THE HANDS OF ALVIN PEPLOW
The hands of Alvin Peplow, perceiving that Peplow slept, uncoupled themselves from his wrists, as was their nightly custom, and exited the bed chamber. They spidered sideways down the hall in a state of hurrying glee. In a trice they had opened the front door and scuttled down the steps into the abandoned late night London street. Without a moment’s hesitation, they sped to the nearest alley and took a stance on top of a dustbin. Then they waited for an unsuspecting soul to pass by. Soon they heard the singular approach of stumbling mutterer. Fingers tensing into a crouch ready for a leap, the hands quivered. The tipsy gentleman appeared. The hands leapt for his throat and began remorselessly tickling him. The man fell in a fit of laughter, and the hands ran off home. They reattached to Peplow’s wrists and experienced yet again a sublime contentment.
