Paparazzi Burning
Part 2. Olga's Story
“More strudel!”
Olga von Roegen saw that the magen who was taking her dictation—for her fingers were too fat and grubby to even hold a quill—had also written down her last command for her favorite Aalbanese delicacy.
With her fat grubby hand, Olga smacked the magen’s quill out of its hand.
“Stupid magen! You were not supposed to write that! Now pick that up and read to me what you’ve written so far,” grumbled Olga.
Secretly, Olga thought to herself just how sweet a deal she got out of that wizard who had crafted her staff of magens—who pledged to become an “avid subscriber to the Paparazzi Glantri” after Olga had hinted at his not rather inappropriate appetites for the company of magens. Olga had him specially enchanted this particular magen with a magical mouth spell; after all, what is a simple enchantment like that to one who can create more interesting and satisfying orifices in such like-life constructs…
Olga’s thoughts were interrupted by the magen reading the last few words of her dictation.
“Beatriz sure got us in a bind this time.” Olga said to herself, shaking her head.
“Magen, take this down.” Olga commanded, resuming her dictation.
“Fires have also recently occurred at the Urbaal & Montgolfière skyship factory and the Lovecraft Asylum in Rymskigrad. The incident at the factory was rumored to be deliberate, although investigations as to the responsible parties are still inconclusive. The circumstances surrounding the latter were not clearly reported. Both cases warrant looking into by the Paparazzi.”
Olga paused to stuff her mouth with the newly arrived, freshly baked strudel. Though she had no more manners than an ash crawler in heat, she prided herself with her perfect grammar and flawless literary skills.
“I understand your concerns and I agree with your suggestion that the Paparazzi Glantri must investigate the burning with utmost caution.”
Olga took a moment to down a pint of Aalbanese lager, deobstructing her fat throat of a sizeable half-chewed chunk of strudel. With hands damp with beer foam and sticky with pastry crumbs, she reached for the delicate stationery upon which Beatriz Dominatore had written the letter Olga was not responding to. She read a few more lines, before burping into the parchment, staining the sheet with wet splatter.
But, of course, it’s only about time that the Paparazzi Glantri has made enemies, Olga thought. And that those enemies make a move against them.
