Count Crocodile sits clicking his claws and passing dusty eyes across his sepia photographs preserving happy moments in fading stillness. He nervously sucks on his millionth cigar and clouds of aromatic smoke press against the walls of the old red room. A crouching clockmaker making appropriate adjustments absent-mindedly strikes twelve and outside the moon drifts behind a tree. Three weeks later there is a knock at the door. Count Crocodile wakes! His head is pounding his heart tripping over its own feet. Fumbling to find his gold-rimmed smoked glass contact lenses he remains invisible. The shadows mysteriously swap secrets while the air strains to overhear. The clockmaker mumbles a prayer of hasty supplication. The sepia photographs hide face downwards.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:32 PST