Hedgerow: Prologus and Interludion.

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"Wut laght through yonduh winder break" said Clyde.

"Thou art blessed, parched though yet, unattendtant scalp: Juliet is the sun."

Clyde walked over to the railing; it was the second floor balcony, not far from prattling baboons, the machinations of learned men, and the madding crowd.

There was the burly man, in a fine linen suit.  It was becoming of one accustomed to putting off his wetwork on others, but then, there were specialists, and he could afford such.

The burly man crunched a chestnuts in his jaws, just like he was a big squirrel.

A crash from the rooms beneath.

"Supposing your drummer and keyboardist are going through my things, down there", said Clyde.

"No, Mister Devlin" said the Burly Man.  "I expect you to die.  We won't steal your Fleetwood Mac and Jethro Tull albums."

A trail of smoke.

"I suppose in the interim, you'll want to brag and prolixiate on your peculiar strategem.  Namely bumping me off" said Clyde.

Clearly the rooms below had been caught ablaze by the henchman.  Smoke was positively pouring out now, and filling the upper room.

"Everything has a beginning, and as such, Mister Devlin, an ending as well."

A flying saucer zipped by across in the sky.  If Clyde hadn't been musing with the baddie, watching the smoke rise enigmatically in the sky, he wouldnt'a seen the darn contraption.

---DREAM TIME----

"Magus system tripped one, a home sentinel emergency dispatch on C."

It was dark with some odd electronic, small, lights, that kind of moonglowed around the room without helping a jot to see around.

Some people didn't need to walk around in the control booth, maybe, and maybe, too, it kept them focused on the business at hand.

BACK AT IT----

The baked tile slipped beneath Clyde's feet, literally crumbling like the decaying remnant of half-remembered bad dreams.

And he went tumble-turding down into the rooms below, the so-vaunted open floor pan, a half hazard space for the bold and unassuming, to paint in one corner, and slice vegetables in another.

They were coughing, hazarding for breath, the minions, "the band" as was said earlier, but not Mick Fleetwood and John McVie band, some other kind of assemblage of murderers and thugs.

Professionals, all.

There was a midget with a razor blade hat, throwing dinner plates at Clyde.

Clyde pinioned him with a fireplace poker, and the tiny squirt went still, stone dead.

He jumped through the picture window in the front, and landing, in a sea of glass beads, into a tumble-turding little roll, that took him across three feet of lawn, a sidewalk, and into the duplex parking lot amongst the cars.

The Burly Man was still looking into the complex, with some kind of thermal vision goggles, or something, maybe even virtual reality, getting in a little Mario kart or something before it was all in all.

Clyde made his way between the cars, turning his back on the cadre of hitmen, and going into cool open air, opposite the complex, and the complex itself opposite the dunes, the shore.

-----DREAMTIME----

"Particulars on that beard, please."

"Yes."

On the screen: Google Erf.

One of the operators pushed a button and the tiny trotting figure crossing the resident parking disappeared instantly.

NEXT TIME, SAME PLACE: "A DRIVE WITH A GHOST."