The Adventure of the Travertine Nose...

Adventurers.... this is the first chapter in the Adventure of the Travertine Nose. The meaning of the title will emerge if the character lives long enough to get you into the heart of story. Consider this a 'Choose Your Own (Sordid) Adventure'. Just follow the serialized story and let me know whether you would choose option A or B...

Part One:
Edinburgh Arrival

The morning you arrive in Edinburgh a damp fog that looks like an oil spill colors the air. Emerging from Waverly Station after a harrowing trans-Atlantic journey and train connection (that seemed more fraught with danger then a turn-of-the-century roller coaster) you gobble the fresh air excitedly. No more wailing children who refuse to be silenced by any quantity of peanuts. No more snoring neighbors on the train who have heard of neither deodorant nor toothpaste. Just you and the morning.

You wobble over the cobblestones, teetering slowly with a hulking suitcase in each fist. As you trundle along in search of your hotel, you suddenly feel the weight of the fog wrapping itself around your jacket like bandages on a mummy. Carelessly, you step out in front of a speeding cab-- forgetting the laws of traffic are reversed. A curt honk startles you out of your droopy daze, and you feel your heart hammering and your skin suddenly alive to the sobering mist. The grizzly smells of sausage links and bacon strips attract you to a corner café. Both locals and tourists stream past like sleepwalking soldiers on their way to work.

‘The Steeple Sweep Café’ you read on the battered sign above the door. Just then a sleepwalking soldier collides with you, spilling his coffee all over your suitcases.
“Buggery bullocks!” he croaks, suddenly waking up. “I’m sorry, lass.”
“No, I’m sorry,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have been standing right in front of the door. I’m so tired I’m not paying attention… ”
“I burnt you, didn’t I? Bugger! Bleeding bugger!” The stranger reaches for your hand and frowns at the splotchy red patch. “Martin,” he grimaces, carefully shaking your hand as soon as he’s concluded his examination.
“Darby,” you reply, trying to shake more robustly.
“Darby. Now, that’s a quite an unusual name.”
“It was my grandfather’s,” you yawn.
“You’re American, aren’t you? Can I at least buy you breakfast, Darby?”

You realize you’re starving after that epic journey and a Full English breakfast sounds just the thing. If you enter the Steeple Sweep Café choose ‘A’

Hungry? You can’t even think of food after seven hours of force-feeding. Not to mention the fact that your arms might actually snap off at the elbows if you don’t get your bags to the hotel soon. You’ve got more pressing things on your mind right now than bangers and blood pudding. Choose ‘B’

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