I've also been working on the Uncle Bob Adventures book (out from Blank Slate next year). A collection of stories featuring the 150 year old Bob and his fantastic life. Currently I'm near the end of the Uncle Bob And The Frankenstein Monster chapter.
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In a recent dream, I found myself in a old spit and sawdust tavern. Dark and crowded. A Spanish man sat at one table playing poker with two gypsy women. They were using oversized cards. On the floorboards near the Spaniard's feet was a luger pistol. A forth hand was being dealt to a place at the table where there was an empty stool. I was told, or somehow just knew, that the Spaniard believed that Death himself was sitting on the apparently empty stool. Death was his personal protector, he said to a woman nearby. At one point, during the evening, I realised that I was sitting at a table adjoining the card players, and that the empty stool was at my back. I moved away, fearing death's grip on my shoulder.