Raindrops falling from the black sky into the light. Passing traffic throwing puddles up into spray. Flags pulled out hard by the brisk wind, shaking their stiff poles. The little red car by the door of the hotel, awaiting its master.

He returns! Quick, play dead!

The starter motor sighs weakly, unable to turn. Dials light briefly, then fade. A death rattle emerges from the heart of the machine.

But, but, I didn’t leave the lights on. What the hell?

The Man attempts escape at his usual velocity. Denied. Clutching his jacket around him as the wind gnaws on his bones. Copper teeth spark against steel. Keep her lit.

Keep her lit.

–

Morning light smothered by endless grey. The city calls to its people. Cars, buses, bicycles (the fools!) ply the wet streets, their morning dance rehearsed beyond conscious recall. Only interruptions in the routine stand out from the endless flow of days.

Particularly the expensive ones. Like taxis.

–

From the shed comes the grey ammonite. Awoken, sated, electrified. Out into the fresh darkness it rides between the master’s feet, to bring home the fallen.

Raindrops. Light. Traffic. Flags. The little red car by the door of the hotel, awaiting its master.

It starts first time.