J’ai dormi sous l’eau
Ray, Abby and Cletus drifted through a merchant lined London street. Ray was draped in his leper costume. Cletus pulled his coat tight and buried his face in his collar. Abby had stuffed her hair into a hat and acquired a pair of trousers, through possibly larcenous means, between here and Glastonbury. She told people her name was Abe. The journey to London was uneventful, save for the highwayman who ended up shooting himself in the thigh before he was able to finish his opening threat. The weather was cooperative as well, but now, as they shambled through the streets searching for an affordable ferry to Calais, the sky was taking on a grim pallor. An occasional swollen droplet would thump one of them on the head. The streets began to take on the particular odor of a loaded chamber pot. A scream cut above the din of the milling throng. Like a school of minnows, the crowd moved toward the disturbance. In a slip of street, between a tavern and a brothel, the swarm descended on the lifeless body of the tavern matron with several stab wounds to her torso.