On a back road in the city of No Consequence, squished between an assortment of other shops, is a four story brick building.
Floor 1 is home to a mediocre bakery, in which one may pay a small bit of money for large but spectacularly unflavored baked goods. Floor 4 is the abandoned remains of what used to be the mediocre bakery until Margaret, its owner, realized that no one interested in eating giant, uninspiring desserts wanted to climb three flights of stairs to purchase them. Floor 2 has two apartments–one available for rent, and one occupied by a fellow named Graham and his four pet mice. Floor 3 also has two apartments–one a cozily disorganized living space, and the other currently bilging an alarming amount of smoke. Both spaces are owned by a woman whose name neither of her lower-floor neighbors have bothered to learn; but Margaret the baker calls her Smithy. Smithy has never been heard to object.
To be fair, Smithy isn’t generally an objecting sort of person. She couldn’t be, considering the amount of sin, lewdness, and misfortune her work requires her to examine. Smithy, see, is a debauched wordsmith. This is not to say that she’s an unkind wordsmith, or an impolite wordsmith. On the contrary; anyone who decided to follow her day to day life for a while would soon observe that the woman could hold all sorts of doors and smile at a whole nursery’s worth of babies. These sorts of things just don’t provide material for the kind of words Smithy wants to smith. She needs absurdity and smut.
Thankfully, there’s plenty of that sort of material in No Consequence.