Three of them

As he looked skyward, a fat sulphuric-tinged orb hit him squarely in the eye. Clive simultaneously resented his desk-bound job that kept him aloof from these elements and internally swore at whoever had contaminated with acid the liquid currently rinsing out his eye. This unscheduled lunch break was becoming more of a trudge than anticipated, veering away from the excuse of "fresh air" and towards aimless moping, of the kind undertaken at work, only with more sweating attached. The rain had started slowly, like the final shakes of a colander, but the grey sky was now teeming with great plodding spheres. His feet vainly sought the scarce dry ground on the muddy path, his eyes rose occasionally to fix his course on the brow of he hill.

The monkey wrench span round, describing a silver arc, gleaming in the garage’s half-light. Ken knew that his own car would never have such attention heaped upon it, there was no EU attention-mountain full of surplus mechanical love due to wranglings in the economy’s control system. Ken much preferred this hypothetical economic interference, debating money supply, as no pile of gold bullion was waiting to be deployed and prove him wrong. Your hands stayed free from oil as well. He skittered out of the path of a wobbling wheel nut, as if it were a 16 wheel juggernaught bearing down on him, and not simply one of the component parts. The light flickered. If this were a horror movie, Ken thought, I might have disappeared when the lights come back on. The grim, sweat-basted scene, men arched round a wheel-axel in temporary dumbfoundment, themselves being watched by a catalogue of women with low self-esteem selloptaped to the walls, re-emerged. Ken was still there.

A couple of window displays barked at Geoff, invading his vision as he strolled along the strip of shop facades in this satellite of warehouses cunningly disguised as shops, as opportunities that seem to orbit all towns. His hands were forcefully rooted in his pockets, fondling the box whose wires shot out and into his ears. A welcome invasion, unlike the shops.

He reached the brow of the hill, realising that he just needed to find the right windmill to tilt at.

He coughed, and when no one responded, quickly slipped out of the garage.

He hummed, whistled and considered shouting. He had decided what he was going to do that day.

William Onyeabor - Better Change Your Mind (from Love's A Real Thing - The Funky Fuzzy Sounds Of West Africa)