Wolverton re-adjusts to corporeality and rolls onto his back with a whimper.  Something presses painfully against his hip.  After a moment he recognises it as the leg of the cheaply laminated desk that fills most of the space.  Everything about the office is cheap, from the faded wallpaper to the dusty glass.

The rental’s not even under his real name; which makes leaving it even easier.  Wolverton hastily stuffs CDs, fetishes and notebooks into a plastic shopping bag.  Tracermancy is a bitch, so he douses everything in ammonia.  Gagging on the fumes, he shuts the door and doesn’t look back.


~ by Electro-mechanical Man on January 26, 2011.

2 Responses to “Wolverton”

  1. “Tracermancy is a bitch, so he douses everything in ammonia.” Damn, that’s too distinctive for me to steal outright, isn’t it?

  2. Man, feel free – after all, I’ve been liberally rifling through your ideas for the last three months on all this.

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