He awoke to see the visage of the Detective glaring down at him. “Idiot,” she intoned.
“Good to see you toof, detectif. Fleebus Marley, waffs wrong wiff me.”
“That’s something I’d like to know, truth be told. You’re on assignment, Paul. I should have you retired for obstruction of justice.”
***Thanks to Paul-n-tha-Gang for fixin’ the Oort glitches***
Link to part 1
It’s the dreams that get him the most. Dreams of ex lovers , dreams of his parents before their retirement. Dreams of things that don’t involve the trex. Most of all, though, is the shear amounts of space involved. He is standing and his feet are bare and strangely enough, so is the rest of him.
Here's the second volume of my ongoing, rambling meta-plot narrative. It might be worthwhile to read the first volume before this one as, although it may not look like it, there is a story going on here. In its proper form, this is quite layout heavy (reflecting my background in poetry) so I've tried to make it as easy to read on-screen as I can.
First, The City
There's a man by the Choke with a turn-handle organ and he plays as the shadows walk by. There's a monkey beside him with an old, rusty cup and she dances for the copper they throw.
Sometimes he wonders whether he turns the handle or the handle is now turning him but the song is near ending and the monkey's stopped dancing so he puts the machine in reverse.