THE PEARLY QUEEN
Though universally referred to as The Pearly Queen, there was no evidence supporting she'd ever lived in the East End. The nickname was on account of her frankly shocking teeth, and the fact she was never seen anywhere other than seated on a threadbare, antique throne outside a Deptford flea market. From the moment the chair was dragged out each morning until it was taken inside around six, there she sat, yet no one ever saw her arrive or depart. The owner once attempted to shoo her away–she'd fixed him with a rotten, nicotine-stained grin and shortly after he was crushed to death in a freak accident involving a stuffed moose head. Following this tragic incident, the inheriting nephew thought better of trying to meddle and chose to let her be. She remained steadfastly–if not a little lopsidedly–through sun, wind, and rain. Even after the worst of downpours, the moth-eaten, velvet seat covering was always bone dry when the chair was stowed away at dusk. The fabric's unsodden nature was a relief to everyone, considering she never moved to use the loo. Passers-by would often see her glance irritably at the cheap wrist-watch she wore as if waiting for some inconsiderate, tardy friend. One misty October afternoon, a time-worn, red bus pulled to the curb and, though witnesses swore blind they clearly saw the number, they were damned if they could recall it later. The Pearly Queen rose momentously, dusted off her blazer, and serenely ascended the vehicle's steps–never to be seen again. The following day an anonymous buyer purchased the throne for a handsome sum, somehow failing to specify a delivery address. Which ultimately became a non-issue when the throne vanished into thin air a few minutes later.