“So both women were missing,” spoke Parasol as they walked through the snowy landscape.
“Good and evil, yeah.”
“Like me, then.”
They walked a bit further, then Monsieur Gold realized he had to say something: choose. “No, we’re good, we’re good,” he finally reinforced.
—–
Monsieur Gold woke up in his mansion, wife April Mae surprisingly by his side. She was propped up, staring at him. “Dreaming again?” He nodded. “Which was it this time, jungle, snow or desert?”
“All three,” he admitted while stretching. “What time is it?”
“5:15.”
He looks around the room. “Where’s the tv?”
Sunklands 