Winter 1978 – Enter The Weirdsmith

The man was drunk. And probably stoned. He reeked of alcohol, tobacco, sweat and a mix of chemicals I could not immediately identify. He walked carefully across the living room like someone unsure of the substance of the objects around him and eased himself into a large and well worn leather recliner. He stared at me for a moment as if trying to remember why I was in his house. Finally he nodded and said, “Taylor. Rose. Daughter of the Red Spider. Yes. Have heard of you. Had to clean up your messes.”

I frowned. I had not heard of Anson Uddock until a week ago. I said, “You have cleaned up my messes? What are you talking about?”

Uddock stared into the distance, seeing something beyond the curtained window. His eyelids sagged. Suddenly he sat up straight and fixed his eyes upon me. “You would not have known. You would not have seen. You are limited and cannot conceive the larger structure. Do not feel small. It cannot be helped.”

I did not feel small. I did feel like shaking the man.