The Hunchback of Cork

The Sloucher and his Skeleton: A Series of Praises

He walks along the sidewalk with gold-rimmed sunglasses over his eyes. He isn't hiding, this man, no, dear me, no – the sunshine is quite bright, if honesty is to be exercised, and so, naturally, our Sloucher's first instinct is to protect his eyes. On another thought, the brightness of the sun would technically be his fault, if he were the type to lose his identity somehow, what with all those silly skins he hangs on his body. Never struck anyone as the kind to forget himself, but he does pick up habits sometimes, and saving the world could be a hobby he learned in another universe. Oh, these multiverses, he thinks, as he stalks on. He really ought to learn.

(And on another note, dear reader, between you and I – it is impossible to fathom how exactly the strangers that walked right by him never stopped to ogle, or how the robbers in the vicinity only eyed the wallet peeking out of his backpocket instead of his skeleton. It was one for the museum, our Sloucher's bone structure. They ought to sell those in stores, or invent a way to somehow bottle its effects of captivation on the average onlooker. It would cure various diseases, I think, maybe even stop wars.)

He walks on, and on, and on, with his shoulders slouching. He isn't really sure where he's going next, but he knows where his cigarette is destined to be – right on his lips where he could coax a drag out of it, and he does. It's therapeutic and it's also great company. Even the smoke makes sure to float to caress those famed cheekbones. And stray (others may even call them daring) strings of smoke find a way to pirouette on his esteemed jawline, too.

Waits a little bit to cross the road, and when he's certain no cars are coming, he carries on with his walking and his smoking and his being gorgeous. He wonders why the streets have been so deserted lately. What he thinks happened is that some important event is being broadcasted on TV – say, for example, an inauguration, or an important announcement, or a spelling bee, or a Christmas special of the Simpsons, maybe. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and he walks on.

He doesn't know that the rest of the world had been holding in its breath, for its most gorgeous creature was prowling the streets, and such allure can only be left unbothered sometimes. Had you been caught in his line of sight... doesn't matter if–if his eyes were chilling and cruel or gentle and welcoming, it would have stopped you dead. It would have stolen your breath and locked it away forever, and you'd be left cold on the ground. And he'd still be beautiful, all sorts of it. But you wouldn't see it anymore.

And so our Sloucher continues slouching, and all his bones crush into each other. It's the moststunningscene.

Oh, reader, dear me: our Sloucher is the most stunning scene.