A Greedy Moniker for Witchcraft and Such

Little by little he polished the kettle and varnished the buckles on his pilgrim shoes. In sixty minutes he was due to appear and switch into a competent, repetitive routine which would see him to the end of the week, but he looked ill-prepared and sickly sweet, as though he was mud-wrestling with an internal dilemma. A handful of minutes passed cautiously and left 25 before the trip. He cashed in the remaining time by looking out the window and squeezing ambitious plans into his leisure hours which would inevitably go unfulfilled.

As the day brightened, his mood sunk over the horizon and he saw B-grade stars. Eventually an overdue bell rung, and he was mildly enlightened to be reversing the morning's journey. Home was soon where his heart, along with the rest of his internal organs and his body, was, and he slunk like a washed out spring in a grand armchair and fell asleep. He awoke to the sound of something and punched himself in the leg.

And that, fortunately, was that.