Fahrenheit 451 Short Stories

The moon sat perched in the sky, looking over the broken road as though with a lamp in hand. A bluish light washed the slums in an eerie cast, and the cracked cobbles of the road ran with a ghostly stream. The hem of a black trench coat flapped softly in the wintry breeze, and two columns of buttons ran the length of its torso, flashing like round obsidian mirrors. The man beneath the coat kept his hands burrowed in his pockets, hiding them from the cold air of the lifeless night.
His spindly shadow flitted over a figure flashing behind him, and shuffling sounded in the alley. He instinctively darted a glance over his shoulder. No matter. All the skeaves emerged at night, patrolling the alleys for unsuspecting wanderers and drunks, searching

The squalid little building was nearly empty, only a shrunken old hag in a dress made entirely of patches slumped beside the dim fire. With the door groaning to a close behind him, the man pulled his scarf a bit looser from his neck and heaved a breath as he strode to the counter. Rattail clamored out of the back of the house, his rotund figure straining against a tunic that must have been white some day long before. “Wut’re ya in fer?” the old slob growled, shaking his jowls. In one hand he held a filthy old glass, in the other a rag the same color as his shirt. “A warm hearth’s fer payin’ cus’mers

“’Tis cold, an’ windy. Skeaves love this kind o’ weath’r. ‘T would be good to ‘ave sheets an’ a roof o’er yer head fer the night.”
He swirled the shot. “Thank you, but I think I’ll be on my way after my business is done.” He gave Rattail a grin, then tipped the glass at him and promptly threw back the shot. Hot shot, indeed – it burned his throat on the way down, left his tongue tingling. In fact, he could feel a certain grittiness to it, whether dirt from the glass or settled spice from the cheap bottle. Heat flowed through his belly, and that satisfied him.
Rattail eyed the man, rubbing his hands for the heat, despite the expensive wool coat hanging from his shoulders. A Flatcake, indeed. He clearly hailed from the luxurious homes of the wealthy up the river, north of the Mud. Here, the poor suffered and the scavengers flourished. This was his territory, so what was this stranger’s business in his