All you have to do is ask

I can't get enough of Neil Gaiman. That's all there is to it. His writing insinuates itself into my head, creating havoc with all the randomness which peoples aforementioned storage compartment, and then proceeds to take it apart. Little by little. Re-creating endlessly.

He's got me dreaming wolves of the were variety, living with the Endless (creating the rather disturbing issue of incestuous leanings - I'd explain, but it would distract me from this...well...it can wait, so here goes - I'm in love with Morpheus. But I *am* his sister Death {Though I'm still stealing Pratchett's horse. Binky is mine. Hands/paws/mitts off, suckers}. This poses, as you can imagine, certain ethical dilemmas. Oh well. Such is life. Or whatever it is that anthropomorphic personifications call the passage of time - 'being', perhaps?), seeking opportunities to work with the 'Adjuster', and longing for my homeland, Faerie.

Last night, I was introduced to a sucker for bargains. A man of temperance in every other respect, but, as I said, a sucker for bargains. Peter Pinter wanted to 'dispose off' a Casanova-like figure from the accounting department, who was doing the business with his 'intended' (Aside: What is with inane pre/conjugal terminology? Intended? As a noun? I mean, really? And what does it mean when someone says they're "engaged"? That the idiot on the other line forgot to hang up? Ah, me). The people he contacts tell him they can get the job done for 500 quid. BUT. They have a special offer - 2 for 475, or 10 for less! Then of course, there's the 'wholesale' rate. 1000 people for a quid each. Something about how human life comes cheap springs to mind, but quickly sees what else it's sharing liminal mindspace with, and scampers back from whence it came. Next, he finds that for the princely sum of 4,000 pounds, he can get rid of the 14-million-odd people who stand between him and the throne of England (a cousin of his was married to a minor lordling). He's tempted, but suspects there's an even better deal he just might be passing up.

So he asks.
"How much for the world?"
"The world, Sir? Why, that would cost nothing. We've been prepared for aeons. It's just that we needed to be asked first."
And with that, ladies and gentlemen, the world ends.

It's that simple. All you have to do is ask.

This is a mighty long preamble, even for a meandering minstrel (no, I'm not, and yes, I only did it for the alliteration) like me {three points}. So, instead of giving you what I thought I would, I'll let the prologue double up as *the* thing itself. Notice how I avoid naming these rambling-wandering-treatises, even as I name them.

This one came out of Hazel asking me to write today. I said I'd consider it.
She did ask, after all.