The toothless Eskimo, last of the penguin herders, grinned his blubbery grin and tapped his pipe against Igbert's wooden leg with rude insouciance. "Seven moons and half a sun," he rasped, grinning unpleasantly again, as if he had just revealed the world's most vulgar secret to a gang of rowdy children
"So next Friday afternoon, then?" Igbert replied. "Just in time for the weekend."
This was the ass-end of the world. Besides the eskimo's igloo, the only buildings were a public library, Starbucks and an elk vet's clinic. It was a white wasteland where endless clouds of ice blew down a single street, ushered along by relentless gales. Above the wind we could hear the baying of miniature wolfpoos; a misbegotten hybrid of poodles and wolves bred by Inuit dog fanciers for the purpose of pulling lumps of whale fat through the snow.
What could Igbert possibly need for the weekend? And why the Hell were we staying for the weekend anyway? It was a question that would force any unemployed insurance underwriter simply along for the ride because he had nothing else going on at the moment to question his very sanity ....
I think this is going to be better than H. P Lovecraft if I ever get around to finishing the story.