laid team screwed

The cabbie turned to the fare he'd just picked up at Port Authority and asked the usual 'where to' only to have a small pocket recorder pressed against the plastic divider and hear a tinny voice from the recorder give him directions to 92nd and 2nd.

He stole a glance at his fare but the guy, if it was in fact a guy, was all wrapped up and hidden as if for a long winter storm but that didn't make any sense at all because it was August in New York and unbearably hot. The cabbie himself was as far down to his skivvies as his despatch supervisor would allow. But, a fare is a fare as they say so he dutifully drove to the destination and dutifully accepted the mouldy bills and dutifully scrambled the hell out of there.

The summer snowman looked left and right to be sure no one was following down the alley at 92nd and 2nd and for one horrendous moment imagined someone at the Victory Cafe 2 blocks down had been watching this corner with binoculars and only once the snowman was sure that no one was watching, ducked down the back alley stairs where by rights no stairs should be and through a door that by rights should have been locked and followed the din of voices that by rights should not have been there and presently met up with the rear of a pulsing beating throng of people, some in business suits, some in rags, and pushed through to the center of the mass under the weight of an abrupt and deafening silence.

They'd all come to hear the prophecies, unspeakably accurate, unspeakably taboo, coming as they did not from the prophets' mouth yet nevertheless, they came from her lips.

The summer snowman took off her disguises and drowned them in her future.