Despicable pickle. Original storytelling by moonshine aka @lanmower

source: internet

A despicable pickle it was, one hand in his pocket, leaning on a telegraph pole.

'Must have been those damned rats downtown that chewed him up, I haven't seen him for days', murmured Charlie, a quick glance down at his pocket watch, and with a whip of his coattails proceeded to walk stiffly back down the cobblestone square, only to slink out of sight down a particularly slinky alleyway.

Charlie was stiff as the long hand on a clock, light on his feet and a quick thinker, he had no time for time and he has most certainly never had time to waste. In service of the severe, he's always tended to be paid well for his time at all time. He had a commutive gait, feet slightly ahead of his shoulders like he was following his own footsteps.

'There's never been time like the present', he thinks as he ducks another corner, dusting generous plumes from his arms and shoulders. He was dressed well, tailor made clothes that would look right at home in front of many eyes. One last look at the watch as he grabs a door handle to a flat and reddish door, he squints as what lamps may have lit the room has done little to do so.

'Someone's got his grubby paws on your mutt and you don't like it'. A voice echoes from somewhere as Charlie scurries towards an end-lit flight of stairs. 'Yeah yeah I'm on time and you know it' Charlie responds, as he pops his arms and shoulders while pinching his cuffs in a heroic, albeit fairly ineffective attempt to straighten his garb in one motion. His shoes tap on stone as he hurries into a well lit room. He swifly spiders atop his beloved black four legged friend, stretches momentarily his fingers, and rests the pads deftly long the resting pose of a scale that is bound to utilize most, if not all, of the black notes.

The piano plays.