She definitely was in another time and place, the square of the sidewalk beneath her feet played out like some kind of forgotten space where a notion could be cast in concrete. Imagine if the pebble-tossed ripples of a small pond gained legs as they fell upon the shore instead of bouncing back to the stillness of the water to disappear once more into it's depths. That would probably not be how she described her current situation other than to say it is a little weird like that.

The door was indeed gone so she quickly began looking around, spinning on a heel, searching for any landmark or building that might be familiar to help get her bearings. Everything looked familiar and different at the same time, it was like having kaleidoscope eyes or feeling the effects of a shroom tea, give or take a few hours. She nearly did a full circle and had to glance up before a familiar landscape came into focus with it's circular peripteral portico, capped with a smaller peripteral tower, in turn capped with an anomalous slender cone. The sharp needle-like steeple of a church that supposedly rocketed all souls to heaven was now stuck like a red pin on her mental map.

She stood in Marylebone (one of them anyway) at the north end of Regent Street on Langham Place, sharing the corner with what could only be described as a small ragtime band as they played a lovely tune. Went to see the captain Strangest I could find.

All Souls Ship of Fools

Daylight broke like seasons change, inevitable and unique, this particular sunrise lost in a color of blue ruin as ominous clouds danced about the horizon. The shadow of the church's spire began to point slowly across the market in response, stretching out like one of the Morai's wicked-claws as it weaved a dark tapestry that spilled upwards with the consistency of paint. Fate. It will trap you, and use you, and make you wonder where you are. With that thought she stepped out into the street and moved towards the door of the shop directly across the way, the door where the shadow first loomed.

If she knew anything of woodworking she could tell you this door was made from a cherry wood and "flat" was the cut of the grain used to allow the knots to bloom like flowers across it's surface. Also she could tell you that shellac resin was the varnish used to pull out the colors that seemed to dance from honey to a deep reddish-brown and back again depending on the light.

She however knew nothing of woodworking and instead stood curious in front of a rustic looking door with the word FENKLOW'S carved into it with bold letters.

The room then filled with manic laughter, the bowls in the forgotten silence all burst into bloom then decayed as the walls fell away to an empty street. The voice beyond the beard, once propitious, now stretched out like a long shadow that danced in between the light, both broken and whole, luminous and pale, inauspicious in every way. "Welcome to SoHo, bitch."

No whammies. No whammies. No whammies. Door of SoHo! Whammie!

The tune had changed so she bent her ear to it and closed her eyes to see.

She tucked back in the darkness while the lights played a wicked game just beyond her reach, dancing back and forth, spots of empty sounds and muted faces. She checked her watch, it was two a.m.....

The fear was gone but for some reason she sat there waiting, the gun smoking and warm while the rest of the night played out like it was wrapped up in some kind of lingering silence. She stared at the hit man, the double crossed messenger, his eyes open but seeing nothing, all alone, white and pasty, the bullet had hit the bone.

Eventually she got up and checked his person for something useful before stepping back out into the alley; leaving with a skinny joint, a Zippo carved with the Moon & Star, two bucks, a token for The Falls of the Hounds, a blood stained copy of The Rose, and a golden earring.

It's two A.M.

The unmistakable sound of a Sandalwood gun being cocked was heard above old ragtime that streamed analog into new speakers, a cold touch of blue-grey steel pressed into the temple soft-tissue with a novel reconstruction of the Ferryman's massive forehead in mind. A classic case of back seat driving as she leaned up and brushed her lips against the driver's ear, whispering his name. "Blaine."

"Yes?"

"You never asked me where I was going."

"No."

"I have a token."

"Yes."

"I would like to see The Falls of the Hounds. I hear they are beautiful."

"Truly."

As she slipped into the store, Daunt Books, a group of kids sat wide-eyed in a circle, enraptured, leaning closer with every word, engulfed in the story being read by the green haired lady. And for a while things were cold, they were scared down in their holes....

Charlie got caught up, moving closer. The forest that was once green, was colored black by those killing machines....

She sat down and made herself some room, a gentle elbow to push aside the kid unwilling to give up his space. But she and her furry friends, took down the queen bee and her men....

The green haired lady suddenly shot up, eyes wide, taking them all in. And that's how the story goes... She slammed the book closed and seemed to loom there, almost ethereal. The story of the beast with those four dirty paws!!!

There was a long pause, each face in the circle wearing saucers for eyes, all lost in their own way for a moment, all reaching for air. Absolute silence skimmed across the surface for a couple of beats then they all went nuts, Charlie included.

La la lah...la la lah, lah!

"And that, kids, was Dirty Paws by Of Monsters and Men", so said the green haired lady as she put down the book and exited the store...that is how the story ends.

Gene turned in his chair to look at Charlie as he slid a key across the table. Lucy stood up behind the old man and began to take on a nature all her own, sprouting out like some angry clown. Charlie was oblivious to the key and sat frozen for a moment with some kind of horror only the song could bring. She felt unattached but boxed-in at the same time, the fear carving away at her like a silent scream. Awful cold and dark like a dungeon. The next thing she felt was the slap of Gene's hand across her cheek and the cold metal of the key pressed into her palm, her eyes meeting the old man's as he yelled. "Wake now! Discover!"

"Discover?" That was all she got out before being pushed out the window, the break room was on the second floor and she hit hard, staring up from her back through the tears, unable to catch her breath, imagining this was where things went to die.

Suddenly the old man leaned out the window and yelled down. "Follow the wagon that is loaded with clay!" He was trying to say something else before being yanked back and replaced with another face, one familiar but oh so empty.

It was Lucy, she was smiling down. So sweet with a mean streak. "Sit tight, Charlie. I will be right down."

The radio had landed beside her on the ground and played on. ~I just wonder if you shouldn't feel less concern for the deep unreal~

The silence engulfed Charlie as Lucy Tomorrow-Day slipped away down the dark street and disappeared. She slumped against the fence with an exhausted sigh, staring down at the broken flowers, managing to tuck away the piece before falling into the thorns and crushed petals. Better find another one 'cause this one's done. The float in outer space was short lived as a muddy boot kicked her awake, the planet lost, the mind all shattered, her eyes lighting up.

"Get up." The old soul stared down behind his boot. "Take a shot at communion."

"Sorry about your garden..." Slowly climbing to her feet, the hand with the key held the fence like a crutch as the other wiped at the mud and plucked the thorns from her breasts. "The skin comment too."

"You have some serious issues."

"Truly. It is my coldest winter so far."

"Get out of my yard!!"

Stepping out from behind the fence and onto the street she opened her hand to look at the key stuck there in her palm, FENKLOW'S carved into it with bold letters. The needle-like steeple loomed above everything in the distance and marked the way back like the red pin stuck in her mental map. She took off running towards it, eyes for another door.

While walkin' round Grosvenor Square she stumbled upon masquerade and watched as a wash of bodies caught beneath a wave broke against the bandstand, each one lit up in the glow of orange sunshine. Going native she dropped a tab to the tip of her tongue and dove in, getting uniformed in the nighttime beats, winter-grays to the edge of the sky, swimming the night away behind the secret smile of a Cheshire cat. Gene's gilded key swung from a stopper's chain about her neck as she danced to music of the ragtime band painting their pictures inside mazes and other entanglements.

She was tripping balls and at some point dipped that first toe into the waters of manufactured oblivion, turning a blind eye to the streets running with poisoned wine and the doorways crawling with fear. The crowd swirled all around her yet she was eerily alone, existing solely on a rooftop twenty stories high, looking over West End, commanding a panoramic and unobstructed view of the chaos dancing down below. Choreography certain as bats on the breeze. Hanging on the edge she waited for the wind, loud and strong and filled with spirits, to send her crashing back down in a fall cascading with the expressions of all the melancholy.

The A30 road stretched out into the distance like a bony finger of tranquil fire pointing towards Land's End with the Goss Moor mire beyond it deadened by fields of yellow centaury and swarms of grizzled skippers. Follow the wagon loaded with clay. The wind kicked up and she let go. Plunging like a stone from a slingshot on Mars.

Charlie was back at the north end of Regent Street on Langham Place sitting in the dark beneath the tower and staring across at Fenklow's. The cherry wood door was now a splintered mess swinging to and fro around broken hinges like a tattered tail caught in a waxen wind. Light as a feather, stiff as a board. The reddish haze of safelight flickered from within, tangled up in the blinds of the broken windows it threw ominous shadows at her feet. She was pretty sure she could also still hear music playing inside, perhaps Steely Dan was stuck on a loop. What she didn't hear or see was any sign of the bearded one so she got up and slowly walked across the street. Holding tight to the key around her neck she stepped in.

Turned out there was music playing inside but it died with the light, everything going dark and quiet in an instant. The wind outside was now the wind inside and it swept across the room like some death mist waiting to draw into her blood at the first breath and leave her heart cold. She stood breathless and still, waiting for the street lamp in it's last, dim, weird little battle with the night to filter in. And we are here as on a darkling plain... The darkness finally waned, casting gloom that crept into the corners and licked at the empty spaces, painting the walls as some kind of broke-down palace. There was also a smell, so foul, so full of taste that no tongue could ever know it.

She could see an opening at the back of the room and carefully made her way for it, stopping at what was the beginning of a hallway that seemed to disappear into blackness like there was a hole at the bottom of it. Suddenly, getting her wits about her, she remembered the Zippo in her pocket and quickly pulled it out, sparking the fire. It lit up a passageway with walls made of an old, dark wood that was damp with dew dripping down and collecting in puddles on the floor. She started the long walk down it without hesitation. The end found her in front of a large metal door, it had a keyhole and two words crudely carved into it: TASTE ETERNITY.

Lucy Tomorrow-Day stepped into the hallway, lighting the place up, looking like the angry clown for all to see. "Thanks for opening the door, Charlie. I figured a couple of well placed words would gather your attention. How predictable you are."

Charlie turned around with her hands up. She was feeling tired and defeated. "Listen, Lucy. It's Lucy right' I don't know what is even happening right now much less what you are looking for. In fact, to be honest with you, I dropped some orange sunshine a couple of nights ago and since then it has been comin' around in a circle...the faster I go the rounder I get. Can you dig what I'm saying?" Pointing a finger into the air and swirling it around. "Hell, when I woke up this morning my head wasn't even attached. I asked around and spent all day trying to find out where it's at with no luck. I was actually hoping it was behind this door here."

"It is actually on your shoulders, fool. For the moment anyway..." The clown smiled and took a step forward. Light on her feet, confidence pouring from her like the water from the walls.

Charlie couldn't help but notice that the woman approaching was not only brash but she was also svelte, especially gracefully so. "This might just be the acid talking, but weren't you with child back at the bookstore?"

"I was never pregnant you stupid B?"

With the admission Charlie's eyes grew wild like planted ice, cool and sharp, harvesting wind in clover across a field of snow. Hidden beneath all the swaggering mannerisms she was wicked fast, pulling the six to introduce Lucy to Sandalwood and dropping her like sweetie pie by the stone alliance. She didn't bother to watch the results, turning back towards Gene as the bullet ripped into its target and opened up the sky in goodbye, blasting the simple mind to colours in the wake of the hammer blow. "Grab your stuff...don't forget the rose in the window."

Gene was pointing behind Charlie at the shot she made, his jaw dropping a bit. Lucy was dead on her feet and wearing a look of confusion that was hidden slightly within a puff of smoke, the last of her thoughts unraveling like a patchwork quilt. "Damn! You killed her easy."

Charlie lit up a cigarette and glanced back over her shoulder. "Yeah." Watching Lucy fold was like watching mashed potatoes dribble under the heat of reality's earth collecting as a puddle on the floor. "Stupid clown."