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The train whistled on, passing through various obscure Eastern European towns, on its way to Venice and the end of its tiring expedition.
Microchips sat at a window, sucking away at a pipe. His keen eye surveyed the carriage. It was the dining car. Silver clinked and shone in the evening candlelight, and flirting laughs echoed across hushed whispers of all the secret talk. Microchip was on his way to Venice, to serenade his new girl, in a maze of waterways, roses, and wine and he was damn happy. Very happy indeed. He glanced across his own table.
‘Do you mind if I sit here, old boy?’
Microchips looked up. ‘By Jove! If it isn’t my old school friend, JuicyMelons! I say!’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m jolly good! Thank you – you?’
So it continued. Chitchat mumbled over courses of exquisite food, all cooked by the world famous chef, Fuzzy, who came out to see his ‘darlings’ in the dining car. AS he passed around, sucking up all the compliments he could, Microchips questioned his friend.
‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘Well, after I got expelled from Eton for beating my housemaster, I joined the army. Now I’m on my way to Italy to join D’Annunzios mad army – He wants to take Fiume!’
‘Er yes. I heard about him’
‘He has passion! Passion Microchips! You know, we need passion’ he mumbled as he gulped down another glass of red wine. ‘You know, what vintage is this? It tastes rather odd.’
‘Hmmm. Let me see….yes, it does smell odd. But, ah! It’s Ozzie! That explains it!”
They shared a chuckle and then greeted Fuzzy with gracious cheers of good English spirit!
‘Ah, Monsieur Fuzzy! That was delicious!’ exclaimed Microchips.
‘Indeed. My compliments!’ added JuicyMelons.
‘Ah! I have two Englishmen today, ah? Good, we say in gay Paris, you know that only an Englishman can appreciate rubbish wine and poor food!’ Fuzzy exclaimed
‘What ever do you mean – It was lovely’ cried Microchips
‘Oh – you are too kind, monsieur, but nay, I am an artiste, and my talents go to waste on this oppressing train. I thank you, but now I must leave. Oh!’
He let for the kitchen.
Odd stares resounded. They sat, talked and smoked. Night fell.
----------
JuicyMelons excused himself, and went to bed. Microchips looked around at the talking diners. There, across to his smoky left, sat Count Yevgony of Yugoslavia, a great man and a strong nationalist. On his right sat his beautiful wife, an American actress, named Martha Stormson. Opposite them sat a newspaper journalist from Fiume itself! The count seemed to be pressing the journalist, a harrowed looking man, for news from the troubled city. He had an odd mark on his temple. He got up and left as Microchips was looking at him.
Over, in the table in front of Microchips, sat an Englishman, Lord Johnson, and next to him his servant, Smethells. An odd thing that, thought Microchips. A servant next to his master at the evening dinner table. Peculiar. Opposite them, was Fuzzy, who had returned from the kitchen, now smoking a cigar and fuming about his wasted talents. Next to him, looking disgusted was a beautiful femme fatale– An Italian, Andrea DeGioti. Odd name, thought Microchips.
.
In fact, it was an odd mix. Many races, many professions, ideals and feelings, and even more so, relationships. He glanced out the window. A shadow flickered. He brushed his eyes, and looked again. Nothing. He was sure something had moved towards the train, but he couldn’t be certain. He got up, and began to walk his way back to his cabin, smiling at the Italian beauty as he went past. He bent down, kissed her hand, and wished her a good night.
Outside the carriage, he smiled. Damn good chap!
------------
He lay in bed thinking.
SCRRRRRREEEEEECCCCCHHHHHH!
The train screeched to a halt, and suddenly the darkness became completely opaque. Not a half darkness, but total, blind darkness. He got up.
A scream echoed down the train. Again and again and again. Horror chilled his breather and he ran out, and stumbled into a figure, who ran away quickly. Microchips could only catch the faintest whiff of oil, and then he fell.
The next thing he knew, the lights were back on, and Smethells, the servant was shaking him.
‘Sir? Sir, are you okay?’
‘Yes, thank you very much.’
He got up, smiled and walked into the dining car. In the floor lay JuicyMelons, dead in a contorted heap, and around stood the passengers.
‘Murder!’
Microchips stood aghast, and knelt by his dead friend. He looked at his eyes, his face, and then noticed a small smudge on his lapel. He smelt it. Oil. Whoever had knocked into him had probably killed his friend. He stood up, and looked around. They were looking at him expectantly.
----------------
He looked at the Lord. He noticed a faint tang in the air, around the Lord, and then he saw something else. A small ring. He took the Lords hand, who looked quite shaken and looked at it. A small capsule was on the crest. His servant looked at Microchips. He had an air around him, but not a nervous one, one of supreme calmness, and an air of impatience, as if he was not used to being pushed around.
He looked at the Italian beauty, Andrea. She was calm, cool and collected, and she was very pretty. Very. Indeed. Anyway! Microchips looked long and hard, questioned her about her actions. He didn’t show his surprise to notice her wedding ring on her ring finger. He saw the faintest inscription, as she brought her hands up to her face, to show her tiredness. JM.
He looked at the Count and his Wife.
‘He should be dead! Damn radicals! Fiume is ours, not theirs!’
‘Quiet honey! Hush!’
An eyebrow was raised.
Fuzzy burped and sat down. Microchips looked at the chef, and questioned him. Nothing. He knew all about Fuzzys insecurity about his cooking, when in fact, he was excellent, but he was still an ‘opressed artiste!’ in his eyes. He was sad too. Why? Then he noticed the mark.
The journalist was sitting in the dining car. All the suspects were arrayed around the crime scene. Fuzzy was in the kitchen. Microchips ignored the journalist.
‘I know who the killer is. They are not who they appeared to be, are angry, and perhaps jealous, and are in disguise. Who?’
Indeed.
Who?
(This probably sucks and has loads of lose ends, but I try!)
;)
Microchips sat at a window, sucking away at a pipe. His keen eye surveyed the carriage. It was the dining car. Silver clinked and shone in the evening candlelight, and flirting laughs echoed across hushed whispers of all the secret talk. Microchip was on his way to Venice, to serenade his new girl, in a maze of waterways, roses, and wine and he was damn happy. Very happy indeed. He glanced across his own table.
‘Do you mind if I sit here, old boy?’
Microchips looked up. ‘By Jove! If it isn’t my old school friend, JuicyMelons! I say!’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m jolly good! Thank you – you?’
So it continued. Chitchat mumbled over courses of exquisite food, all cooked by the world famous chef, Fuzzy, who came out to see his ‘darlings’ in the dining car. AS he passed around, sucking up all the compliments he could, Microchips questioned his friend.
‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘Well, after I got expelled from Eton for beating my housemaster, I joined the army. Now I’m on my way to Italy to join D’Annunzios mad army – He wants to take Fiume!’
‘Er yes. I heard about him’
‘He has passion! Passion Microchips! You know, we need passion’ he mumbled as he gulped down another glass of red wine. ‘You know, what vintage is this? It tastes rather odd.’
‘Hmmm. Let me see….yes, it does smell odd. But, ah! It’s Ozzie! That explains it!”
They shared a chuckle and then greeted Fuzzy with gracious cheers of good English spirit!
‘Ah, Monsieur Fuzzy! That was delicious!’ exclaimed Microchips.
‘Indeed. My compliments!’ added JuicyMelons.
‘Ah! I have two Englishmen today, ah? Good, we say in gay Paris, you know that only an Englishman can appreciate rubbish wine and poor food!’ Fuzzy exclaimed
‘What ever do you mean – It was lovely’ cried Microchips
‘Oh – you are too kind, monsieur, but nay, I am an artiste, and my talents go to waste on this oppressing train. I thank you, but now I must leave. Oh!’
He let for the kitchen.
Odd stares resounded. They sat, talked and smoked. Night fell.
----------
JuicyMelons excused himself, and went to bed. Microchips looked around at the talking diners. There, across to his smoky left, sat Count Yevgony of Yugoslavia, a great man and a strong nationalist. On his right sat his beautiful wife, an American actress, named Martha Stormson. Opposite them sat a newspaper journalist from Fiume itself! The count seemed to be pressing the journalist, a harrowed looking man, for news from the troubled city. He had an odd mark on his temple. He got up and left as Microchips was looking at him.
Over, in the table in front of Microchips, sat an Englishman, Lord Johnson, and next to him his servant, Smethells. An odd thing that, thought Microchips. A servant next to his master at the evening dinner table. Peculiar. Opposite them, was Fuzzy, who had returned from the kitchen, now smoking a cigar and fuming about his wasted talents. Next to him, looking disgusted was a beautiful femme fatale– An Italian, Andrea DeGioti. Odd name, thought Microchips.
.
In fact, it was an odd mix. Many races, many professions, ideals and feelings, and even more so, relationships. He glanced out the window. A shadow flickered. He brushed his eyes, and looked again. Nothing. He was sure something had moved towards the train, but he couldn’t be certain. He got up, and began to walk his way back to his cabin, smiling at the Italian beauty as he went past. He bent down, kissed her hand, and wished her a good night.
Outside the carriage, he smiled. Damn good chap!
------------
He lay in bed thinking.
SCRRRRRREEEEEECCCCCHHHHHH!
The train screeched to a halt, and suddenly the darkness became completely opaque. Not a half darkness, but total, blind darkness. He got up.
A scream echoed down the train. Again and again and again. Horror chilled his breather and he ran out, and stumbled into a figure, who ran away quickly. Microchips could only catch the faintest whiff of oil, and then he fell.
The next thing he knew, the lights were back on, and Smethells, the servant was shaking him.
‘Sir? Sir, are you okay?’
‘Yes, thank you very much.’
He got up, smiled and walked into the dining car. In the floor lay JuicyMelons, dead in a contorted heap, and around stood the passengers.
‘Murder!’
Microchips stood aghast, and knelt by his dead friend. He looked at his eyes, his face, and then noticed a small smudge on his lapel. He smelt it. Oil. Whoever had knocked into him had probably killed his friend. He stood up, and looked around. They were looking at him expectantly.
----------------
He looked at the Lord. He noticed a faint tang in the air, around the Lord, and then he saw something else. A small ring. He took the Lords hand, who looked quite shaken and looked at it. A small capsule was on the crest. His servant looked at Microchips. He had an air around him, but not a nervous one, one of supreme calmness, and an air of impatience, as if he was not used to being pushed around.
He looked at the Italian beauty, Andrea. She was calm, cool and collected, and she was very pretty. Very. Indeed. Anyway! Microchips looked long and hard, questioned her about her actions. He didn’t show his surprise to notice her wedding ring on her ring finger. He saw the faintest inscription, as she brought her hands up to her face, to show her tiredness. JM.
He looked at the Count and his Wife.
‘He should be dead! Damn radicals! Fiume is ours, not theirs!’
‘Quiet honey! Hush!’
An eyebrow was raised.
Fuzzy burped and sat down. Microchips looked at the chef, and questioned him. Nothing. He knew all about Fuzzys insecurity about his cooking, when in fact, he was excellent, but he was still an ‘opressed artiste!’ in his eyes. He was sad too. Why? Then he noticed the mark.
The journalist was sitting in the dining car. All the suspects were arrayed around the crime scene. Fuzzy was in the kitchen. Microchips ignored the journalist.
‘I know who the killer is. They are not who they appeared to be, are angry, and perhaps jealous, and are in disguise. Who?’
Indeed.
Who?
(This probably sucks and has loads of lose ends, but I try!)
;)
Page:
can i go now o 1 thing good look
The train whistled on, passing through various obscure Eastern European towns, on its way to Venice and the end of its tiring expedition.
Microchips sat at a window, sucking away at a pipe. His keen eye surveyed the carriage. It was the dining car. Silver clinked and shone in the evening candlelight, and flirting laughs echoed across hushed whispers of all the secret talk. Microchip was on his way to Venice, to serenade his new girl, in a maze of waterways, roses, and wine and he was damn happy. Very happy indeed. He glanced across his own table.
‘Do you mind if I sit here, old boy?’
Microchips looked up. ‘By Jove! If it isn’t my old school friend, JuicyMelons! I say!’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m jolly good! Thank you – you?’
So it continued. Chitchat mumbled over courses of exquisite food, all cooked by the world famous chef, Fuzzy, who came out to see his ‘darlings’ in the dining car. AS he passed around, sucking up all the compliments he could, Microchips questioned his friend.
‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘Well, after I got expelled from Eton for beating my housemaster, I joined the army. Now I’m on my way to Italy to join D’Annunzios mad army – He wants to take Fiume!’
‘Er yes. I heard about him’
‘He has passion! Passion Microchips! You know, we need passion’ he mumbled as he gulped down another glass of red wine. ‘You know, what vintage is this? It tastes rather odd.’
‘Hmmm. Let me see….yes, it does smell odd. But, ah! It’s Ozzie! That explains it!”
They shared a chuckle and then greeted Fuzzy with gracious cheers of good English spirit!
‘Ah, Monsieur Fuzzy! That was delicious!’ exclaimed Microchips.
‘Indeed. My compliments!’ added JuicyMelons.
‘Ah! I have two Englishmen today, ah? Good, we say in gay Paris, you know that only an Englishman can appreciate rubbish wine and poor food!’ Fuzzy exclaimed
‘What ever do you mean – It was lovely’ cried Microchips
‘Oh – you are too kind, monsieur, but nay, I am an artiste, and my talents go to waste on this oppressing train. I thank you, but now I must leave. Oh!’
He let for the kitchen.
Odd stares resounded. They sat, talked and smoked. Night fell.
----------
JuicyMelons excused himself, and went to bed. Microchips looked around at the talking diners. There, across to his smoky left, sat Count Yevgony of Yugoslavia, a great man and a strong nationalist. On his right sat his beautiful wife, an American actress, named Martha Stormson. Opposite them sat a newspaper journalist from Fiume itself! The count seemed to be pressing the journalist, a harrowed looking man, for news from the troubled city. He had an odd mark on his temple. He got up and left as Microchips was looking at him.
Over, in the table in front of Microchips, sat an Englishman, Lord Johnson, and next to him his servant, Smethells. An odd thing that, thought Microchips. A servant next to his master at the evening dinner table. Peculiar. Opposite them, was Fuzzy, who had returned from the kitchen, now smoking a cigar and fuming about his wasted talents. Next to him, looking disgusted was a beautiful femme fatale– An Italian, Andrea DeGioti. Odd name, thought Microchips.
.
In fact, it was an odd mix. Many races, many professions, ideals and feelings, and even more so, relationships. He glanced out the window. A shadow flickered. He brushed his eyes, and looked again. Nothing. He was sure something had moved towards the train, but he couldn’t be certain. He got up, and began to walk his way back to his cabin, smiling at the Italian beauty as he went past. He bent down, kissed her hand, and wished her a good night.
Outside the carriage, he smiled. Damn good chap!
------------
He lay in bed thinking.
SCRRRRRREEEEEECCCCCHHHHHH!
The train screeched to a halt, and suddenly the darkness became completely opaque. Not a half darkness, but total, blind darkness. He got up.
A scream echoed down the train. Again and again and again. Horror chilled his breather and he ran out, and stumbled into a figure, who ran away quickly. Microchips could only catch the faintest whiff of oil, and then he fell.
The next thing he knew, the lights were back on, and Smethells, the servant was shaking him.
‘Sir? Sir, are you okay?’
‘Yes, thank you very much.’
He got up, smiled and walked into the dining car. In the floor lay JuicyMelons, dead in a contorted heap, and around stood the passengers.
‘Murder!’
Microchips stood aghast, and knelt by his dead friend. He looked at his eyes, his face, and then noticed a small smudge on his lapel. He smelt it. Oil. Whoever had knocked into him had probably killed his friend. He stood up, and looked around. They were looking at him expectantly.
----------------
He looked at the Lord. He noticed a faint tang in the air, around the Lord, and then he saw something else. A small ring. He took the Lords hand, who looked quite shaken and looked at it. A small capsule was on the crest. His servant looked at Microchips. He had an air around him, but not a nervous one, one of supreme calmness, and an air of impatience, as if he was not used to being pushed around.
He looked at the Italian beauty, Andrea. She was calm, cool and collected, and she was very pretty. Very. Indeed. Anyway! Microchips looked long and hard, questioned her about her actions. He didn’t show his surprise to notice her wedding ring on her ring finger. He saw the faintest inscription, as she brought her hands up to her face, to show her tiredness. JM.
He looked at the Count and his Wife.
‘He should be dead! Damn radicals! Fiume is ours, not theirs!’
‘Quiet honey! Hush!’
An eyebrow was raised.
Fuzzy burped and sat down. Microchips looked at the chef, and questioned him. Nothing. He knew all about Fuzzys insecurity about his cooking, when in fact, he was excellent, but he was still an ‘opressed artiste!’ in his eyes. He was sad too. Why? Then he noticed the mark.
The journalist was sitting in the dining car. All the suspects were arrayed around the crime scene. Fuzzy was in the kitchen. Microchips ignored the journalist.
‘I know who the killer is. They are not who they appeared to be, are angry, and perhaps jealous, and are in disguise. Who?’
Indeed.
Who?
(This probably sucks and has loads of lose ends, but I try!)
;)
Microchips sat at a window, sucking away at a pipe. His keen eye surveyed the carriage. It was the dining car. Silver clinked and shone in the evening candlelight, and flirting laughs echoed across hushed whispers of all the secret talk. Microchip was on his way to Venice, to serenade his new girl, in a maze of waterways, roses, and wine and he was damn happy. Very happy indeed. He glanced across his own table.
‘Do you mind if I sit here, old boy?’
Microchips looked up. ‘By Jove! If it isn’t my old school friend, JuicyMelons! I say!’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m jolly good! Thank you – you?’
So it continued. Chitchat mumbled over courses of exquisite food, all cooked by the world famous chef, Fuzzy, who came out to see his ‘darlings’ in the dining car. AS he passed around, sucking up all the compliments he could, Microchips questioned his friend.
‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘Well, after I got expelled from Eton for beating my housemaster, I joined the army. Now I’m on my way to Italy to join D’Annunzios mad army – He wants to take Fiume!’
‘Er yes. I heard about him’
‘He has passion! Passion Microchips! You know, we need passion’ he mumbled as he gulped down another glass of red wine. ‘You know, what vintage is this? It tastes rather odd.’
‘Hmmm. Let me see….yes, it does smell odd. But, ah! It’s Ozzie! That explains it!”
They shared a chuckle and then greeted Fuzzy with gracious cheers of good English spirit!
‘Ah, Monsieur Fuzzy! That was delicious!’ exclaimed Microchips.
‘Indeed. My compliments!’ added JuicyMelons.
‘Ah! I have two Englishmen today, ah? Good, we say in gay Paris, you know that only an Englishman can appreciate rubbish wine and poor food!’ Fuzzy exclaimed
‘What ever do you mean – It was lovely’ cried Microchips
‘Oh – you are too kind, monsieur, but nay, I am an artiste, and my talents go to waste on this oppressing train. I thank you, but now I must leave. Oh!’
He let for the kitchen.
Odd stares resounded. They sat, talked and smoked. Night fell.
----------
JuicyMelons excused himself, and went to bed. Microchips looked around at the talking diners. There, across to his smoky left, sat Count Yevgony of Yugoslavia, a great man and a strong nationalist. On his right sat his beautiful wife, an American actress, named Martha Stormson. Opposite them sat a newspaper journalist from Fiume itself! The count seemed to be pressing the journalist, a harrowed looking man, for news from the troubled city. He had an odd mark on his temple. He got up and left as Microchips was looking at him.
Over, in the table in front of Microchips, sat an Englishman, Lord Johnson, and next to him his servant, Smethells. An odd thing that, thought Microchips. A servant next to his master at the evening dinner table. Peculiar. Opposite them, was Fuzzy, who had returned from the kitchen, now smoking a cigar and fuming about his wasted talents. Next to him, looking disgusted was a beautiful femme fatale– An Italian, Andrea DeGioti. Odd name, thought Microchips.
.
In fact, it was an odd mix. Many races, many professions, ideals and feelings, and even more so, relationships. He glanced out the window. A shadow flickered. He brushed his eyes, and looked again. Nothing. He was sure something had moved towards the train, but he couldn’t be certain. He got up, and began to walk his way back to his cabin, smiling at the Italian beauty as he went past. He bent down, kissed her hand, and wished her a good night.
Outside the carriage, he smiled. Damn good chap!
------------
He lay in bed thinking.
SCRRRRRREEEEEECCCCCHHHHHH!
The train screeched to a halt, and suddenly the darkness became completely opaque. Not a half darkness, but total, blind darkness. He got up.
A scream echoed down the train. Again and again and again. Horror chilled his breather and he ran out, and stumbled into a figure, who ran away quickly. Microchips could only catch the faintest whiff of oil, and then he fell.
The next thing he knew, the lights were back on, and Smethells, the servant was shaking him.
‘Sir? Sir, are you okay?’
‘Yes, thank you very much.’
He got up, smiled and walked into the dining car. In the floor lay JuicyMelons, dead in a contorted heap, and around stood the passengers.
‘Murder!’
Microchips stood aghast, and knelt by his dead friend. He looked at his eyes, his face, and then noticed a small smudge on his lapel. He smelt it. Oil. Whoever had knocked into him had probably killed his friend. He stood up, and looked around. They were looking at him expectantly.
----------------
He looked at the Lord. He noticed a faint tang in the air, around the Lord, and then he saw something else. A small ring. He took the Lords hand, who looked quite shaken and looked at it. A small capsule was on the crest. His servant looked at Microchips. He had an air around him, but not a nervous one, one of supreme calmness, and an air of impatience, as if he was not used to being pushed around.
He looked at the Italian beauty, Andrea. She was calm, cool and collected, and she was very pretty. Very. Indeed. Anyway! Microchips looked long and hard, questioned her about her actions. He didn’t show his surprise to notice her wedding ring on her ring finger. He saw the faintest inscription, as she brought her hands up to her face, to show her tiredness. JM.
He looked at the Count and his Wife.
‘He should be dead! Damn radicals! Fiume is ours, not theirs!’
‘Quiet honey! Hush!’
An eyebrow was raised.
Fuzzy burped and sat down. Microchips looked at the chef, and questioned him. Nothing. He knew all about Fuzzys insecurity about his cooking, when in fact, he was excellent, but he was still an ‘opressed artiste!’ in his eyes. He was sad too. Why? Then he noticed the mark.
The journalist was sitting in the dining car. All the suspects were arrayed around the crime scene. Fuzzy was in the kitchen. Microchips ignored the journalist.
‘I know who the killer is. They are not who they appeared to be, are angry, and perhaps jealous, and are in disguise. Who?’
Indeed.
Who?
(This probably sucks and has loads of lose ends, but I try!)
;)
Page: