“I think we’re ready.”
“Check.”
—–
The Musician woke up with a hot head. I don’t mean he woke up angry. His head was *hot* ow ow!! He jumped up from the bed and screamed downward. “What the f—!?!?”
Wheeler rolled over on her couch at the far end of the caravan and took in the spectacle. Smoke was billowing up from the floor at the upper corner of The Musician’s hobo mattress, right where his head is usually positioned. Outside through the door: fire itself. This place where they had been “living” for several days appeared not to be in the secret Muff-Bermingham Room of VHC City any longer. And they weren’t clowns — and with no other clowns passed out from the night before strewn about the place as per usual. The smell of scorched plastic was in the air.
Wheeler and The Musician stood together. “Something is different,” he says as the pain in his forehead begins to subside.
“Du-uh.”
Just beyond their view from the inside, Morris waits paitently for them to come out and discover his presence. “Boy these clowns sure burn good,” he exclaims while watching the fire grow even brighter. “12 prims saved right there.”
Welcome to Muff-Bermingham, Musician and Wheeler.
Sunklands 