Christopher Walken came from the southeast

Christopher Walken came from the southeast. His face was taut, shiny young and old stretched leather.

His eyes orbed and searched our faces.

‘Huh?’ he grunted.

We stared at him. We dared not interrupt. His eyes were conducting a symphony.

‘What?’

Did it come from his eyes, that grunt, insistent interrogative?

We continued to stare as he stood in front of us, us watching him watching us.

What do you do in such situations? Christopher Walken, a legend beyond reach, was there to be touched.

I said: ‘Why did you kill Chris Penn?’

Christopher Walken used his eyes to focus upon me. ‘Huh?’

At close range he was a tall insect. Praying mantis eyes. In that glen he was close, tall and plain.

Strangled light at the edge of the forest and no one, except Christopher Walken, gazed there when it happened. It came from the southeast.

A vapour of sorts. Green and softly wafting toward us, ethereal swirls of green, covering the evening floor with a damp and delinquent décor.

Christopher Walken turned from us and disappeared behind this mist and we never saw him again.

Only recently did young Basil admit to being a bit scared of the whole thing, with Christopher Walken appearing in seraphic and hallucinogenic suddenness, and only today did we realise that the legend had brought with him a gentle gift.

It was there on the table at Basil’s house; a mite taller than a matchbox.

Blue. No! Green.

When opened a rush of noise, a hiss, a rough hiss with lots of friction, and Basil suddenly disappeared. He disappeared right inside of that gentle gift.