58: Fingers

You wake up. You’ve been demolished and rebuilt as some luxury flats while you slept. You begin wandering around some of the penthouses on the upper floors. The person across the table from you eyes you closely and whispers, “I installed the boilers in every part of you,” and as he does so he hauls a hessian bag up, tipping its contents onto the table, various tubing, nuts, bolts and some loose flames which sizzle away on the damp surface amongst the rest that skate over the top, some rattling on to the floor. “I see you walking like Lord Everything’s Magical,” he grizzles, as notes fly from the cash machine in the wall of your bank. You begin combing through the pile with your top of the range box apartments where there used to be something you called fingers. An Alsatian at one of the cubby hole windows watches as you insert the missing elements in all the boilers marked with an x.