In which the Fisher King wears a new face and crumbles into the sea.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the monster and the dying girl.

Tall and black and full of ghosts, the window to the car was dark entropy. It breathed in and out.

The door opened and the stair mechanism descended. The witch came first, followed by the squat and decaying dowager countess, dressed in black and sagging under the weight of her giant Indian headdress, as was the style in America at the time.

The monster looked up from his painting, his hand resting above the canvas. It was a painting of nine boobies.

The countess ignored the artist and walked past, to the pile of pig carcasses stacked in the field next to the railroad car. The witch turned to address the monster.

"Foreman, is the delivery ready?"

"Yes it is ready to go."

"Where is the train? Shouldn't it be here by now? This meat shouldn't sit in the sun like this."

The monster looked up at the grey sky. The sun hadn't shined in a week. The air felt like a dead thing draped on the shoulders of a bear, emulating the appearance of a rich old lady.
"The meat will be fine" he said.

The duchess did not turn away from the meat. She stuck a finger in the pile. She pulled away a pig's ear and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing large bites. The ear began to dissolve, masticated in her little goblin teeth.

The duchess's eyes went wide. She froze.

The witch turned to her. "What is the matter mistress?" She asked.

There was no answer. The witch turned to the monster. "Where is this meat from?"

The monster pointed across the moor, to the barren swamp. The witch went cold.

Her back still turned to them, the dowager countess, the duchess of muchess, spoke, quietly, softly, but with an unearthly force:

"I said I can see through time. This is a crime story. A true tale of crime."

Her hand fell to her side.