I’ve seen some howlers over the years. In fact I’ve been responsible for many of them. But this was the granddaddy of them all. A plain blue on white affair with every crappy Photoshop filter ever invented bolted on in an attempt to mask its true awfuldom.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked Spore, who was grinning inanely in anticipation of my full horror, which had yet to reveal itself.
“Well, you studied Religious Symbology at Harvard so I figured you might be able to explain its significance. Or failing that, you could tart it up.” Spore advanced slightly and I recoiled in equal measure.
“Not me chum, I’m a Duncan of Jordanstone man,” I protested. “Symbology’s strictly off limits. Besides, why would I want to get involved in this?”
Spore was up to something. He was a man whose everyday wardrobe included a cloak and dagger, but this was different. He was agitated. I decided to play the sucker along for a while because he was starting to interest me. And I wasn’t sure where my next drink was coming from.
“I think you know more than you care to admit,” he slithered. “Look, I’ll be frank.” He unfolded his arachnoid limbs and reconvened by the water cooler. “I wanted to be an albino. But they said I was too tall.”
As a non sequitur it was beautiful in its simplicity. Now I was really interested. He fixed me with those steely eyes. “I need your help on this one. Work your magic.”