A Puntman in the City

‘You gyppo cheapskate,’ the man yelled at Set Ozymandias Mithras.

‘I have not a dinar to my name,’ Set said.

‘Not a pound to his name, he says, Josher’.

‘He won’t have pounds, Joneser, he’s gyppo, isn’t he?’ Josher said. ‘Ask for gold.’

‘Give us your manglin’ gold,’ Joneser said. ‘That treasure you gyppos put in your pyramids, give it!’

Set slumped in his chair. ‘I had rather a lot of treasure. Racing camels whose spit smelled of limes. Barges lighter than air. I was interned with it all. Graverobbers took it. The guards gave chase but the thieves floated into the sky. When I Woke, all I had was a syringe in my arm and the mysterious instruction to lie back and think of England.’



’Didn’t you gyppo tricksters have poisons and curses and traps?’

‘Traps. Yes,’ Set said and pressed a particular floorboard. ‘We were quite good at those.’

He tapped what remained of Josher’s noggin. ‘Using what’s in here,’ he said. ’That’s better than all the lime spit in Afrika.’

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