(besdies buggering this up and having to type the same post twice)
I'm trying to write but I keep on going down blind alleys, some of them might be really interesting blind alleys but I know where I want to get out and hopefully do it without landing on a boombox (Uh, due South reference. Pike in Spy vs Spy anybody?).
So I am going to use this post to stick any useless but interesting bits.
And can anyone tell me how to spell Kirby-Krackle properly (insofar as there is a proper spelling in the comics world) it is beginning to get on my nerves.
In some section of Renfield’s brain that remembered sitting in bed with Mark reading comic books by torchlight, those were kirby-krackle eyes that could burn through safes and look through ladies’ skirts. It had been Mark doing the actual reading and loudly, but it was early days then, and Renfield was still confused and waiting for his father to come back and if he had gone to heaven maybe he could fly like Superman
(This is currently my favourite for reincorporation somewhere)
Nothing was ever wasted in ‘Tuk. Least of all ,hope.
His coat was still hanging other his arm, the cool air had done nothing to cool his ardour and the way he saw it, any cab that whose driver might selectively not see him with his shirt off was just as likely to feign selective blindness because of his location. It had taken him more than a moment – it was too long, and he was out of practice – to determine his relative position without the aid of stars bleached out by the acid light of the city. He had memorised the guide book lying on his bed with its perfect corners and an eiderdown they would laugh at back home.
He had always been a quick learner. And that had cooled him down nicely, so he wouldn’t have to rely on his jacket while he worked his away around the byzantine corridors. He had got off a floor early, just enough to confuse any slacker scrutiny from the front desk. The stairwell was cool and the sweat evaporating from his skin made Renfield shiver briefly. He thought briefly about the possibility of bunking down there; a king size bed and sheets of fine-woven cotton didn’t mean much to him. It was the whole Arctic lifestyle thing