“Might get Anansi mad,” said Monkey. “Very bad idea that. Get Anansi mad, you never in any more stories.”… — Neil Gaiman
“Might get Anansi mad,” said Monkey. “Very bad idea that. Get Anansi mad, you never in any more stories.”
“Anansi’s dead,” said Fat Charlie.
“Dead there,” said Monkey. “Maybe. But dead here? That’s another stump of grubs entirely.”
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Nothing good lasts forever, after all. Sooner or later, as Grahame Coats himself would have delighted in assuring you, even if your goose habitually lays golden eggs, it will still be cooked.
“You, Charles. The police suspect you.”
“Yes,” said Fat Charlie. “Of course they do. It’s been that sort of a day.”
Like all sentient beings, Fat Charlie had a weirdness quotient. For some days the needle had been over in the red, occasionally banging jerkily against the pin. Now the meter broke. From this moment on, he suspected, nothing would surprise him. He could no longer be outweirded. He was done.
He was wrong, of course.
