I told Maggie I’d be in the office bright and surly Monday morning and get write on it.
Not two minutes after Maggie’s hang-up, Willet Fly jingles the candlestick to tell me that Stephen Faster, his singing mechanical man hasn’t been to see the dock since Friday.
The rowbot paddles people along the shore.
Some even go out in his boat.
“Hatrack” said Willet, “if Stephen doesn’t get an oil change in the next twenty-four hours, it could be rust to rust!”
Well it didn’t take an Agate Crystal to deduce that the only competition Crab Carp”s Lovecraft Tours has is a modest little skiff and a warbling hunk of tin.
I jumped in my Keister, tuned the key and listened to it sputter and lie.
I called Piston Pete to pick it up and give me a drive out to the Notell Motel.