affame_le_geant_across_the_street fyn gula flinging open the glass door of baeroun's mercantile in panicked haste, the madrill left behind a bloody handprint on top of a small poster announcing the upcoming concert of joseph arthur at the rathskellar in montelapine. (days later, when all the commotion died down, plasimento would leave it as it appeared, actually most customers thought it to be a part of the graphic design) the cowbell was knocked askew, making the sound of someone yelling for her to stop, only to have the slight but ominous warning stick in their throat. she made a beeline to her bicycle, giving off an odd clicking noise with her tongue, a familiar call to her snakes to reform as tires. however, they were not to be found, having disappeared from their coils of relaxation, perhaps off to find a careless mouse for breakfast. the madrill paused only momentarily, long enough to quickly scan the premises and then wince at the pain in her right hand from a sliver of glass still penetrating her leathery skin. bright red blood made raindrop-like splashes in the snow that the strong winds had blown on to the wooden porch slats of the shoppe. if she would have looked down, she would have seen the drips formed a face: two dots for eyes, one for a nose, one for a mouth. a visage much like her own: horror-stricken. without turning around she knew her temporary pursuit had begun. plasimento's voice was strained and urgent, accusatory, cursing. just as she heard his footfalls behind her, she leapt from the steps and nearly ran into a cart full of paper bark birch logs driven by a man with a russian blue cat head. he was wearing a nordic hat that covered much of his face and his columbia fleece jacket was dotted by blowing snow. he was thinking about names for characters in the novel he was writing in his spare time when the donkey painted with black and white stripes to look like a zebra that was pulling his load suddenly halted to avoid hitting the madrill. "what the fuck!" the russian-blue catman yelled with scarcely concealed impatience, giving the madrill a look of stern judgement, but she never turned his way. she crossed the small belgium block main street in a determined hurry, her shoulderbag pressed tightly against her, trailing the stink of rotting flesh. stepping on to the opposite sidewalk, she gave a quick backwards glance and sighed. the catman was busy picking up a few logs that had dropped to the street and there was no presence of plasimento at the mercantile. "but where are my fucking snakes?" she said to herself, frustrated. she looked at her hand, a swirling, throbbing mess of dried and fresh blood. she could see the splinter of glass shining in the growing light of morning. she did not notice that the full moon, yet to set, was reflected in puddle of melted snow her sorel boots had last stepped in. finding herself in front of "dirt under fingernails," a flower, nursery and garden shoppe, she made the spontaneous decision to duck inside. opening the heavy oak door with its large plate glass window etched with a finely rendered drawing of a ladyslipper orchid, the madrill noticed a small piece of paper at her feet with black words in a font from an ancient typewriter. she picked it up like a child discovering a wrapped candy someone had accidently dropped and closed the door, shutting what she felt was danger, behind her. she read the paper, once, and felt immediately better, even though her hand still pulsed with shooting pain. she read it again, noticing the bloodstain from her fingerprints. and then she folded it and slipped it into her pocket that also held the wrapper of a luna bar she last ate before separating puppertwinkle's flesh from his skeleton. what did it say, you wonder? translated from the french: "the hero suppresses her fears and steps into darkness." 030104 what's it to you? who go blather from