(no subject)
The thin strains of a jazz combo--piano, string bass, cornet, and drum kit, gradually insinuate themselves into the general hubbub of the Nexus, as one dark corner slowly brightens to reveal a coatrack bearing a trenchcoat and fedora, a desk cluttered with pictures, newspaper clippings, and empty bottles, and a man sitting behind that desk with his feet propped up on it. He slouches, deep in thought or possibly drunk. He doesn't speak, but words swell audibly from him, echoing slightly like internal narration.
They say there's eight million stories in the naked city, but how many get buried? That's the question I ask, walking the mean streets of London Below. Asking questions is what I do. It's how I pay the bills. I'm Richard. Richard Mayhew. Private dick.
The pianist sneezes. The man sits up suddenly.
What was that?
Silence.
Huh. Nothing.
The music resumes. The man goes back to lounging.
You've got to be careful, in my line of work. I don't have many friends. Just two worth mentioning. One's near and dear to my heart--down and a little to the left, in fact. I call him Colt, and I keep him loaded. The other one's near and dear to my liver--he's Colt, too, and he keeps me loaded. And me? I'm Richard. Richard Mayhew. Private dick.
There's a brief, mournful solo by the cornet as some female denizen of the Nexus happens by.
I knew she had trouble the moment she stepped into my office. I knew, because she came in. The only reason people ever see me is 'cause they've got trouble. In here, they bring it to me. Out there, I bring it to them. Because I'm Richard. Richard Mayhew. Private dick.
He looks up, and judging by his expression he's about to deliver some suave, nonchalant line, when he realizes the familiar, grimy walls of his office are gone. Only now does he speak.
"Hey... where's my office gone?"
They say there's eight million stories in the naked city, but how many get buried? That's the question I ask, walking the mean streets of London Below. Asking questions is what I do. It's how I pay the bills. I'm Richard. Richard Mayhew. Private dick.
The pianist sneezes. The man sits up suddenly.
What was that?
Silence.
Huh. Nothing.
The music resumes. The man goes back to lounging.
You've got to be careful, in my line of work. I don't have many friends. Just two worth mentioning. One's near and dear to my heart--down and a little to the left, in fact. I call him Colt, and I keep him loaded. The other one's near and dear to my liver--he's Colt, too, and he keeps me loaded. And me? I'm Richard. Richard Mayhew. Private dick.
There's a brief, mournful solo by the cornet as some female denizen of the Nexus happens by.
I knew she had trouble the moment she stepped into my office. I knew, because she came in. The only reason people ever see me is 'cause they've got trouble. In here, they bring it to me. Out there, I bring it to them. Because I'm Richard. Richard Mayhew. Private dick.
He looks up, and judging by his expression he's about to deliver some suave, nonchalant line, when he realizes the familiar, grimy walls of his office are gone. Only now does he speak.
"Hey... where's my office gone?"