I find the word Ironmongers such a ridiculous word, and one that is the absolute opposite of Monfeld. They sound like something lost in the times of Victorians or Edwardians, with oil and grease marks upon the wooden door. They are shops that belong in country villages, not in a faux American behemoth.
Today’s guest definitely had a similar opinion. They are a tagger who walked past the one in Monfeld. I found them on a forum, although I cannot see any social media presence. But I can ask if you have any questions.
The Ironmongers in Monfeld was a total fake. A chain store that tried to hark back to heritage, but ultimately was a chain store filled with junk. Door handles and screws sat next to irons and water pistols. It was a dumping ground rather than somewhere with utility.
It reminded me of boring trips with my parents, and certainly was not on my list of places to tag. I move fast within Monfeld, and the shop should have been a blur on my right hand side.
Everything inside would once have been non-perishable, and useful to someone. This meant the Ironmongers was almost completely cleared out except for some old cardboard boxes, dust, and screws scattered over the floor.
And the pit.
The smell was like pennies boiling in a pot. An overwhelming scent of steam in a kettle full of rotten electronics about to explode. A bubbling vortex filled the middle of the shop, flakes of what looked like rust rolling from the top. Hands reached from inside, their burnt fingers infused with lumps of metal. Their fingernails were horrendous silvers of charcoal.
It was odd. I felt safe on the other side of the glass, and watched the vortex for a long old time. The hands never made it out. Isn’t there something in mythology about iron holding creatures back?
I didn't tag anything that day.
