Avalon Revamped by O. M. Grey Page B

short, hunched body. She hobbled with the use of a cane to the front of the crowd. “How can one thing cure everything? My son, he’s fuzzy.”
    Murmurings from the crowd.
    “That’s right, he actually has grown fur all over his body, like a cat. Will it cure him?”
    “It will indeed, old woman.”
    “Will it make me feel young again? Walk properly again? Cure my aching bones and my arthritis?” She held-up a clawlike hand. “Will it make me happy?”
    “Yes and yes, good woman. You will be so happy, you will dance. I guarantee it. Here,” the salesman said, opening a bottle. “Try it. On me. If you don’t feel better instantly, I will pack up and no one will ever see me on the streets of London again.”
    “Well….” The woman regarded the man with a suspicious leer. “I guess I ain’t got nuthin’ to lose.”
    She took the dram of snake oil in her curled fingers, then sipped it, grimacing. After a few convulsions, for show, no doubt, the shill shrieked, and then threw off her shawl and scarf, revealing long, brown hair. Her ample-sized, scandalously-displayed bosoms outweighed the rest of her. With nimble leaps and turns, she danced near the Snake Oil Salesman. Although she couldn’t have been much over thirty, her face was an odd mixture of leathery, sun-damaged skin and deep creases, making her appear quite older. A furry eyebrow stretched from one temple to the other. I wouldn’t have recognized the gnome as female, maybe not even human, if it wasn’t for her shapely curves.
    Definitely a spinner, that one.
    “There you have it, folks! Limited supply, please have your shillings at the ready. Only three crowns, folks! Hurry now, supplies won’t last long.”
    “Three crowns!” Avalon exclaimed, ever the advocate for the people. “That’s preposterous!”
    The crowd didn’t agree. Holding out his bowler, the salesman handed each a bottle after their coins clinked in the hat with the others. Before too long, he had sold all but one of his bottles. He stopped and held it up, all while the imp still danced, and said, “Last bottle folks, and I see there are many more here who want this, so who wants it most? Do I hear a quid?”
    “One pound,” a man shouted.
    “I have one quid to the man in the top hat. Very nice hat, sir. Do I hear a guinea?”
    “I’ve got a guinea,” an older woman said, holding up her reticule.
    “One guinea to the lovely lady in blue. Two? Two guineas?”
    And so on, until he had raised an astronomical five pounds for the last bottle, and still the tiny troll danced. Twirling around in wide circles, she danced among the remaining people, bowing with a flourish to each new couple she’d dance near, who in turn appeared quite frightened at the spectacle and scuttled away. Each time she’d dance close to the salesman again, she’d look up at him with such adoration, one would think she worshipped him as god and savior.
    I was not a tall man, I stood well under six feet, which this snake oil salesman was at least. Avalon was just a few inches over five, my petite love, but this harlot was even smaller than that. Well, shorter at least. Barely over four feet, I would say. Close to that of a proper dwarf, but proportionate and solid. If I didn't know better, I would’ve said she was a gypsy, but even gypsies had more class than this one. Quite bizarre. She tossed her long, mousy-brown curls to and fro as she danced, gyrating in the middle of the street, as if to music.
    Suddenly, she belched forth the most offensive sound. It assaulted my ears. Cackling, loud and boisterous, much like a mixture between the braying of an ass and  the sound of the hyena I had seen at the London Zoo. I was utterly appalled to realize it was this irritating creature's laughter.
    I turned to Avalon in shock at such sights and sounds, which could only come from Americans, and she appeared as affronted as I, but always the lady, hid it better than I did.
    Jeffries, with an air of being very