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Chapter 4
There was little but broken shops and empty pockets in Lowden End after the collapse of the Paradoxia project. The prospect had driven a rampant expansion of trading establishments all that failed to find purchase on the hope shattered construction. Situated in the sometimes-brisk northern climes with the sometimes-brisk northern people, it dispatched no more interest in the world than it had previously received. Having once the title, very briefly albeit, as the world’s foremost producers of miniature doll clothing, Lowden End lacked any other real lustre. ‘Tranquil and tea’ was the common phrasing of the town. At least it used to be. Now, with the staggering amount of murders and suicides, it had become a town with a chip on its shoulder. No one in Lowden was ever eager to see a new face, new faces meant more madness, and that was something they could live without.
Two citizens of Lowden End were sat in the town square finishing the last of their coffee on the park bench. One day, this particular day in fact, they had come to enjoy their lunch time sabbatical in the most commonly prestigious way possible. By smoking some weed. And why not they thought? Being aware that the town itself was both paranoid and apathetic, inherently it seemed of little consequence.
“A murder mystery?” Mr Cunningham asked belligerently.
“At Paradoxia Grande” Exclaimed Mr Dunfield.
“It’ll never work; it’d show us who the murder is straight away.” Reasoned Cunningham.
“Don’t you see, all we have to do is write a really detailed murder get everyone to read it and then everyone will imagine themselves as the killer. It won’t matter.” Dunfield was not to be deterred from his course.
Feeling himself under pressure Cunningham feebly responded, “I’m not sure I want to go there. You remember the stories.”
“Yeah yeah, people going mad and killing one another. That’s just because they were pussies. Rich self-centred pussies.” Blah-blah-ed Dunfield as he walked to the green bin to relieve himself of his empty cup. He turned boldly as Cunningham watched him from the secluded bench. The grass was green but there were sparkles of dew from a morning rain. A perceptible dankness hung in the air, though not unpleasant, it felt heavier than air should, mossy. Dunfield shuffled under his new suit, still not used to the world of work, he was always looking for that big ticket idea.
“It’ll be perfect and if it works we can start it as a business idea.”
Under the glare of the excited eyes Cunningham imagined all the hassle it would take for them to pull off a party at the Grande.
Nightmarish goddamn place.
“No, I can’t be bothered man. If you sort it out, I’ll tag along. Never actually been in it.”
“You’ve never been in the Grande?”
“Never wanted to”
“Honestly you should try it, I spent a night in there a few years back. It was actually kind of cool, but you really have to be on a positive trip if you get me. A bad vibe will fuck you up in there.”
“So, you want to write a murder mystery then?”
“Hell no, wouldn’t know where to begin. I was just going to download the script for one.”
“Make sure it’s going to fit the people. I don’t want to spend the whole night being Mrs White or some crap like that.”
“No worries.”
“What you been up to anyways?”
The conversation drifted away from important things and became a verbatim complaint about all the ailments and maladies Cunningham had faced since yesterday. As his story rolled on, the eloquent and refined, Mrs Batty stopped by the Grocers for a chat. She was always quite the strong-blooded woman, grew up in the war times and never let a chance pass to show her stiff upper lip. Even at the funeral of her late husband, and only life partner, it was rumoured that beyond a salute she proffered no other sentiment of remorse.
Meanwhile, Galileo put the last few pixels in place for his first pear. It was not a success, it lacked the gentle curvature of nature and was too polygonal to be acceptable.
Also, meanwhile the Angel-chip began constructing a series of pears. It stored them in the archive folder “Rook_Room_Kitchen_Fruit_Pears”.
Notably simultaneous, the driver of the car that killed the late Ms. Rook and her daughter was being taken before a prison board for a chance at early release. The board had heard testimony of the man’s sober reflection on a drunken mistake and are considering his release pending another review in six months’ time.
It was 13:31pm.
It was a Tuesday in March.
Two citizens of Lowden End were sat in the town square finishing the last of their coffee on the park bench. One day, this particular day in fact, they had come to enjoy their lunch time sabbatical in the most commonly prestigious way possible. By smoking some weed. And why not they thought? Being aware that the town itself was both paranoid and apathetic, inherently it seemed of little consequence.
“A murder mystery?” Mr Cunningham asked belligerently.
“At Paradoxia Grande” Exclaimed Mr Dunfield.
“It’ll never work; it’d show us who the murder is straight away.” Reasoned Cunningham.
“Don’t you see, all we have to do is write a really detailed murder get everyone to read it and then everyone will imagine themselves as the killer. It won’t matter.” Dunfield was not to be deterred from his course.
Feeling himself under pressure Cunningham feebly responded, “I’m not sure I want to go there. You remember the stories.”
“Yeah yeah, people going mad and killing one another. That’s just because they were pussies. Rich self-centred pussies.” Blah-blah-ed Dunfield as he walked to the green bin to relieve himself of his empty cup. He turned boldly as Cunningham watched him from the secluded bench. The grass was green but there were sparkles of dew from a morning rain. A perceptible dankness hung in the air, though not unpleasant, it felt heavier than air should, mossy. Dunfield shuffled under his new suit, still not used to the world of work, he was always looking for that big ticket idea.
“It’ll be perfect and if it works we can start it as a business idea.”
Under the glare of the excited eyes Cunningham imagined all the hassle it would take for them to pull off a party at the Grande.
Nightmarish goddamn place.
“No, I can’t be bothered man. If you sort it out, I’ll tag along. Never actually been in it.”
“You’ve never been in the Grande?”
“Never wanted to”
“Honestly you should try it, I spent a night in there a few years back. It was actually kind of cool, but you really have to be on a positive trip if you get me. A bad vibe will fuck you up in there.”
“So, you want to write a murder mystery then?”
“Hell no, wouldn’t know where to begin. I was just going to download the script for one.”
“Make sure it’s going to fit the people. I don’t want to spend the whole night being Mrs White or some crap like that.”
“No worries.”
“What you been up to anyways?”
The conversation drifted away from important things and became a verbatim complaint about all the ailments and maladies Cunningham had faced since yesterday. As his story rolled on, the eloquent and refined, Mrs Batty stopped by the Grocers for a chat. She was always quite the strong-blooded woman, grew up in the war times and never let a chance pass to show her stiff upper lip. Even at the funeral of her late husband, and only life partner, it was rumoured that beyond a salute she proffered no other sentiment of remorse.
Meanwhile, Galileo put the last few pixels in place for his first pear. It was not a success, it lacked the gentle curvature of nature and was too polygonal to be acceptable.
Also, meanwhile the Angel-chip began constructing a series of pears. It stored them in the archive folder “Rook_Room_Kitchen_Fruit_Pears”.
Notably simultaneous, the driver of the car that killed the late Ms. Rook and her daughter was being taken before a prison board for a chance at early release. The board had heard testimony of the man’s sober reflection on a drunken mistake and are considering his release pending another review in six months’ time.
It was 13:31pm.
It was a Tuesday in March.