"My name is Richard Melville Hall", the man in my kitchen formerly known as the man on my roof-deck says.
Yeah, as if…, I think to myself.
The man in my kitchen is bleeding.
"I ran over a squirrel with my car on Bromford Bridge the other day."
That man is a liar. And there are too many animals in this blockblog.
"You are injured", I say. "I should call the police."
"No, please don't."
"Then let me call an ambulance or a doctor."
"No need for that. I won't last long. I just want to tell the name of things to come."
My brother Brimstone once visited my apartment when I was on vacation. He tried to open the door together with that caretaker of the house at Whitaker Lane 666 but they had to smash the glass window to the roof-deck to get into that labyrinth of papers and things and garbage that used to be my apartment. Where are they now? Who cleaned the penthouse? Who removed all that waste?
My mind is wandering off.
"His name is…", the man in my kitchen is leaning forward and whispering to me.
'Where is your hair, bald man?' I think.
"His name is Story."
"Story?" That's neither a first nor a last name.
"His name is Story Teaser. And he will be sneaking through Bromford – the city and the man who's called like the city."
His rough whispers are giving me the creeps.
"Remember."
He is fading away, getting more and more transparent and invisible in some parts.
"And remember your appointment at Pier 23."
A light breeze is blowing through the curtains in the living room. And within the blink of an eye Richard Melville Hall is gone.
Was he there in a first place? Did I miss a thing?
