ransvestia

"You are ... Schyler Moxtone?" I asked, framing each syllable for maximum clarity as though English was not my first language.

"I beg your pardon," Moxtone replied in a sheepish, apologetic tone. His voice was the perfect mate for his body.

"I asked eef eet eez true zat you are Schyler Moxtone."

"I am but ...'

"

I sat before he could finish his sentence.

"I must spik wiz you. I have eenformation you must have. My time eez short, too short perhaps." I looked over his shoulder at nothing in particular and gasped ever so slightly.

"What is it?" Moxtone. He was buying the whole number.

"Do not turn a-round, Mizter Moxtone. He must not know you. Vere Gromeck to know you your life would become a very chip zing. Zo, I beg you not to turn a-round, please," I said, reaching out to touch his hand.

"Who must not know? Who's after you, miss?" he asked. He was scared, but thrilled. I sadly realized that this fiction was the most ex- citing thing that had ever happened to him.

"My name eez of no eemportance. I am but a courier. A nameless courier. What eez eemportant eez zee eenformation I have vor you. Eet eez true, eez eet not, zat you feel zat zhere are people about you who do not have your best eenterests at heart? Zhis eez true, eez eet not?”

Looking at Moxtone I could see that I was confirming the suspicion of a lifetime, I was living proof of the anti-Moxtone conspiracy that had, in all probability, haunted him since grade school.

"Yes," was his only reply.

"You have been misled, Schyler Moxtone, most of zee people een zees vorld have nothing against you. Most of the vorld doesn't even know you exist and zhe handful who do, eye you with indifference rather zhan animosity," I explained.

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