Everything is relative - what was once considered heavy rain is shifted down the scale to light drizzle, as Del looks up at a booming clock in the Rochefort Station and Bodean attempts to drink a drip falling from way, way above the tiled floors. That water is probably filthy, filtered through pidgeons dreaming up in the rafters, so thinks one of those helpful desk ladies.
“Gnarly, Gnar-dogs is the weather” considers Hellybutt. He’s being saying that for near two hours and the caravan is afraid to step out and make gushing moves towards the nights resting place of Ilde - Olron. Bodean has a contact on this island named Sarah and maybe she could take in three wet whelps for the evening, but how to get there in this weather is such a dull question.
There are some weird kids hanging about the entrances, and they wear leather jackets and funny hats and there is a stoogey smaller one, who is made to carry the bag (but kicks it across the floor) and bum the smokes. From one of their hands swings a pair of handcuffs - and this is all too strange and intimidating, those crazy french punks and Del thinks about pulling his swedish hunting knife and saying “That’s not a knife. This is a knife”, but he is a pacifist and you can’t sell anything to a dead man - war isn’t good for the business of living.
So we make a break! And it is hectic! Sou-West winds howling in the face, rain smashing earthward, but stinging sideways at the last minute. Traffic thinking the caravan is some mentals on the run. And the bridges! Oh lord save us - the bridges! The final connection with the mainland and the island is a four kilometre bridge of impending doom, which is gaurded by the sisters of coming darkness, imploding wetness and the gnashing hounds of motordom.
Then as it goes black in the sky - Sarah finds us, finally shelter from the storm, and we meet Jean-Yves and the fire roars and it is all weary laughter.
