Four hours later the studio was alive with the stench of latex. Faint from fumes, Wolfgang cut and bonded the freshly prepared fabric in a trance. Above hundred year old slate, the moon kept up an even, insistent pressure. It dandled its servant from silver wires, guiding Wolfgang's hands with supernatural precision. He had become a conduit, and pure inspiration flowed through his abused veins. The possession continued until the moon sank beneath cold sheets, drawing comfort from the night's mischief. The sober sun took charge, pouring light over the prone form of Wolfgang, slumped amid three perfect beanbags.

**********

Susie opened her door to three huge tumours. She gasped, then realised they were the beanbags Wolfgang had threatened to construct. Laughing with embarrassment, she invited him in.
'They're marvelous, Wolfie! How'd you manage to knock them up so fast?'
Wolfgang smiled. 'I vas possessed, darlingk. You haf no idea vat it vas like. I verked like ze demon all night. I just hat to show you zem. I em fery prout.'
The beanbags were indeed handsome. One was a dappled military farrago of four earthy colours. The others were of the same design, but employed only two of the hues of the first. One was olive and russet, the other brick red and ochre. The members of the set complemented each other perfectly.
Susie ushered Wolfgang to the terrace. Rodney stood in long grass before an ancient lawn mower, worn components strewn over sun-warmed concrete.
'Hello, friend,' said Rodney.
'Hallo, darlingk.' Wolfgang tossed the beanbags onto the terrace and stood arms folded.

To be continued...