The Whizperman

Alain Boulgtain was excited. So excited he was, to the point of bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had seen him, and so urgently wanted to go, right now, and tell about it. It had been up in the western part of town; that ever so grotty district, in the bar where they had screwed all the furniture to the floor, that he first heard of the Whizperman. There had been all sorts of fabulous myths and tall tales. Alain had listened, and nodded in acknowledgement, and let it drift, lazily out of his consciousness. But! There! Just gone by, he had just seen him; his pristine loafers, made of woven paper, his un-patterned,  turquoise, silk shirt fluttering, as light as air, and the yellowed ends of his long beard grasped by a fat gold ring, encrusted with an enormous, glowing ruby, that all swung assuredly, in rhythm with his gait.