This is the start (about 900 words) of what I hope to someday turn into something. It's called The Root Of All Evil, and is essentially about a murderous potato. Although, that doesn't come up in this particular section.
I'm just wondering what your thoughts are so far on style and prose.
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The Root of All Evil
Peel
Tense. Tense, in the sense of tension, was a perfect way to describe that room. Smoke wafted from an unknown source to drift between the arbitrary crates, barrels, and gourds, illuminated by the dull glow of a smug chandelier, set in gold and relatively irrelevant. A dozen or so veiled figures sat on their veiled knees around a small table, which possessed one leg much more vertically challenged than the others. Surrounding it was a heap of broken food wares.
“Does anyone else feel sticky?”
"Sticky?"
“Adhesive or things that have a proponence to attach themselves to other...”
“No, I know what sticky means I just...”
“I didn’t think “proponence” was a word.”
“Of course it’s a word! Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because it wasn’t included in the language!”
“That’s a ridiculous reason for something not to be a word!”
The raucous debate continued for several minutes until a stark man trekked through the din the spirited argument had formed. "Is this a bad time?” he asked, nervously fondling the shovel he had cradled in his arms.
The argument ceased immediately, and a dozen or so cowled heads turned to face him. His grip around the smooth wooden handle tightened, and he began to glance around rapidly, from head to head, unsure of where to look. He began to rock back and forth on his heels, trying to control his rapidly quickening breath. With a ragged sleeve, he swabbed away several beads of sweat that had formed on his brow.
“My name is...” the as of yet nameless man began.
“It is very impolite to speak without making eye contact.” came a very strained crooning, cutting him off abruptly.
He tried in vain to pick out where the sound had come from, but after several seconds of very awkward silence, he began again. “My name is...”
“We know your name!” He was interrupted by yet another anonymous voice. This snappy screech began yet another incredibly uncomfortable silence.
Scratching his head furiously, the man made one more attempt to speak. “I'm here to speak with whoever is in charge, something about...”
“Wait! Stop! Who are you? You can't just barge in here during our discourse! State your name.” Spoke a rather portly robed effigy whilst swirling an empty snifter.
“My name is...”
“We know your name!” crowed the same anonymous voice.
He paused for a moment, and scanned the room, now too confused to be scared. With a great defiant roar of frustration, he announced himself. “My name is Peel! I'm here because you offered me a contract!”
From the darkness came a terrible high pitched gibbering, and out of the shadows leaped a completely nude man, brandishing what looked to be a large frozen trout, or perhaps perch. His shrieks arced through the pungent air and rattled dust from the decrepit rafters above him. Trout, or maybe perch, swinging wildly above his head, the savage raced towards Peel, his bare feet slapping noisily on the red brick floor.
With tremendous speed Peel struck out, his shovel lancing through the air to intercept the swinging fish. The carcass exploded into a cloud of pink mist and flesh. It's savage wielder froze and watched with wonder at the misty cascade of fish oil and blood dancing all around him. Peel used this opportunity to clout him soundly with the flat of his shovel, throwing his limp form unceremoniously to the ground.
Laughing and applauding, one by one the shady figures removed their cowls and looked straight at the victor.
“What was the meaning of that?” Peel demanded, brandishing his ever so lethal farming implement.
The tallest, blondest figure approached the heaving champion, a strained smile twitching all around his mouth. “Well Peel, we've had many applicants for this particular contract, and we needed to see if you were really the right man for the job.”
“So you had a naked man assault me with a trout?”
“No, that was just a lucky coincidence. We're not sure how he got in here. Also I'm fairly sure it was perch.” He paused to raise a hand to his mouth and adjust his crooked smile before beginning again. “Our original plan was to just ask you some personal questions, but this was considerably more entertaining, so the job is yours.”
Peel was stunned. He tried to resist as the figures started to surround and envelop him, but it was futile. He thrashed weakly as they began to usher him out the door, but he simply could not dissuade them.
“Here take this.” A bearded man on his left said while handing him a slip of paper. “There's an address on there. Be there at noon. You'll receive further instruction. Also, that shaggy, unwashed serf look is a little overdone. You'll need to look more dignified for this contract.”
Peel looked down at his tattered, sun bleached tunic, and rubbed his hand through his hair's greasy tangles. “Well, maybe I'll do something about that.”
“We can only hope.”
With that somewhat pessimistic remark, Peel was thrown brusquely into the street. He clenched his fists, and felt a strange emptiness there. His stomach dropped and immediately he began to survey his surroundings. Right away he spotted a ragged young boy, scurrying away with a shovel much too large for his tiny body. Peel began pushing his way through the swirling mass of bodies, trying to reach the sly thieving child. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a woman scream. His pace quickened, the press of the crowd growing ever stronger.
The sun almost directly over him, Peel examined the slip of paper he'd been given.
“Follow the boy.”
