Re: Quicklog: Jack & Newt at the B&B
[Bukowski, Jack didn't need to look at. The chain-saw noise grew in pitch and frequency until it sounded almost painful. No doubt the claws were working at the knees of Newt's terrible trousers. Bukowski's claws defied physics and certainly defied clippers. There was nothing magical about the animal as far as Jack knew, save the innate feline tendency to identify who liked him least and to cling.
A month ago. A month was both a very small piece of time and a long piece of it. Jack couldn't remember a second of Jen's funeral. Nor the planning. Her mother had taken over, he had a brief absurd memory of a session with a florist he'd been out of his skull for before they'd both politely shut him out of the room and out of the arrangements. A month might have been enough. Had she been dead a month before they put her in the ground? But that was a very polite funeral. His father? Christ alone knew where Penhaligon had washed up to.
Jack looked abruptly toward the sound of his brother's voice. He wasn't looking at him.] Are you out of pocket for it? I can reimburse you.