Free The Hipster From Outer Space (The Hipster Trilogy Book 1) by Luke Kondor Page B

books, but for the most part they have their individual nuances. Would you remember the details then?”
    Gary yawned.
    “Maybe not if there were other books,” he said. “Fair enough.”
    “Now it’s your turn, little feline. You said that I could go home. How do I do that?”
    Gary stood and stared motionlessly at Moomamu. His eyes widened like he was about to tell Moomamu a secret.
    “Gary is sometimes spoken to by The Light. It told Gary about you … and other things. It told Gary that you will go home, and it told Gary that we would need to go see the Tall One With Insight.”
    “Right,” Moomamu said, smiling at the progress made. “Okay. Take me to this Tall One With Insight.”
    “That one is not here.”
    “Okay …” he said. “Where is it?”
    “Up north. Like, hundreds of miles away.”
    The words hung there for a while. And then Moomamu laughed.
    “Is that it?” he said. “That’s not far at all.”  
    Moomamu’s frame of reference had always been from such a great distance that miles didn’t compute.
    “Wait,” Gary said. “The Light told Gary something that Thinker should know.”
    “Go on,” he said.
    “If Thinker doesn’t go home, then Thinker will die.”  
    “Easy,” Moomamu said. “I’ll go home. Problem solved. Nothing to think about.”
    Gary stood, his tail now swaying left to right. It was time for them to move.

Rosie Darlington-Whit

    “I think I can smell the smoke. What about you?” Rosie blew her snotty nose into her handkerchief, bunched it up and shoved it in her top jacket pocket.
    “Yes,” Bexley said. “The air is thick with it.”  
    Bexley’s plum Oxford-boy accent always sounded over the top to Rosie. His voice was such a low monotone that the accent sounded forced. His voice was as low as he was tall. Six and a half feet of handsome. Just as many brain cells too.
    Rosie turned to him and saw his shirt was untucked on the side. She reached over and tucked it in for him.  
    It wasn’t weird. They were family. Brother and sister. Carer and the Cared-For.  
    They were standing on the street where a taxi driver had dropped off a certain blonde woman the day before. They’d been tipped off by the inconsistency. The bank in front of them was large and installed within a century-old building in Harringay town centre.
    “Shame for it to happen in such a beautiful old building though, right?” she said, squinting as she looked up at the fine stonemasonry along the top of the building. She wondered what was in the rooms behind the windows. Maybe the bank was utilising it for storage or something. Who knew? Maybe they hired them out to small businesses as offices.
    “Sometimes I wish I was one of those people behind those windows. Hidden behind it all. Not knowing what the hell is going on. It all seems so much simpler. Don’t you think?” Bexley nodded. Simple as that.
    Bexley was a cinderblock dressed in pale English skin. Rosie was sure that if you were to strike him with a nail it would bend before it broke the flesh.
    “Well okay,” she said as she adjusted her tweed tie. She reached into her brown leather messenger bag and pulled out two small , L-shaped metal rods: her divining rods. Not her own. She’d borrowed them from the gun room. “Here we go.”
    She held the shorter handles and let the divining rods do their thing. They flipped around in the wind, rotating and circulating until they settled on a small spot next to the pavement. She followed them to the spot — a drop-off point in the street for cars, maybe taxis.
    “Doesn’t this remind you of the Northern Line Man?” she said, looking at Bexley’s plaid flat cap. A new one. Probably picked by their father.  
    “No,” Bexley said matter-of-factly. “That case was about the man in the tunnels. This one is about the spontaneously combusting person.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Rosie chuckled. “But I mean the fact that it’s a true recurring space-time inconsistency.”
    “Yes.