Cold sweat trickles down his forehead.
He stumbles down the worn cobble-stone street, pursued by an unseen pursuer, scared of being described with phrases as overused as his worn out shoes, Botticelli's, Italian, the kind you buy the day before a funeral, the funeral of a forgotten friend, forgotten like one forgets to buy shoes to match a shabby black suit, but shoes can be bought at the Italians in The Dark Alley, friends cannot - or so he thought. For everything had a price, a price he had to pay, yes; it had all started with the shoes, the money purse weighed down by a bad conscience, ...and the fickle promise of a friend.
Relentlessly they slap the pavement, the shoes do, like a delirious Jamaican slaps his bass guitar, as if they hadn't punished their runner enough and now, in a final fit of malice, let their hatred out on the entire town.He could not go on, yet he did not stop, he could not stop, the merciless pace of his shoes echoing off the dead cellars, the rotten houses and the decaying chimneys, amplified to a terrible chorus of scrapes and slaps and flaps.
Slap.
Flap.
Slap. Flap.
Slapflapslapflapslapf
rap. This is the sound of the
pervs on chatroul
the Raven Baroness.
