![]() ![]() Unfazed by such an impolite gesture, the Button Man took another step toward yonder future but the pussycat was having none of it. ![]() On its neck, the tabby wore a paper-thin pound-stretcher collar to forgo any unneeded introduction: Nugget, that was the name, and the feathering of soft sunrise-shaded shag only served to further reiterate the whole ‘warden of the breaking dawn’ motif. Travelling betwixt the legs of quadrupeds, beside rolling wheels, and amongst discarded ciggies, the Button Man trotted past the toffee apple-shaped sweet shop ‘Stick N’ All’, through the once-a-week wooden stalls selling forged trading cards and ready salted Venetian blinds, and directly into the path of a fat orange cat in a great green hat. And, with that in mind, the Button Man made his way into the town’s heart where the cobblerock and sandstone tile centre bustled with the beast that was ‘Market Day’. Frankly, it was tantamount to an total emotional breakdown but this was neither the time nor the place for such discussions. The issue here being that ‘fresh start’ would be defined as ‘got no job’, and ‘got no job’ meant no roof over his little button head. The Button Man, with all his button smarts and patent button good looks, had cast away his small-fish, big-pond ambition in hopes of a fresh start elsewhere in the Welsh countryside. Still, he’d landed on the heather-speckled hot-rubber road with glee and with glee he would venture forth, suitcase in hand. It hadn’t been the most gracious of travels and his thimble-shoes were still so slick with bile that he should’ve, if anything, been offered a discount on his rather expensive fare from the writhing city of Smig Boke. His wiry little cotton limbs, knotted tufts and all, proudly exclaimed his arrival to the town of Wednesday. He cartwheels down its tongue, landing in what might be step-two of a jumping jack. No bigger than a two-pence piece and round as any one of them, the baby-blue Button Man hops from the sticky matte interior of the Greyhound Bus.
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