Elsewhere and elsewhen, a small business owner was just given the greatest gift of his life.

“Free rent?!”

“In perpetuity!” added Mr. Fence.

Mr. Pigeon, Cobpleton’s only baker sat back in his chair. When Mr. Fence had asked to meet with him after hours, he assumed it was for something illicit. These rich banker types were always into their illicit affairs. Mr. Pigeon wouldn't have necessarily said no, Fence was very handsome, but he was still glad it wasn’t that.

“And all you want is to use my cellar on occasion?” asked Pigeon.

Fence smiled. “Once or twice a month at most. My book club needs a private space.”

This was one hell of a deal to Pigeon. No rent, and all he had to do was let a bunch of quiet eggheads meet in his cellar. Maybe Mr. Fence wasn’t as bad as everyone said. Sure when he came to town he raised everyone’s rents, but he kept out of their business as they kept out of his.

“You do have a furnace down there, right?” asked Fence.

“Well…no,” Pigeon stuttered, sensing a great deal slipping away. “But I can have one installed! One…two weeks tops!”

Fence shook his head. “That would take too long, we have to prepare the space as soon as possible.”

“Well, uh…maybe we could,” said Pigeon, trying desperately to latch onto anything that would save this deal.

“What if I buy one of your old ovens?” asked Fence. “For…let’s say, two months rent back?”

Pigeon was stunned at the offer.

“How about three months rent back? But I can’t go any higher,” said Fence

“Th-three?!” sputtered Pigeon.

“Oh alright, four months rent back. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Pigeon,”

Sensing a good deal when he saw it, Pigeon took Fence’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“I’ll go wake up some of the lads and we can haul it down quickly!” said Pigeon.

“No!” shouted Fence, suddenly losing his composure. Pigeon froze and looked back at him. “I mean,” he started. “No need, I’m sure I can handle it on my own,” he assured Pigeon.

Mr. Pigeon led Fence to the sketch, where he picked out his oldest oven.

“Old Jo,” said Pigeon to Fence. “Got it from me grandmother, named after her too.”

Mr. Pigeon’s last name would have been the standard ‘baker’ if not for his grandfather. He was the grandson of Pigeon John, or as he was less kindly known as, Naked John who talks to pigeons. John had spent most of his days around the birds, using what little money he could scrounge on bread. He would rip up the bread, and peck at himself. He was out of his gourd but even he knew that bread had little nutritional value for his friends. For the pigeons, he dove into trash heaps for bits of gristle and fat, which he would exchange for their birdy secrets. They whispered strange truths and hidden knowledge to him, or so he claimed.

No one really bothered Naked John, and some school boys figured out why the hard way. It was all fun and games until the naked bird man spoke aloud your darkest secret.

One day, Pigeon John stood up, found a pair of trousers, walked into the bakery where he bought his bread, then courted and married the baker, Mr. Pigeon’s grandmother. It was like his senses came to him in a hit and run. One moment he was Pigeon John, local embarrassment, the next, he was John Pigeon, upstanding citizen of the community.

No one knew exactly how John Pigeon regained his sanity, but apparently, the pigeons told him to ‘stop acting all crazy’, and he just…did what he was told.

Fence inspected the oven. It was old and small even by the standards of Pigeon’s other ovens and barely worked. He kept it for sentimental value, but now he could afford new memories.

Fence placed one hand under the lip of Old Jo, and wrenched her free, chimney and all. Pigeon gawked at him as he hauled it over his shoulder without so much as a grunt.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Fence saw him gaping. “I keep in very good shape,” he said flatly.

Mr. Pigeon, despite being a baker, didn’t have his occupation’s physique. He was short and thin, and rarely ate anything he baked, so maybe he should start eating whatever Fence had. He coined the phrase ‘Don’t let your own supply go to your thigh’. He was sure the phrase would take off any day now.

“I’ll pay for the damages of course,” said Fence.

Pigeon shrugged with a smile. “Damage anything you like! I haven’t sold you a single crumb and already you’re my best customer!”

Pigeon led Fence down to his cellar. He had used it to store supplies and already baked goods ready to be sold. He always told his customers that the dust that coated some of the funnel cakes was an exotic form of sugar. Pigeon would never poison his customers, but every good businessman knew that hygiene laws were flexible.

“It’s not much, but it’s got air flow, comfortably cool, you could put up some wallpaper-”

Fence punched a bare wall.

The sudden crash sent Pigeon reeling backwards in surprise. His fall was broken by some loaves of bread, which unfortunately had calcified harder than the floor.

Fence dusted himself off and kicked rubble out of the way. “Sorry, I should have warned you. We’re a large group, so we’ll need a lot of space. Again, I’ll pay for the damages.” Fence climbed over the rubble into the dark space beyond, not even sparing a glance for the shocked Pigeon.

It was then that Mr. Pigeon was of two minds. The rational part of his brain said “Your landlord just carried a hundred pound cast iron oven one handed, and with the other knocked a six foot hole in your brick wall, no amount of money would ever make this normal”. But all Pigeon’s id heard was ‘amount of money’ and took the wheel. He crawled over to the hole in the cellar and peered into the darkness.

Fence was outlined by matchlight. “This will do,” he said, in a distant tone. Pigeon’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and searched around his basement’s new annex. Painted frescoes were peeling on the walls. The dust-caked floor was littered with metal objects so deteriorated that it was hard to guess what they once were. Pigeon carefully stepped over the rubble, and his foot found a notch carved into the floor. It was a straight groove that led to a small dark hole. This was a dry, reddish brown substance coating the groove, and Pigeon didn’t want to know what it was meant to drain. He looked up at the frescoes. From what little remained, he could see stick figures marching to a single spot from all corners of the small room. They seemed to all be gathering around a mountain to jump into a cave. After his eyes adjusted, he realized that it wasn't a mountain, but a funny looking bull with teeth. The stick figures seemed to be willfully jumping into its mouth.

Pigeon shuddered and said, “I didn’t know all this was down here.”

“Few do,” replied Fence. He tossed the match into the over which burst alight.

That’s funny, rationalized Pigeon, there wasn’t any fuel in there a second ago. He looked back at the stick figures. They seemed to dance in the light of the flame, almost like leaping into that bull’s mouth was something joyful.

Pigeon’s instinct’s saw the writing, or in this case, pictographs on the wall and said, “Well I’ll just leave you to decorate.” He hopped over the rubble and power climbed up the stairs. He heard Fence and paused.

“I know it’s too small, but I’m working with what I have.”

Pigeon almost turned to speak, not knowing if Fence was talking to him or not.

“I need more time, more metal. And something to help shape it,” came Fence’s voice drifting up.

Pigeon inched back down the stair, regretting every step, but his financial curiosity piqued. If Mr. Fence needed more metal and workers for whatever decorations he needed, Pigeon could loan out some of his boys and scrap metal, for a marked up fee of course. If a man like Fence was buying, Pigeon was all too happy to sell.

“Locusts? What locusts?”

A baker, who although worked with wheat, didn’t have the same visceral reaction to locusts as a farmer. It just made Pigeon confused. Was he talking about locusts to himself?

Pigeon carefully peered around the corner of his staircase, just a fraction of an inch. Fence was on his hands and knees, staring straight into the fire. That wouldn’t be good for his eyes.

“Alright, but how do I summon them?”

Pigeon’s heart began to thump.

“Where would I get a sacrifice this late at nigh-”

Mr. Pigeon’s instinctual brain put it together faster than his rational brain. Walls with funny drawings, talking to a fire, and now the s-word. His feet began moving before he realized it.

“Mr. Pigeon,” called Fence.

Pigeon froze halfway up the stairs, heart racing.

“I’m sorry to ask, but I’ll need next month’s rent tonight.”

He knew it, Pigeon just knew that this deal was too good to be true.

“Oh don’t worry, nothing monetary. Just an arm, a leg, still attached of course.”

Before Pigeon could react, an arm smashed through the wall, clapped its hand over Pigeon’s screaming mouth, and yanked him through. Mr. Pigeon’s last thoughts were, ‘I don’t think this is for a book club’.