Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. It is a draft; there are mistakes, many misspellings and sometimes long periods of no updates. copyright: ion fyr 2025
Tesifon was Luc’s town. He had a nightclub with an obscene name, and a reputation to go with it. The man hadn’t put on a shirt for what seems like weeks at a time when they had first met, which Etelka might have found itself obscene, if he had not been a model of hellenic beauty, carved from ruddy, flawless marble by the hands of Parsenious of Corinth.
The gangsters of damp Londbridge were alike through and through;; they had the fashion aspirations of one upping their fellows, donning the latest felt hat, thinking that the finery of their three block domain was the stuff of daemons, when stepping out of the underground at the wrong stop would be too out of place.
Gutter dandies.
Luc was a handsome, viral man, who was self-aware enough to realize it, but with the confidence to not care for any social requirement that she could imagine.
“It’s nearly nine kilometers,” he said once they had set down again near the rubble heap, that looters were said to frequent. “It’s too far to carry her. I need to get a ride for us all. I can walk it if you pop me out into 23xx, sometime in August.”
Etelka agreed and forgot to ask about the bath.
Ion Fyr 