False summer doth approacheth, carrying with it condensation and humidity, the mortal enemy of anyone who enjoys wearing clothes or walking outside. Two figures shuffled towards a lonely dock-side, one hiccuping constantly while it chittered angrily to the other. Between them, a wooden chest with a heavy iron lock.
“Why couldn’t you have just put whatever this is in something lighter, like a sack?” The tone of the Former Fisher-King betrayed her youth, a past of not having to worry about much other than bed time.
“Know what happens then? It drips.” Ezekiel gruffly drops the chest at the edge of the quayside, turning to look at the girl. “A sack. The very thought of it.”
“Well, sorrrrryy, Mr Iron.” The young-blood yelps as the chest his the cobblestone, wringing her wrists incessantly as she paces in circles around the behemoth. He is already starting to display signs of overgrowth. “The Caretaker said this was going to be a big evening for me. I didn’t figure we’d be hauling around furniture.”
“Big evening.” Ezekiel repeats. “And so, donned an evening suit while knowing that there would be time spent working?”
The Young-blood straightens her sleeves as she peers curiously at the box. “Gotta dress to impress.”
“Look like a lobster.” Ezekiel chitters, fiddling with the rusty lock. “Red is not the color.”
“Yeah, well, I can take the coat off.” She quips. “What do you have to do?”
Ezekiel raises a finger and looks in her direction. “Was pretty good.”
“Seriously unaware of why there are two here standing at dockside?” Ezekiel continues to chip away at the lock. “Would have had to write message on Bazaar with Correspondence sigils, would not have noticed.”
“Fine, why am I…” The chest opens and releases a waft of stale honey and death into the air. Her curiosity turns to shock and then disgust. “Woof.”
“Getting big promotion. Mazel tov.” Ezekiel sneers down at the crumpled remains of the red-haired man. He looks like he caught the wrong end of an Emergency Blunderbuss. “This One is getting big demotion. Permanent unpaid vacation at bottom of Zee.”
“Is that the editor of the newspaper? Did you kill him?” She berated Ezekiel, stepping out of range of the gamy stench. Far gamier than El Topo normally smelled.
“Wish. No. Was killed by bad decisions. And brain hemorrhage. And other things.”
“So, what does this mean?”
“You’re The New Mole. Welcome to the family.”
Ezekiel waves her away as he shuts the chest once more, firmly bolting it shut. He hauls it towards the waters edge and stands, his arms crossed.
“Farewell, Zailor.” Ezekiel gives a hearty salute before kicking the chest into the Zee with a massive splash. He watched the bubbles rise for a while before turning and walking back to Spite with a spring in his step.