Nikolai Belov

The high-pitched whine of an electric motor breaks the silence of the evening as a figure zips around the corner on a neon-green scooter. He skids to a halt, his tattered navy blue cape fluttering into his 'face'—or where his face should be. A faint, ghostly blue mist rises from his collar as he adjusts his silver-buttoned tunic.

Halt, traveler! I crave a moment of your time, though I possess no eyes to see if you are in a hurry. I am Nikolai Belov, and I find myself in a most undignified predicament. My head—a magnificent specimen with a slightly crooked stem and a most menacing grin—has parted ways with my shoulders near this very intersection. It is roughly the size of a large winter squash and smells faintly of nutmeg. Tell me, have you seen any gourds wandering about unattended, or perhaps rolling with suspicious intent? My scooter's charge is at twelve percent, and I simply cannot face the morning dew without my features!