The Artist (6/7) By The Silver Fox

(1/7), (2/7), (3/7), (4/7), (5/7), (6/7), (7/7).

The artist reared back from the twitching appendage instinctively. Noticing this, Tasker shuffled his size thirteens and lowered his eyelids in a convincing display of delicacy. He murmured his partner's name in a tone of mild rebuke, but the grasping fingers didn't recede. "I'm afraid Kelp lacks a certain .. savoir faire ... in these matters; I'm bound to say though, that his point is still valid." The artist gulped a couple of times and nodded (a combination of actions that plays merry hell with the neck, it should be pointed out - lest the more impressionable reader be tempted to imitate it if in a similar situation). He produced, from an inside pocket, a folded brown envelope.

In only slightly more time than it takes to say "Vegas", Kelp had snatched it from his hand, torn it open, and divided the bundle of notes into two halves. He proffered one to Tasker who accepted it with a guilty shake of his head. "It never ceases to impress, Kelp - but, still..." Unabashed, Kelp rammed his own share of the loot into one of his coat's filthier recesses. As though the handing over of money had released him from some sort of paralysis, the artist lurched towards the bundle on the couch. Stiffly, his fingers grabbed for a likely-looking fold, and with a gasp that roughly translated into: "in for a penny, in for two hundred pounds," he pulled. "Fuck." "It's never quite what you expect, you know," Tasker explained kindly, "You'd be surprised, the way different people react."

The artist looked into the little girl's face with horror. He'd never seen anything so obviously lifeless before outside of a freezer cabinet. It seemed inconceivable to him that the faintly purpling skin could have ever glowed with life, or moved to express joy or sorrow; he'd expected something like a mannequin, but this thing on his couch was just ... dead. "Of course, they ain't always in such good nick," Kelp observed helpfully. "We've seen some right fucking messes in our time, haven't we?" "Kelp..." "Remember that student who'd copped it from carbon monoxide poisoning? I'd never seen a colour like that before; and I don't know what had happened to his eyes, but - "

The little ghoul fell silent as the artist turned upon him, aghast. "Did Jo - did our mutual friend tell you what I wanted it for?" "We don't really care to go too heavily into the specifics," Tasker said, "as a rule, we've always found it's better not to pry into other peoples' affairs. He said it was for some sort of project..." "A comic, ain't it?" Kelp asked. Years of self-justification could be read into the artist's bridling. "I prefer the term 'graphic novel'."

Continued...Next Page (7/7)

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