Free A World of InTemperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 2) by Ichabod Temperance

shot.”
    “Oh. Now you get picky.”
    I wish I could be like some mystic Knight, able to wave my hand and mesmerize my un-witting foe into making a silly mistake.
    Bolt looks at me.
    Bolt looks at the guards.
    “Uh, can we get back to this in a minute?” James squeaks. “I suddenly have to take a very urgent willibingbingwilli.”
    Wow, suddenly, I too, need to relieve my bladder.
    Guard number one: “I gotta see a man about a dog.”
    Guard number two: “Well hurry up! I gotta go too! Bad!”
    “Hang on James, I think it’s just in your head.”
    “Nope. Not even close.”
    Guard number one scampers off.
    Guard number two, after a moment or two of doing the dance, runs after number one, to do number one.
    Bolt looks at us and wags his tail.
    “Good boy, Bolt!”
    James delivers a strange look to Bolt.
    “Come on, James, let’s go!” We run up to the factory and slip inside.
    Except Bolt. He gets one whiff at the doorway and changes his mind. The sensitive-nosed dog leaves us to our own investigations from here. He returns to the others while we continue inward.
    “Phew!” What a stench! It smells like burning vinegar in here.”
    It is a dark and smelly place; quiet too, for a factory. However, it is in operation. A low, steady rumble gives evidence of the machinery’s operations. It is not a mad rush, as most factories seem to be, but a steady, unstopping, throbbe.
    Just a few, sparse, lanterns dimly illuminate the cavernous room; these are built to be extra double safety non-sparking fireless lanterns.
    Strategically placed warning labels confirm my incendiary suspicions.
    FLAMMABLE!!!
    DANGER!!!
    EXPLOSIVE!!!
    NO SMOKING!!!
    EXTINGUISH THAT FLAME!!!
    THIS MEANS YOU!!!
    James locates a foreman’s table. He removes a boot and holds it above a sheet of paper he is drawn to. By twisting the heel...
    ~Click! Whir-chick.~
    He places another sheet of paper on the table.
    Twisting the heel of his boot...
    ~Click! Whir-chick.~
    “I’m sure you know what you are doing, Mr. Murray, but please explain to those of us that are a bit slower on the uptake.”
    “Well obviously, Icky, it's a camera shoe. The latest thing from K.E.W.W. Kingsland Experimental WidgetWorks.”
    “Most impressive.”
    “Take a look at these ingredients they’re stirring up around here, Ichabod.”
    “Hmmm. Something about these formulas stinks.”
    Hurrying on with our unscheduled inspection we visit vast visions of venomous vats violently vibrating, with viscous viciousness.
    We cast our sight across cooking cauldrons of caustic chemicals.
    This factory is an emporium of bacterium, delirium.
    One thing is not found.
    There are no people.
    Other than the two guards, we have yet to find a single person. The machinery runs itself. This is an automated assembly line of air fouling armaments, from raw material to strangely designed delivery systems. The artillery shells being loaded are standard enough, but these thin walled containers could never be fired from a cannon. And what are these strange aileron contraptions affixed to their ends?
    “Oh my Goodness, James, these folks mean to drop these poisonous munitions from above! They are to be released from Zeppelins!”
    “Here you go, Icky, take my shoe and get a picture of me standing next to these munitions.”
    “Um, okay, but why do you have to be in the photograph?”
    “My presence will provide a scale to measure the size of the bombs.”
    “Why are you striking such a heroic pose?”
    “A little dramatics never hurts, Icky.”
    Further examination of the lifeless factory of death reveals evidence of more hideous constructions, but at another location. This must be but one of several factories, each contributing its own cog of destruction to an as yet unseen machine.
    James finds more paperwork to photograph with his shoe.
    “Bugger all that with your silly shoe camera, Murray! Let’s just pinch what we want and skedaddle. This place gives me the willies.”
    “Wotcha! Quite