Plopbottle closed his eyes. Suddenly he wasn’t a low-grade technician any more, he was Johnny Marino in Disco Night Fever. Confident, sophisticated, chic, and above all, not a goblin. He pointed down to the floor and up to the ceiling, he twirled his jacket round his head and spun on his heels. He hustled, he shimmied, he mash potatoed, he did the boogaloo.
Indigo LaneExcerpt from Goblin Night Fever:
‘Why do we have to meet in a place like this?’ said Plopbottle as soon as the barman’s back was turned.
Broodangle, known to some as Broodangle the Occasionally Cunning, drew back his hood. A thin beak-like nose emerged and was shortly followed by two deep-set beady eyes and a short triangular beard that accentuated the sharpness of his chin.
‘Well for one thing the free bar snacks are to die for,’ he said, reaching for a handful of fried maggots
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Against all probability the war machine was actually flying. Bristling with every kind of weapon imaginable, it filled the sky like an ominous storm cloud; a vast slab of hastily riveted steel, topped with a hundred or so yards of London clay and a square mile of its most historic sites.
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