And the ghost said:
“Rhymes?” I inquired. “You’re looming about all diaphanous in the middle of the day, puking cryptic rhymes? Low craft and tawdry art, ghosting about at noon—a parson’s fart heralds darker doom, thou babbling wisp.”
“Ghost!” cried the raven, and with that the ghost was gone.
There’s always a bloody ghost.
TWO
NOW, GODS, STAND UP FOR BASTARDS!
I found Drool in the laundry resolving a wank, spouting great gouts of git-seed across the laundry walls, floors, and ceiling, giggling, as young Shanker Mary wagged her tits at him over a steaming cauldron of the king’s shirts.
“Put those away, tart, we’ve a show to do.”
“I was just giving ’im a laugh.”
“If you wanted to show charity you could have bonked him honest and there’d be a lot less cleaning to do.”
“That’d be a sin. Besides, I’d as soon straddle a gateman’s halberd as try to get a weapon that girth up me.”
Drool pumped himself dry and sat down on the floor splay-legged, huffing like a great dribbling bellows. I tried to help the lout repack his tackle, but getting him into a codpiece against his firm enthusiasm was like trying to pound a bucket over a bull’s head—a scenario I thought comical enough to perhaps work into the act tonight, should things get slow.
“Nothing stopping you from givin’ the lad a proper cleavage toss, Mary. You had ’em out and all soaped up, a couple of jumps and a tickle and he’d have carried water for you for a fortnight.”
“He already does. And I don’t even want that thing near me. A Natural, he is. There’s devils in his jizm.”