“Promises, promises,”
the Angel says, “As easily made, just as easily to broken.”
As he speaks, the Angel
circles Larry, Curly and Mo, stood side by side, heads hung in shame.
Watching his theatrics, Fiona sees him pull a long, thin moustache
from his upper lip, twist it in his fingers before clicking them and
the hair disappear.
“Take these three
specimens,” he twirls on his heels, coming to a halt in a bend
facing Fiona, “Or is it one specimen in three parts. To be honest
I've never really understand how Mister Strauss works. Or doesn't.”
He pirouettes away, to continue his circling. “Promised to serve
my interests faithfully, keep you safe and OUT of trouble, until you
were ready to see me.” The frown on his brow turned toward the
three midgets makes a ballet of disgrace out of his little dance.
“Please,” Fiona
implores, “Whatever has happened it was my fault, I did those
things not them. As if three midgets could stop me doing anything.
Once my mind is set there's no stopping me, just you ask my husband.”
“Hmmmm?” the Angel
pauses, winking, “Maybe I will.”
