The dull agates of the Great Haddock glinted in the dead sky, and their brute twins grunted back from the feculent surface of the Drnkeeva, the viscous dribble that slimed its way through the Accountants’ Ward. Zunk leant on the aluminum rail of the Ninth Bridge and the popular name for the waterway slipped through his mind: the Drnkeeva, the Drunkriver.
The klieg lights of the Ward shone from the posts of leaning pachinko parlors and hardware stores, beckoning with the promise of noise and pipefittings. Zunk couldn’t yet spend the three plugged nickels sagging in his pocket. Coins spoke to air horn, and the airhorn spoke to Flive: you will ruin someone’s golf game tonight, my lad.
Somewhere in the darkness, a nine-iron belonging to Lord Pomfrey Tingle would whiff wildly at the tee, as Zunk’s siren sounded, ruining the shot