silicone fuel,' no response; 'do you have a pumpatorium hereabouts?'
The things inside gave thought to whether gray-skirted feline- girl had registered. She licked her teeth and walked past the smoking forms to Grappa Abstinte.
The cafe stood in two sections, lime white as an impoverished coffin. Water dripped once a second off a ledge beside the sign. Harvey was there when it fell. Would Cette run her pretty little arse over and see what sorta precious things God bestowed on them just now? She would and could, sugar.
Cette looked at Greta, sparking cat hairs on the first female witness of Nanabula Five's wreckage. Greta's eyes writhed overlaying 'the mangled fur of Isis', a term Harvey had coined quite for her. No other female in Islington ever stared at a girl or a man till he'd felt like an ancient ghost goddess was rubbing her hair against his eyes as an act of pre-medieval contrition. Whatta ya going to do?
Coffee! The one with the ruby necklace and all the perfume her magazines had been willing to yield, sipped. That is, after the dumb cow Fannie brought what seemed like the last coffee on earth. 'Must've been damn expensive too...' she thought after the third and most fully grateful sip.
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