Oh yes, I’d had my Baba Alley daze and not that long ago.
It was on a case and not of Old Jack Horner.
Connell Oldman, the matinee idle, had been off set from “The Printer”, his new movie, for over a month.
So Follywood came calling.
I tracked Oldman to Chinablock and Baba Alley where I became a mazed and hit my head against a wall that went blank.
When I came to, three gets you four, I was at sixes and sevens.
I was in a twisty dream of a street with Baba Alley Books, Baba Alley Junk And Forgettables, The Fall Inn, Low’s Illusionarium and the Singaport Five And Dine.
It was in the eatery, I found Oldman, his reality ajar under the spell of a B-girl named Mason.
They were listening to the B. Giles Band, which I thought had disappeared years ago.
Then I saw her.
She was a portrait of the Moona Leta, as was the painting above her.
A mixologist, this Moona had grown bitter from spending her life behind bars.