Chapter Eleven
Legless
“A shoe hurled at the speed of light makes an excellent missile.”—A dodging mechanical rat
When Manifesto the Great’s footman was called, he was gobsmacked. The last thing he wanted to do was help, let alone set eyes on his so-called leader again.
He was quite happy in the Art Centre, blissfully inspired. No more uniform, and—thank the gods of the galaxies—no more standing to attention; he could lounge around to his heart’s content watching the young men saunter in sandals, and when not discouraging the useless attempts at a coup, he was making things.
He had a thing for taut bottoms, long legs, and various other appendages and had taken to sculpturing his newfound pal, the long-legged footman. Who, like him, thought there were better things to do than uselessly
