A pale, emaciated figure stumbled down the stairs, clad in a loose black leather Speedo, fastened with the safety pin one of the more resourceful moles had abstracted from Mary-Fitz’s knitting bag; and carelessly wrapped in a crumpled cotton robe.
Could this be Roland of Gilead? The strapping, bold hero? The warrior invincible? The mighty wielder of weapons?
Roland was met at the foot of the stairs by Barnabas, who gave him a hearty slap on the back, exclaiming, “I hear YOU certainly showed a number of the ladies a good time."
Whimpering, Roland flew across the room; he fetched up against a table and slumped onto a bench, burying his head in his hands and moaning most piteously.
"One corpse reviver coming up!" bellowed Barnabas cheerfully.
He strode over to the table with a glass containing a moldy-looking greenish-gray mixture, which steamed greasily and smelled like wet mole. With a practiced motion, he tipped the hero's head back, pinched his nostrils closed, and poured the contents down his throat.
Jeffries put the scribbed pages aside and peered across the desk. "Sexually adventurous moles in speedos, eh? You know, I don't usually see this kind of thing, Mr. Arble. This is a fantasy, is it?"
Chris Arble cleared his throat and looked at his hands. "I'd, ah . . . I'd say it's more of a hobby, actually."
Opening: Tal.....Continuation: ril