The group assembled at the intersection of Gravois and
Lindbergh, near I-270. It figured that Gravois wasn’t even here, off to meet
with Des Peres, much to Lindbergh’s chagrin.
Slicking back his hair, Kirkwood gave his usual cocky smirk
as he approached the assemblage of his fellow spirits. Lindbergh gave his usual
trademark scowl at his “little brother”, which Kirkwood just ignored.
It was a bit of a motley crew tonight. Big Bend, the twins Laclede
and Hanley, Lindbergh, Kirkwood himself, and to his surprise, Sunset Hills
stood among them. The town spirit, standing taller than all of them, looked
grim, unusual for his normally high spirits. He kept glancing upwards, to where
the dark clouds roiled. Even Kirkwood could admit there was a restless energy in the air, unusual for this time of year. Probably just an early
tornado, surely.
“Took your time, little brother,” said Lindbergh.
“I always arrive when I mean to arrive,” said Kirkwood.
“Fashionably late,” quipped Hanley.
“Fashionably lame,” quipped Laclede.
“Fashionably blamed,” said Hanley.
“Fashionably shamed,” said Laclede.
“Yes, yes,” Kirkwood waved them off. If he didn’t nip the
twins in the bud, they’d be going all night. “So what are we looking at at?”
“We think it’s a hurricane,” said Sunset Hills. He looked
off into the distance somberly.
