Croci went into town
He went alone
The triad would unnerve them
Make them know they were not human
Make them know he was not a man
For this, a man he needed to be
So he put on a man’s clothes
And down he went

He was not impressed

Each flower or tree or beetle was it’s own
Yet alike
Like other flowers, trees or beetles
But the town
The human bits
Were just copies of copies of things
Things weren’t their own things
Things were largely identical
Underneath a paper thin page
Of printed words
Descriptions
Of blank verse by a blind hand

Someone wanted his help

Or at least they wanted
Someone to do
What he could do
They used big sounding words
But
Talk is cheap
So they wasted words
Capitalised, made bold
They bragged about what they would do
They wrote and
Did not read or heed
What was said

But a door had opened

So in he went
He answered their call
Besuited, sleek and smart
A con calling on a con
An aquisitive inquisitor, a nave
In the nave of a church
A maker of things meeting a taker of things
Croci would take a liberty
And settle a score
An ancient grudge
A theft
A stone stolen from an altar
Taken back from under their noses

They did not know it yet

After the initial noise
Their silence said it all
So
Listening, Croci entered their space
And was ignored
Entering under their empty busy chatter
Hearing themself thinking out loud
He knew he would be ignored again
He had told them what he would do
Was what they would do too
A confederation of cons
But being righteous
They were always right
So ready to be wronged

And robbed