Flight of the Bumblebee
A soot-propelled blast of dry air blew through the streets. Bunjo men, rag collectors, and persons of interest milled about in the drab uniforms of their poverty and woe. Some pushed decrepit, wooden carts; others pulled misshapen, canvas sacks behind them. Their movements were orchestrated in an industrial cacophony of old tin, pilfered iron, and the odd, twisted coil of brass. Clank! Clang! Scrape…shuffle—it went.
Just around the corner…
Tattered and grimy curtains did what little they could to filter the orange haze streaming in from the toxic, ochre atmosphere just outside the window.
Mick awoke in his Archibald Square flat to find everything just as he had remembered: broken furniture—old and cheap—empty whisky—old and not cheap—bottles and newspapers—older still—strewn about as if the place was a dime-store snow-globe cocktail shaken by The Brigadier’s over-zealous bartender. His head felt much the same way.
What happened? Little came to mind just then. He ached—everywhere.
The go-men made a right mess of it this time, he thought. It was always like this….the blackouts, the pain, the disorientation.
It’ll clear soon enough, he thought assuredly.
Right now, he had orders to satisfy. The Brigadier had a mission for him. Oh, The Brig. Always planning, he was.
Mick stretched out, pain cutting every joint. Slouching his shoulders, he put a hand in the right pocket of his trousers. A rumpled piece of paper, parchment quality, or something like it, chafed his fingertips.
He pulled out the playing-card sized scrap of vellum. It was The Brigadier’s stationery all right. Mick unfolded it.
Bumblebee. G7 at Vicker’s Brae, scrawled in ink along the surface.
Mick dropped his arm and the note fell to the floor.
The mission was a go. The pit of his stomach dropped, realizing what was being asked of him…..
If you want to continue the shenanigans, you ought to be here.