A fresh breeze sneaked into the vale, not unlike the smell of a rain just before the clouds bestow their blessing on the farmer’s field. At once not unlike and different from the cat’s pawed fog, this breeze had four legs. A different sort of quadruped was he, with a name surely conjured by feverish librarian Scrabble contest runner’s up, or perhaps a handful of monkeys stationed at typewriters by a decree of Borges. Or mayhap, one infinite monkey. But the origin of his moniker was not worth the consideration given it in the preceding sentences.
This new arrival made a grand entrance from the air, carefully dodging the clouds that would not actually gather until the next page. After docking the dew-laden dirigible, he climbed aboard his old bicycle, dulled with the dust of a thousand excursions to the far-flung Isles of Langerhans, and he would ride and ride. Over and through the countryside, and even to town, on occasion. The urchins would giggle and point. Even upon their first espy of this curious-looking, self actuating creature, they stood in the shadow of the tobacconist’s wooden aboriginal sculpture – ‘twas a very hot summer indeed - they would cry "oh, look, look - here comes Ort Antiknock". He'd give them a wink, and morsel from his satchel and – whoosh! - was gone in a flash.
