Harlot, Brian thought, as Anakata swept from the room. He dropped
the offensive silk to the floor and kicked it across the room, then
looked around for the closet. Ah. There.
His belongings had been neatly folded and/or stacked. He pulled
out his black camel-hair robe and caressed it lovingly; it felt
horribly scratchy against his skin. He had had a rash for so long
that the nerves had started to numb, or die. But the harlot/temptress
had done something to heal him, and he could feel the irritation in
its full glory.
Actually, I must be grateful to the wench, he thought, and thank
properly for what she has done.
Brian lay the robe on the bed, then picked up his shiny chainmail
underwear. He grimaced at the thought of putting them back on, but
knew that therein lay the path to salvation. The robe went on over
this, rubbing unpleasantly against his skin. And then the holy
symbol: a medallion which hung around his neck from a thick iron
chain, depicting, in color on a black velvet background, Che Guevarra,
each bullet in his dual bandoliers embossed with a different
meaningful symbol, meditating in lotus position, while two purple,
flying hippos fluttered over his head and two others stomped up and
down on a dying octopus.
Now, he thought, I am ready, and there are Important Things that
I must do. If only I had a map...