I have eagerly awaited a delivery to Stigwoodia all day. After a light repast of pilchards, the clock struck eight and my sour-faced old valet Brown informed me that a visitor was waiting in reception. Being entirely naked at that point, I donned a sequined jumpsuit and called the visitor through.
This low gentleman was a fearsome sight. His face was a mass of pustules, buboes and chancres which twinkled in the gaslight. His corroded visage tapered to a fine point (his chin), which pointed slightly upward as his head was tilted so far back. Set into this horrific backdrop were two eyes - one glassware, the other true, which glared upon me with an unnatural intensity.
I can be sure that I have never set eyes upon this creature before, although I knew of the outfit for which he worked.
"The name's Dyson," he introduced himself in a croak, thrusting forth a withered hand. "I brung the merchandise you called for."
At this, he raised a leather briefcase and placed it upon my desk. One side panel was painted with a floral bouquet. Pulling open an accordion filing pouch he revealed a tray into which were fixed numerous items.
He pointed out the contents: "LSD - 100 tablets, ten grams of coke, a nine-bar of resin, two score of amphetamines, some mandrax and..." he lifted a stoppered test tube to his twinking eye, "enough liquid ketamine to bury a stallion."
I eyed Dyson's wares greedily, then reached for the top drawer of my desk, bringing out a sheaf of notes. As I did so, I saw over his shoulder the phantom of my dead bride walk briskly past then turn to face me. I ignored her and handed the notes to Dyson which he counted carefully, then bid me good day.
And so my friends, I have in my posession a stash of such potency that it may enliven and invigorate any endeavour on the streets of London!
Good night!
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