Coaldrake Mention

Coaldrake Mention sat in his office, hunched over papers, and photographs of teeth in little plastic bags.

Rain outside, storm tapping it across the window like deliquescent morse code; the little heater at his feet humming, and him breathing fumes electrical and plastic. No wonder he had a headache. You get some days that are pure headache, and from first waking, maybe even last dreaming, you know it, and it doesn't argue with your expectations, just proves them over and over. QED.


He straightened the papers. Today was a damn migraine.


Phone rang, he didn't much care to answer it. The phone didn't much care to stop ringing.
Sighed, at last, lost to the jangling phone. Couldn't even outwait its bells and troubles.


And it was trouble.



"Yes."


"Mr Mention?"


"Yes."


"Sorry, Mr Mention. I have no doubt that you are busy, but he said you would help me."


"Who said?"


The name was one that could not be denied. Someone he owed far too much, and far more than his word. QED. The day said.


"What's your problem?"


"The Fiddlers."


Of course it was. QE fucking D.