13Cecil looked like a helpless duck plucked from an oil spill, congealed black gunk drooping from his wings.
He sat in the back of an emergency service vehicle. It was a sad and hopeless sight.
The police barricaded the alleyway between the Visage store and the tower beside it. Dead rats festered in garbage, and mystery juices fell from the air vents of the towers above, splatting on heads. The mystery liquids always smelled like urine, even if it was only spittle from a resident above.
Perdonna stood before the barricade, surrounded by guards several inches taller than her. They towered over the paparazzi. Somehow Perdonna’s cheekbones sparkled even with the backdrop of decomposing rats and an oil-drenched Cecil LeClaire.
“Two dead bodies in one week. Visage stock is plummeting by the
