Indubiously

Friday, October 19, 2012

A small figure hurried along the dark street, its footsteps muted by racing sheets of fog. A lantern hung from the sleeve of its long-tailed coat, intermittently revealing the figure’s bright orange flippers as they flopped along the stones.

“Not a night fit for beasts, no it ain’t,” the figure mumbled to itself, wrapping itself still further in a many-layered scarf. “An ill night, if I ever saw one.”

The penguin read the house numbers as they passed until he reached his goal: 333 Boren Avenue North. He lifted the brass knocker, rapped it, and waited. The door opened a crack.

“Yes?” A deep voice come from behind the door.

“Which it’s a message for Dr. Gage.”

The door opened and revealed a penguin of august carriage. Holding at teacup with aunt-like grace, his silk topper and whole manner of dress was refined, if old-fashioned.

“I am he,” the imposing bird replied.

Wear this shirt: during the London season.

Don’t wear this shirt: after the whole steam-penguin-punk craze dies down.

This shirt tells the world: “Do you take herring in your tea?”

We call this color: Gentlebirds Prefer Black

Woot