Picture a fancy restaurant–candle-light, hoverng waiters, crisp white linen, muted conversation, gourmet food. The whole deal.
Now change that picture a bit– smoking candles, mismatched dishes, junk yard furniture, scraps of dirty rags. Rotting food. Fine dining with bums.
This was Train 705.
I was shown to the Fat Man’s table; I can only assume he’s some bigwig in the land of the indigent. He shoved decomposing food between his too-wet lips and chewed with his mouth open. I was forced to wait until he’d completed what I’ll loosely call his meal and had wiped his mouth on a dirty rag.
I asked about the Conductor. Apparently secrets are the going currency here, and he demanded payment up front. Handwritten. Signed.
On the back of a receipt I wrote, ‘I’m screwing around with my best friend’s girlfriend’ and put my initials on it. He tucked the scrap into a greasy pocket, satisfied I guess, then snapped his fingers.
Now I have an escort. Two of them actually. My guess is, combined, they could bench press a dump truck.
I don’t know where they’re taking me.
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