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by Mr. Crow on Fri May 18, 2012 1:01 am
The low rumble of a car engine echoed from down the street. It was a red taxi. The humdrum of a vehicle pulled up next to a leisurely cafe. Out stepped a tall, green troll, dressed in a droll, black suit, with a top hat that signalled his presence all the more. It was 4:37 in the afternoon, and a dreary storm was cast over Wing City. The clouds were moving quickly, thus the worst of the rain had already passed; the meddlesom denizens of this conglomerate city would probably never notice any one of the fat water drops, until the storm had taken its toll. However, one hefty Oli-troll dolloping about in the puddles, which swamped the side-walk, would notice. After all, he was in a rush, and the weather was no excuse! He'd be a meager seven minutes tardy for this meeting.
A soaked pair of Oxfords would shuffle their way into the cafe entrance. Oli began to rumble his hands over his sleeves, and shoulders, to wipe away the excess droplets of rain. He glared down at his shoes, and the wet bottoms of his trousers. He stomped, and waggled his feet, until he felt they were dry; one might've noticed his childish fit, due to the consistent beat of loud shoe-thumps. The weezing troll was finally at peace. "What bollocks, this's! Might's well debag m'self!"
As he shook off his pants leg one last time, Oli spotted Catherine at the table. He ran a calloused set of green fingers along the rim of his top-hat, before greeting her eyes with a nod. He made a gentlemanly saunter to the table, before seating himself, and crossing his legs; he slipped off his top-hat, and slapped it atop the small table. HIs hat, still being fairly dampened by the rain, might have sprinkled the lady's paper-work. Oli, of course, would not notice. The troll smiled, before he extended his hand over the small table to pride himself with a hand-shake from his soon-to-be acquaintance. He wondered if perhaps she would shake his hand, albeit they always seemed to be plastered with a grubbiness only Oli could stand. No, the dear creture didn't even think so much as to, at the least, wipe his hand off, first. Who knew what wedge it had picked, or booger it flicked?
"Name's Oliver Frye, miss!" he stated wholeheartedly. He teased her with a wink. "Sure you distinguished pack of bobbies might've already known 'dat, 'dough." He glanced down at himself. "Ye'll have to s'cuse my bein' slippy n' all. Promise I won't flatter'ya with'a bloody snog, 'dough." Oli bantered, as he chuckled a bit anxiously. Settling his hand atop the table, he began to drum his fingers. "Right then. And what am I 'ere for, exactly?"
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