“Fe-fi-fo-fum,” said the strange, gentle voice, echoing throughout the city. The god, or whatever it was, spoke at him from some place Normand could not see from where he lay under the metal carriage. The ground shook rhythmically as the god-giant came up the road, his armored hips and shoulders brushing the buildings around him.
Pieces of masonry fell, knocked loose by his passing, and shattered on the ground. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is a restricted area. Don’t you know that? Can’t you read the signs, silly-billy?”
The gunslinger tipped open his remaining gun and checked the cylinder out of habit. He already knew there were no cartridges left. The god-giant stepped on one of the other carriages, crushing it flat and grinding it into the street. Two of the wheels came off and rolled away; the fuel inside squirted out of the reservoir.
Normand could smell the fuel’s stringent fumes. He had to find safety, and fast.
—The Fiddle and the Fire, vol 7 (unfinished) “The Gunslinger and the Giant”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish