Installment 7

Og just reached the colonnade when the doors of City Hall suddenly burst open.  Guards on both sides of the entrance snapped to attention as a portly little fellow with a smart red suit and a tall black hat emerged with a grande flourish.  Og recognized the man immediately.  It was the right honorable Mayor Corbyn Horatio Blout.

The mayor grinned as he strode through the arcade.  He puffed out his fat stomach and mustache then waved to the crowds beyond the landing.  A dozen aristocrats flanked the mayor to his left and right.  The elite fops of Oard waved their perfumed hands and flopped their coiffed heads from side to side.  They waved handkerchiefs and cheered.

A group of city officials (council members, city trustees, and administrators) followed just behind the lords and dandies.  The men and women of the civil service looked on with dour faces and evident condescension.  They wore black suits and square-toed shoes.  They walked with the confidence brought about by years of middling bureaucratic job security and modest pensions.  

As the civil brigade passed through the doorway and into the arcade, a veritable rush of citizens belched out of the doors behind them.  There was a mad push and frantic outburst of angry cries.  The civil servants were knocked forward into the aristocrats.  The aristocrats floundered and tripped on either side of the mayor.  The mayor took notice, but did his best to present a brave and winning smile to the crowds.  He advanced toward the podium with the assurance only afforded to a man in staunch denial of his reality.  

As he took his position behind the podium, the crowds in the square howled.  As he cleared his throat to begin, the mobs behind him jostled for position.  It was then that Og spied his friends, Nela and Nala, amongst the crowd of folks exiting City Hall.  He called out and waved his paw.

“Ladies!” he yelled.  “Over here!”

Nela turned.  Her beautiful brown face was etched with worry.  She grabbed her sister, Nala, and pulled her away from the throng.

“Og!” cried Nala.  

The sisters dashed across the brick landing.  As they reached Og, Nela grabbed his left paw and Nala took his right.  “Oh, Oggie!” Nela gasped.  “We’re so glad to see you!”

The sisters stared up at him with dark brown soulful eyes.  Nela was the youngest.  Her hair was a great black puffball in which she stored many of the tools of her trade.  Og noticed a pencil, a ruler, and a ratcheting screwdriver poking impossibly from within her kinky black locks.  Nala was older.  Her hair was as grey as a ball of dandelion spores, save for the thick protective goggles nestled there.  Both the sisters wore leather aprons and weld-spattered pants and boots.  The sisters were master crafters. They had been fixing, engineering, and designing flying ships since they were old enough to hold screwdrivers, back in their father’s workshop. 

“Og, we need to get home and fast!” Nela exclaimed.

“Alright,” said Og.  “I can do that.”

Nala turned toward the mayor.  “That fatass.  He’s about to announce it.  Let’s get out of here!”

“Say no more,” said Og.  “Come on!”