Jakob Koloman

The next to speak was Jakob Koloman, a medium-size man with tortoise shell spectacles and ratfish ears. He took the dais like a man on fire, his coattails flapping, eyes like coal dust, blacker even. He pulled a scroll-like sheath of paper from his greatcoat pocket, unfurled it and began to read. Ex pluribus menses glorious he said, his eyes rolling back into the crease of his head. Gibb’s and Jacobean, in excelsior Gregorian, was the next thing to come out of his mouth, lips blistered and raw as fish roe. Impetigo alimentary impastation, the world is fraught with pestilence; beware of the cockleshell and buttercup, for they carry the festering fester. Dejesus threw his beret into the air and said, he speaks the truth, dear people, beware the festering fester. The man in the hat, who by this time was bored with the rally, turned and ambled up the sidewalk, hoping that he’d find the wagon-vendor, as he had a hankering for a pretzel, slew with Gibb’s mustard, allspice and shellfish salt.