There I was waiting for Fritzi Carbolic in the foyer of the Restaurante Espectaculo when a shadow of a shallow grating seemed to pass over me - like someone had just walked over my patch of petunias in size eleven Doc Martens. A cold shiver ran down my spine , down my leg and popped out the bottoms of my serge training trousers. I hurriedly flicked it under a nearby tallboy. I continued reading the back of the matchbook I had found outside in a puddle of Bisto. I had scraped most of it off and could plainly read the address - Final Autoplath. Ctra. Santanyi. There was a phone number too- 20 27 3745. I made a note of it in biro on the back of my left leg. I turend the matchbook over and was horrified to see the face of the beautiful blonde that was there a minute ago had CHANGED! Now she had her eyes closed, as if in some deep trance-like state and her face was covered in what looked like boils and evil fissures. Some foul deed had been done for sure. In the middle of her chest wasa huge staple that had rustedand given the whole thing an air of macabre morthology. I flung the matchbook away in disgust and went outside to gather my thoughts - what little I had left in that raddled ursuline brain of mine.
