Beneath stars twinkling with intermittent light, the scruffy-looking archaeologist laid supine. This is going to leave a bathtub ring, an inner voice said. They carried an on and off dialogue ever since he heard the voice shore him up one excruciating day, "Follow your heart. Be reassured in your resilience from those who never miss a chance to say you're doing it wrong."
"That was even cooler than I'd hoped." He gathered the rare antiquities and toothbrushes that fell from the swag bag, not noticing on the back of his strap clutched the pirate's bejewelled bony fist.
The rugged aviator wearing a duster coat gazed up sporting a faded bruise under one eye at the sunlit oculus of an umbrella-shaped rotunda while exiting an expansive neoclassical museum. A docent approached to say his presence was requested by Ms. Ravenscroft, the museum founder's daughter. The historian stared ahead absently. He hadn't seen Angela for years, since he and the prof had a disagreement about the museum.
Northwest entered Angela's office. She wasn't there so he examined her father's panoply of archaeological discoveries neatly presented inside a display case. Upon focusing on the eminent doctor's treasured humidor, Northwest smiled. Professor Ravenscroft proved to be an unreliable narrator concerning this cigar box as the provenance of how he acquired it changed with each telling.
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