Image: geralt (Pixabay)
The night was dark and dreary. His feet pounded the pavement, stirring up musty clouds of acrid smoke, as the water vaporised under the relentless and violent thuds.
When you’re as small as two suns, you tend to leave an impact.
The smoke followed him, in little smoke rings of cratered earth, as the Thing jogged down the street, in the pouring rain, the only time when he wouldn’t be judged, and he could “blame it on the thunder.”
He wasn’t getting any fitter.
But at least he felt better after.
Thud. Krakow! Mutter, and wash.