*Wrong zodiac, Clicky… May ’67 would make me a ‘Fire Sheep‘…*
I guess this post should start with a Twitter DM convo with Poppy SweetPea, who gave me a story idea for ‘The Underdog Anthology 2: “Rise!” *…/SOBs…*‘…
The Easter edition won’t have a subtitle, that’s just my own fancy. Like I had for the first…
Anyhoo, I hadn’t given any more thought to Poppy’s ‘Killer Sheep’ suggestion until I read a comment by Elena yesterday evening, over in the Red Universe…
The day was enthusiastically celebrated among the common people with picnics, drinking, and revelry. One source from late antiquity also places the Mamuralia on the Ides of March. This observance, which has aspects of scapegoat or ancient Greek pharmakos ritual, involved beating an old man dressed in animal skins and perhaps driving him from the city. The ritual may have been a new year festival representing the expulsion of the old year.
Hmm, I thought, I’ve just seen a chap matching that description…
And read elsewhere about his possible scapegoating…
The Deep State’s next move is to pin the coming stock market collapse on Trump. When people think “Greater Depression,” they’ll think “Donald Trump.”
This morning, Frank Davis of the Blue Universe was ‘reflecting‘ on a smoking and drinking politician, the first from the UK to meet with the Prez (then elect)…
“I was especially pleased at his very positive reaction to the idea that Sir Winston Churchill’s bust should be put back in the Oval Office.”
Then to my surprise, I was advised to ‘Chill Winston’ by one of my favourite trolls in the Yellow Universe today
‘So soon?’, I hear you ask, closely followed by ‘Why?’
Ah, all will be revealed. I have received a gift, for sending a gift…
Together with the latest missive from The Okie Devil in Texas, see below…
*Ah, Clicky… /rubs snout… that was very nice of Cade and Jen… /listens quietly… No, you can’t have a pocket knife… /shakes head… You’re a dolphin, you don’t have pockets…*
*******
Since I have decided to write new stuff today, I figured I better get started.
Nothing inspires innovation like competition.
Without competition? Competitive Innovation is simply…innovation.
Prolly not even that innovative.
Buncha fucking worthless hacks.
Afraid of a little competition.
I’m alone and not competing with anyone, so my bullshit is neither competitive nor innovative.
I’m prolly just jerking-off.
Srsly.
I prolly am.
^Modestep – Another Day (Ft. Popeska) (xKore Remix) (Official Video)^
Now some of you who may have never read any of “my” bullshit before, may be asking yourself…
“Dude! What’s with all of these definitions and bullshit like that?”
I dunno.
Find any of it interesting?
It’s all connected.
Srsly…it is.
^Deadmau5 – Mr G^
My statement there might prompt someone to say something like…
“It’s not ALL connected. Not like YOU mean it.”
Really? Lemme ask you something then…
“What did you tear apart to ‘disconnect” that something that is not connected?”
Or was it like that when you found it?
Where did you find it?
Was it connected then?
Kinda like picking up a grain of sand from a beach somewhere, then taking that grain of sand somewhere far away, and putting it somewhere else entirely.
Do you really think that grain of sand is no longer connected to it’s origin just as much as it is now also connected to it’s destination?
What’s the connection?
Well…what did you omit?
HINT: You.
Yep. Shit is connected in the damnedest of ways.
If you look for something, you WILL find it.
^REZZ – Methodology^
Seeing as this is my 8th posting over here at TeH LoL, or I think it is anyway, I thought something special would be in order. Not really, I just thought of it. But now that I have thought of it, I’m gonna have to REALLY think about it, because the bag is out of the cat…so to speak. The horse is in the pasture, and the cart is in the barn, and SOMEONE…I don’t care who…has GOT to get that bag back into that cat. Damned if I’m gonna do it. You have no idea how hard it was to get that bag inside the cat so I could let it out the first time. Plus, the horse don’t like to be reined when they are out grazing and haven’t finished their dinner yet. We’d have to take the cart to the horse. And what in the fuck are gonna do if we get the cart up to the horse, and the horse takes off running? We gonna chase it? We gonna get pissed off and shoot it? Either way, that return trip dragging the cart back to the barn is gonna be a BITCH after all the goings on. Maybe we should just put the cart out to pasture and leave the horse in the barn next time. Prolly find that cat sleeping on top of the bag in the back of the cart.
Q: Does thinking in “warped channels” such as this inspire some to “warp the warped” even further?
A: Anyone reallywanna take a stab at this?
See how that works. Something becomes a part of the common vernacular, and the next thing you know? Yeah…GLOBAL…THERMONUCLEAR…WAR!!!
It’s the only option.
I can’t see any other way.
Can you?
^Adam Beyer – Open Up – Drumcode – DC128^
So earlier today, I made a comment on my previous post that was dealing with legal and legality. Especially with respect to applicability. Maybe if you think about “cops not prosecuting other cops” and other types of concepts like that which are fairly widely well-known…we can go from there.
“We The People”…own the country in it’s totality, and we are free to purchase a chunk of it for ourselves from ourselves at our own peril. Which means we’re gonna have to start seriously thinking about this “growth” business. We can take that to all kinds of places…from moles and warts to mergers and acquisitions. Not that there is any connection there or anything. Cause now all of a sudden…fucking EVERYTHING is punitive. And I do mean everything. Up to, and including, punitive fucking you. And not in a good way. So I guess we are going to have to think about and/or talk about…meaning. Or I guess we do. If we’re gonna talk about meaning, that means we need to talk about intent. And if we are gonna talk about meaning and intent, that means we are going to have to start talking about why we are talking at all…so that means reason. So to recap…
Meaning…
Intent…
and…
Reason.
I hope we have a good reason for this. Otherwise, the meaning may get lost in the intent.
I guess that would be…what it all meant.
So yeah…we’re right back to time.
Just in time.
WHEW!!!
That was a close one eh?
Prolly a legal precedent in there somewhere.
LET’S FIND IT!!!
I wonder how much it would cost me to get a “Certified Physicist Card” on the black market? OH YEAH!!! I forgot…you gotta go to college/university, and you can get an “official” certified physicist card. Just be careful which school you go to. Some colleges/universities are “more certified”..than others. Plus, if you EVER cheated on ANYTHING at…fucking ALL, doesn’t that kinda…nullify the result?
Just askin.
^Dyno – Vera – Hell Yeah^
Now that the holidays are over…I just gotta ask…
Q: Get anything good?
A: ?¿?
A trip to the hospital and some stitches maybe?
I hereby declare War on Scars.
I will be your Scar Czar.
Sounds creepy…eh?
^Crookers – What up Y’all^
I was cruising the the various synchrowhatever blogs today, and noticed that someone asked the question…
“Where were you at midnight on January 1, 2017?”
My initial reaction was…”WAIT DUMMY!!! Midnight on January 1? That was last night…right?”
But as I thought about it, I remembered that I had been thinking about night and day with respect to the rise and fall of the sun over the last few days. This time of year where I am, the sun is WAY the fuck south of me, and it’s really odd in the morning when it comes up, and it’s really odd in the evening when it goes down. It travels on this parabolic arc that almost resembles an EKG type sinus rhythm type of movement…it kinda slides across the sky, then pops up for a ways, then pops back down, only to slide back down below the horizon. It makes for some absolutely fabulous sunrises and sunsets. As a matter of fact, some mornings…it’s hard to differentiate the difference between the two unless you are familiar with direction relative to your location and your location relative to your location relative to you, and when you are where you are when you are. It may sound like I am intentionally trying to be either clever or confusing or both there. But I’m not. It makes sense in my head, because everything is always moving…even when you aren’t.
So to make a long story longer…irrespective of when the day starts/stops or whatever relative to the clock? Irrespective of the date, whether it was December 31st, or January 1st, or January 2nd…I was asleep. If I’m asleep…I don’t give a shit where I am. I’M ASLEEP!!! I care more about when I am than where I am.
^Caravan Palace – Dramophone^
WOAH NELLY!!! We have a question from the Whatever However HOTLINE!!!
The first one I’ve gotten since posting my shiznit here at TeH LoL!!!
Not really. I actually got one the other day…but I forgot about it, and I can’t remember what it was. /me shrugs
Q: Cade, how long are you gonna make this fucking post?!?!?!?
A: I dunno. How ever long it is. I figure that learning has no limits. From there, we are limited by our limits with respect to sharing what we have learned, how, and with whom. I just start writing when the urge strikes, and stop when the urge strikes. It’s pretty simple really. The writing part is the easy part. Finding images and songs and inspiration and whatnot? Meh…sometimes a little challenging. Because ALL of these things inspire me. The music is usually an ambient distraction that encourages me to keep listening/keep writing. The images? I see things. Most of the time, prolly the same shit you see. I just try and blend some cool music and cool images with my shitty writing, and figure it all balances out in the end. And the best part? YOU get to decide what that “balance” is…not me. I just work here. 😉
^Moby – Bodyrock (Hybrid’s Bodyshock Remix)^
Do you like it when someone tells you to stop doing what you are doing?
I didn’t think so.
Do you like it when someone tells you that you are doing too much of what you are doing which is something that you enjoy doing?
I didn’t think so.
Do you like it when someone tells you to start doing what you aren’t doing?
That’s what I thought.
Do you like it when someone tells you that you aren’t doing enough of what you aren’t doing enough of which is something that you do not enjoy doing?
That’s what I thought.
Do you like when someone does something that told you that whatever it was that you did or did not doing wasn’t done cause like…it wasn’t fun…or maybe it was…wait…what in the FUCK was I talking about and/or where was I going with this shit?
Any thoughts?
No?
I didn’t think so.
^Slander & YOOKiE – After All (ft. Jinzo) (Habstrakt Remix)^
Time can be confusing when you rely on “the clock” and the clock alone. Cause it seems like everything after that? The clock is only relative to a reference that is based on everything EXCEPT time, all under the auspices on how much time it took to do the whatever it was/is that you are/were doing. It’s kinda like your past. Not “the” past…your past. Because it is your past. Yours all yours. It’s as responsible for you as you are, as you are, where and when you are…good and bad and whatever…it’s what has coalesced to make you you. And it will continue to do so. Hell, you could prolly repurpose a nuclear weapon to give radical haircuts and bitchin sun tans that do no more damage than that which a radical haircut can do in some certain situations. All we gotta do is get someone smart on it. Thinking a bit contextually about firearms…it’s really not that hard to do. Especially if you always and forever, think of firearms as a weapon or as weapons. Because that’s what they are, and that’s what they do, and that’s what they were designed to do and/or can do…kill. Even if you are just killing the living shit out of a paper target at a firing range, all while killing the shit out of your free time and financial reserves. Guns/Firearms are expensive in many ways. I dunno. Maybe some day, there will be no more of them because there will no longer be a need. I know that I don’t own any, but I have. And the only time that I would ever contemplate trying to take a firearm away from someone, is if they had one of the damn things shoved right in my face. No wonder “gun nuts” are always like…”Want My Guns? Come And Get Em'”…not that I blame them. You can’t legislate a person or their behavior. But a person can do that themselves for themselves. I guess…freedom might just be free after all.
I wonder how some of these large organizations would like it if all of their data was taken away from them? I wonder who made THAT decision? I guess it just kinda makes me wonder as to when proprietary data becomes proprietary. Cause when it comes to ownership, I think prolly some may be more owned than others. Maybe even not owned at all…because it’s owned by all. Kind of a many to many kinda relational database type ownership kinda thingie or something like that. You know…a developer’s worst nightmare. Many to many relationships are…difficult. Not impossible…just…difficult.
So much for “the private sector” being the end all be all answer to everyfuckingthing eh?
Sit back and enjoy, Dear Reader, the conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’ 😀
*******
Josie lived in the opposite direction to me, but I didn’t care. As the taxi pulled up outside I could see she lived in a block of flats. I paid the driver, remembering to get a receipt of course, and made my way to the entrance. I pressed the button for her flat.
The intercom burped into life. “Hello?” sputtered a tinny voice.
“Hello, Josie? It’s Harriet from work. I’ve got your Secret Santa gift here. Can I deliver it?”
There was a pause before she replied, “Oh, Okay. I’ll buzz you in.” The intercom gave a mournful wail and the front door clicked. I pushed it open and entered.
Josie lived on the second floor. The building didn’t have a lift, so I was slightly breathless by the time I’d climbed four flights of stairs, carrying a gift that seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I found her waiting for me, stood in front of her open door. Like a pink Venus she rose in my field of vision: first fluffy socks, rolled to the ankle, followed by shapely naked legs, topped by tight shorts with added camel toe crevice, completed by a cropped tee-shirt that emphasised her toffee smooth midriff and perfectly rounded breasts. The sight took away my remaining breath and left me feeling faint and weak at the knees.
“Oh my god, that’s huge!” Josie cried, making her way forward to help me. “Gosh, are you alright, Harry? You’re white as a sheet. Do you want to come in and have a drink?”
I took a long, deep breath and nodded. The universe seemed to have relented and fortune was now smiling on me. I followed her into her flat, doing my best to hide the grin on my face. “Where do you want me to put it?” I asked her. “The present, I mean…” I added slyly.
Josie giggled at my double entendre. “Oh, anywhere in there will do.” She pointed in the direction of the living room, then closed the front door behind us.
I placed the box on the living room floor and looked around. A half full bottle of wine and empty glass sat on the coffee table. Her TV was mounted on the wall and playing some festive Hollywood crap. The volume was turned down, sparing me from having to listen to its seasonally cheerful inanities.
“We didn’t want you to miss out on your secret Santa gift,” I said shrugging off my coat. Josie took it and my handbag then disappeared back into the hall.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” Josie called. “Was it a good night? I got home from work to find the washing machine had flooded. By the time I’d cleared it up I really wasn’t in the mood for socialising.”
“That’s understandable. It was alright. I’ve had better,” I called back getting comfy on the sofa. This one is already starting to get better, I thought picking up the wine bottle and studying the label. Shiraz, my favourite.
Josie returned carrying another wine glass and I filled both from the bottle. “Cheers, Harry! Merry Christmas!” she said chinking my glass.
I took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. “Mmm, nice. Merry Christmas, Josie. Are you going to open your present?”
Josie gave a girlish squeal and sat down cross legged in front of her wrapped box in one graceful, fluid movement. The elasticated fabric of her shorts stretched, barely managing to cover the modesty of her plump but righteous arse cheeks. She pulled her hair back from her face and let it hang over one shoulder.
Just as earlier in the evening, I could feel the blood pump furiously through my veins, only this time it was directed to a completely different area of my body. “Josie, can I use your bathroom,” I asked.
“Sure, it’s the door on the left before the bedroom,” she said as her hands caressed the smooth and shiny wrapping paper.
The bathroom was pink – obviously her favourite colour – and smelt of roses. I peed and washed my hands, then splashed water over my already moist pussy and gave it a rub with a fluffy pink towel hanging next to the sink. No harm freshening it up just in case, I thought. I checked my teeth in the mirror for any untoward particles of Christmas dinner and stuck out my tongue – stained red from wine but not furry. Good.
When I returned, I found wrapping paper and cardboard discarded on the floor, but Josie herself was nowhere to be seen. I retraced my steps and found her in the kitchen, bent over her microwave and displaying even more of those sweet arse cheeks of hers.
“What are you cooking?” I asked once I’d drank my fill.
She rushed over and gave me a hug, encircling me with her slender arms and pressing her breasts against me. I felt hard nipples push into my skin and gave a silent pray to Jesus for the invention of chocolate.
“Harry! Oh my god I can’t believe someone bought me a chocolate fountain. Chocolate is so much fun!”
The contraption I’d bought her sat on the kitchen table, plugged in but empty, its shiny tiers waiting to be filled. I breathed in the vanilla scent of her luxurious hair as I hugged her back, gently rubbing my own throbbing breasts against hers. “Ooh, a chocolate fountain!” I exclaimed. “Lucky you!”
The microwave pinged and Josie turned away, opened the door, and removed a bag of melted chocolate with her fingertips. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she snipped the corner off and poured a stream of warm chocolate into the fountain’s bottom tier.
“I’ve always wanted one of these,” she said as she threw me a smile and switched the machine on. After a few seconds, a flood of chocolate gushed up through the top tier and cascaded down smoothly, enveloping the tiers below.
“Now that is a thing of beauty,” I said admiringly.
“Yes it is,” Josie replied and stuck her finger into the rich stream of chocolate. She pulled it out and put it in her mouth, sucking hard. Her elfin features contorted with pleasure. “Oh my god, Harry, you’ve got to try this!” she said invitingly.
Tentatively, I approached the gently humming machine. Encouraged by her ecstatic gasps of pleasure, I decided to make my move. I poked two fingers into the silky, warm stream, cooing at the sensation. I pulled them out and sucked on my index finger, holding the middle finger out to Josie, my other hand poised beneath to catch the drips. “Mmm… more?”
To my amazement, she took my dribbling middle finger in her mouth and sucked hard. I could feel her tongue lap at the sweet gloop and marvelled at the innocent look of pleasure on her face as she sucked the chocolate off. With our lips just inches apart, I reached up with my free hand and gently stroked the underside of her chin.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?”
Looming in the doorway of the kitchen stood Alfie. Josie and I both jumped. Me guiltily.
“Alfie. I didn’t hear you come in. What you doing home so early?” Josie asked her hulking boyfriend. Up close, the Easter Island resemblance was uncanny: he looked rock hard, menace etched into his face.
“WHO THE FUCK IS THIS BITCH?” he demanded of Josie, who flushed. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING?”
Shit! I thought, I need to get out fast and in one piece.
“I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m Harriet from work. I’ve just dropped Josie’s Secret…” I started to tell him before he shut me up with a stinging slap with the back of his hand. I felt my incisors rip through my bottom lip as my head rocked back. Blood sprayed out across the pristine white tee-shirt that covered his chiseled pecs.
“YOU TRYING TO GET IN MY GIRLFRIEND’S KNICKERS, YOU DIRTY FUCKING LESBO?” he screamed at me.
I felt warm blood fill my mouth and mingle with the residual taste of chocolate. I held my hand up to my face and cringed. “My mowff…” I spluttered.
“No Alfie!” Josie explained, “Harry’s just a work colleague.”
“THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FOR?” he yelled, pulling my ‘Big Boy’ butt plug Secret Santa gift from behind his back. I’d put it in my handbag, but it must have fallen out. “WERE YOU GONNA RAM IT UP HER ARSE, YOU FILTHY CUNT?”
Josie looked at me aghast. “Harry?”
“No, I can eshplain…” I started to say but didn’t get the chance. Alfie’s meaty hand grabbed the back of my neck and spun me round, pushing me face first into the chocolate fountain. I felt the warm chocolate flood over my eyes and nose.
As my nostrils and mouth filled with molten sweetness, I could hear Josie yell and plead with her boyfriend: “Stop it Alfie! It’s Secret Santa. Stop it, please!”
My final thought before passing out was Jesus! Death by chocolate. This is no fun at all…
*******
*/sigh… I wrote it for the Christmas Underdog Anthology, Clicky. It’s not supposed to have a happy ending, for goodness sakes… /rolls eyes…*
Well, Dear Reader, I hope you’ve enjoyed my first Christmas tale at the LoL. If you liked this story, I have others in The Underdog Anthology… Although, to be brutally honest, the other authors’ contributions in it are so much better than mine 😉
Dear Reader, at last it is Friday and the day the F A Kontrell office Christmas shindig. In this two-post conclusion to my Christmas tale, we’ll find out if Harry’s devious machinations to woo the fragrant Josie actually bear fruit…
*/rolls eyes… Way too much, Clicky… Come on, just relax, put your fins up and let me tell the story…*
So, for your pleasure, the fourth installment of ‘Secret Santa’ in three, two, one…
*******
Friday evening seemed to take forever to roll around, but at last I found myself, suitable attired in sartorial elegance, at the pub the Fat Kontroller had selected to host the evening’s events. He’d hired the dining room, but most of us were gathered at the festively decorated bar while we waited for the stragglers to arrive. The pub was called The Exchange, a converted bank, with high vaulted ceiling and polished wooden floors. The Secret Santa gifts had been transferred from the office by Shazza – who else? – and were piled up in the dining room. The heap of presents was dominated by one conspicuously large parcel with a gift tag that read ‘To the gorgeous Josie, with lots of love from your Secret Santa xxx’.
Unfortunately, the object of my affections turned out to be one of the stragglers and was nowhere to be seen. I lounged against the bar with one eye on the door and the other on my watch while I swigged my drink, trusting the alcohol to sedate the butterflies that had congregated in my gut. Around me, my colleagues made small talk about work and gossiped about the latest office romances. The former was tedious beyond belief, so I tuned in on the latter just in case I heard Josie’s name mentioned. Or my own for that matter. Damn! I thought. Where the fuck is she?
A stream of cold wind blew in as the door opened and everyone looked up expectantly. The Fat Kontroller stood in the doorway, beaming and looking natty in DJ and bow tie. The man loved to make an entrance. I caught the barmaid’s eye and ordered a double scotch, his favourite tipple. It arrived just as he reached the bar.
“Harry! Is that for me?” he asked and downed the drink before waiting for an answer. He smiled at the barmaid and indicated for another. “Splendid! Let’s get this party started!”
“Oh, are we all here then?” I said as nonchalantly as I could. We were most definitely not all here; Josie had still not arrived.
He finished the second drink and looked around. Shazza appeared as if by magic and hovered at his elbow.
“HR Josie called, Mr Kontrell,” she said with a glance in my direction. “She can’t make it tonight. Her washing machine has flooded or something.” On hearing the news, the butterflies in my stomach instantly disappeared, leaving a hollow as cavernous as the pub we stood in.
The Fat Kontroller frowned at the news. “Oh, that’s a shame. She’ll miss a cracking evening,” he said, then shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, can’t be helped I suppose. Come on Sharon, lead the way,” he said as he grabbed her fleshy bare shoulders and steered her toward the dining room.
I followed them through the crowd with leaden legs. When I reached the dining table I discovered that the seating plan had placed Josie in the seat next to mine. It felt as if the universe itself was conspiring to rub salt in my wounds. Shit! Fuck! Bollocks!
The seasonal set meal tasted like ash in my mouth as it progressed through starter, mains and dessert. I tried to look interested as the conversation swirled around me, but all I could think about was the empty seat beside me. Eventually, after coffee and petite fours had been served, the Fat Kontroller stood up and announced the start of the Secret Santa gift-giving ritual. Shazza served as his assistant: she passing him the gifts and him calling out the names. One by one we trooped up to collect them.
Eventually, he got to me. It was inevitable really. “Harry! Where’s my PA? Harriet!”
I scraped my chair back and wandered up to the top table. The Fat Kontroller was holding a gift. Not a voucher-shaped envelope that I was expecting, but a rectangular box wrapped in shiny silver paper and curly blue ribbon.
“Harry,” he beamed, handing it over, “this is for you.”
I was dumbstruck. Somebody had bought me a proper gift. “Thank you,” I said, turning it over in my hands.
“Well open it then,” Shazza urged excitedly. “I love shecret Shanta pressies,” she slurred.
“Quite sure you’ve had enough wine, Shazza?”
“Nearly,” she hiccuped and giggled into her hand. “Go on open it.”
I pulled at the tight ribbon and eased it off. Something inside the box rattled. Fuck! Somebody actually bought me a present, I thought as I started to rip off the paper. And then I saw what it was and my face fell.
“OH MY GOD!” Shazza shrieked with barely contained glee. “SECRET SANTA GAVE HARRY A BUTT PLUG!!!”
The room fell silent for a moment, and then the laughter began, triggered by a booming guffaw from the Fat Kontroller. All the blood in me seemed to leave my limbs, rush to my face, and combust there. I looked up into the Fat Kontroller’s eyes. They twinkled with mirth, unlike Shazza’s which glowed with something else altogether.
“Somebody must think you’re a pain in the arse, Harry,” she said coolly before joining in the merriment with exaggerated howls or laughter.
She set me up… the fucking bitch!!!
Slowly, I turned toward the room and held the ‘Big Boy’ butt plug for all to see. “Thank you. Thank you, Secret Santa. If I ever find out who you are, I’ll know exactly where to put this,” I shouted.
I walked back to my seat, still holding it aloft, like a prize fighter displaying a glittering belt. This elicited further laughs and a round of applause, which slightly mitigated the fucking disaster the evening had turned into. I sat down and pointedly read the packaging before putting it in my handbag. I downed my drink and wondered how long I had to stay before getting the fuck out of there.
Not long as it turned out. Once the Secret Santa ritual was out of the way, those with babysitters to relieve began to make their excuses. It was the only perk of having children that I could see, so decided to slip out with them in the rush for the door. I rang for a taxi and started to gather my coat and bag.
“Harry!” the Fat Kontroller called and beckoned me over. Thankfully, Shazza was nowhere to be seen. If there was any justice in the world then I hoped she’d laughed herself sick and was puking her ring up in the toilets. “Leaving already, are we?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m driving up to mum and dad’s tomorrow,” I lied, “early start, you know.”
The Fat Kontroller looked at me kindly. “You handled that very well, Harry. That was very naughty of somebody. Are you getting a taxi?”
“Yeah, it’s on it’s way.”
“Here,” he said pulling fifty pounds from his wallet. “Shazza!” he boomed and mouthed the word ‘receipt’ to me.
Shazza appeared from thin air again, still grinning at her prank. She was obviously not the complete air-head I’d supposed her to be. “Yes Mr Kontrell?”
“You know where Josie lives. What’s the address of our missing HR manager? Harry here is going to drop her secret Santa gift off on the way home, aren’t you Harry?” His eyes twinkled.
“Yes,” I informed Shazza slowly, following his cue. “I’ll take HR Josie’s gift to her and tell her all about it. Let her know exactly what she missed this evening.”
Was that a gulp from Shazza? I hoped so, but I was too excited at the opportunity that had suddenly presented itself. I would get to see Josie and give her my gift. I might even get a cup of coffee for my troubles. I played it cool and strode off to collect Josie’s superbly wrapped gift, whilst the Fat Kontroller handed Shazza his pen and a discarded cracker joke so that she could write the address down.
We bade farewell, wishing each other a happy Christmas, and then I left to wait for my taxi…
*******
Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’, which follows on in just a bit…
*/lights up fag and waits nervously… You know, Clicky, if this was on telly there’d be adverts now… /drags… Perhaps I should mention The Underdog Anthology and Cultish… /blows smoke… What do you think?*
Er, I sat hear… smoking *…/takes drag* …Thinking about how to start this post, Dear Reader…
*’Amendment’? Yeah… ‘Morals and manners’? Most Definitely… ‘Accentuation’? …/wipes tear from eye… Doubly definitely, Clicky… ‘The self-satisfied’? I dunno about that, but I laughed like a drain…*
… I started reading it back in June when Hugo confessed to me that a short story he’d written for The Underdog Anthology, had grown into something somewhat bigger…
*/lights another smoke…*
…I jumped at the chance to read it – I was struggling to write my own story contributions (writing horror fiction doesn’t come naturally to me)…
*/taps off ash…*
… What I read, blew me away. I mean, I knew he could write, but what he’d written was incredibly sharp…
*/drags some more…*
… Mind you, it needed some copy editing, so I offered to do that for him…
… For the next month, Hugo sent me his output daily, sometimes twice, three times daily…
*/stubs out butt… Yes, yes I am Clicky…*
… and I corrected typos, made some suggestions (not always taken but always considered) and generally helped my friend Hugo birth his first novel…
*/lights up… Too fucking right, Clicky…*
… Hugo then sent his completed manuscript of ‘Cultish’ to my friend Leggy, to see if he would consider publishing it…
*/take puff and rests cigarette in ashtray… You know what Clicky, I’m so happy to have been able to help my two online chums in their budding ventures, I fancy having a little dance…*
*Nice! …/retrieves fag and resumes smoking…*
So, Dear Reader, I strongly suggest you get your hands on a copy of ‘Cultish’ by Hugo Stone… It’s ridiculously funny… It really, really is… And have a Song…
*That’s not me, Clicky… Um… /pulls face… similar hair but knot me…*
My eyes lit up upon seeing the three copies of the book I’d ask Leggy for as part payment for my story contributions, but there was something else in the parcel that made my mouth water as well…
*******
Digression for any Yanks looking in – what I’m about to describe is probably more familiar to you as ‘cookies’, and is pronounced…
*Hmm… well only some of them will pronounce it that particular manner, Clicky…*
biscuit (n.) respelled early 19c. from bisket (16c.), ultimately (besquite, early 14c.) from Old French bescuit (12c.), literally “twice cooked;” altered under influence of cognate Old Italian biscotto, both from Medieval Latin biscoctum, from Latin (panis) bis coctus “(bread) twice-baked;” see bis- + cook (v.). U.S. sense of “soft bun” is recorded from 1818.
*/holds up hand… They should only be limp after you’ve dipped them, Clicky…*
*Well, Hobnobs are notoriously difficult dunkers to debunk… /squints… And don’t you dare move onto Jaffa Cakes… This digression is over, Clicky… Capisce?*
*******
I knew they were coming; I’d been teased with photos of them a couple of days before…
Poppy Sweetpea’s chocolate chip cookies (OK I said ‘cookie’…
Poppy Sweetpea’s whole almond Jew cakes, sprinkled in cinnamon and sugar (OK, not really cakes…)
Poppysweet Pea’s cocoa and orange snails and German nougat and hazelnut ovals
Poppy Sweet Pea’s chocolate orange wedges
Poppy Sweetpea’s Penguin and Hedgehogs made of vanilla and almonds
But there is nothing like snapping the lid off a tupperware box and breathing in the waft of homemade biscuity goodness, escaping from inside…
*/huffs… Yeah!*
Of course I sampled one of each of Poppy Sweet Pea’s delightful creations straightaway, Dear Reader – completely delish! – but then stupidly left the remainder in the box, in the kitchen. Yes, the Kit Chinwag room. How the fuck could I forget where Thing 2‘s first port of call upon arrival from school is? It was a massacre…
So, to the wonderful Poppy Sweet Pea, with thanks from Kid Biskit, one of his all time favourite tunes…
Erm… as it turns out, I’m now going to be quite busy tomorrow. So, Dear Reader, here is the second installment of ‘Secret Santa‘ today. Enjoy!
*******
Unexpectedly, Josie called me the next day. She said she wanted a ‘quiet word’, and all I could do was imagine her hot breath in my ear. We agreed to rendezvous in the empty conference room, so I took the opportunity to visit the bathroom en route. Just to freshen up, adjust my underwear, that sort of thing.
She was already there when I arrived, sitting at the head of the table. Her long legs were crossed and her business skirt had ridden up to expose smooth, tanned thigh. She must use an all over sunbed because her tight-fitting, white blouse contrasted nicely with the colour of her caramel cleavage, making the most of her small but perky tits.
“Thank you for coming to speak with me, Harry. I realise you’re very busy.” She waited until I’d closed the door and sat down before continuing. “I need to speak to you about Shazza.”
“Sharon on reception?” I asked with an innocent face.
“Yes. I’m afraid she’s made a complaint against you. Apparently you were very rude to her yesterday.” Josie’s tone and steady gaze was meant to impart the seriousness of the situation. It just made me want to cover her plump lips with my own even more.
“Josie…I don’t know what to say. I’m…Is this about Secret Santa? I know I was a bit short with Shazza, but I was extremely busy at the time finalising our bid for the Clovis account. So this…is this an official complaint?” I enquired, feigning immense concern. Little Shazza’s had the nerve to make a complaint? That’ll be the day.
Josie looked flustered at my reply. A splash of humility can work wonders when you have as prickly a reputation as mine. “Er, no. Not an official complaint per se, but she mentioned the incident to me in private conversation. I thought I should have a word. I could see she was very upset.”
Not an official complaint, then? Interesting. “Let me assure you, Josie, that I’ll apologise to Shazza at the earliest possible opportunity.” I reached over and covered her delicate but beautifully tanned hand with my own and let it rest there.
“Look, I realise I can come off as a bit abrupt but I have a very stressful job. I’ll try to be a little more conciliatory in the future.”
She looked relieved. “Thank you, Harry. I realise Mr Kontrell can be a very demanding boss…”
I didn’t let her finish. “Josie, you’ve only been with F A Kontrell for, what, a couple of months now? We’re an expanding business, so one should expect there to be a little pain.” Time for a little self deprecation. “That would be me,” I said with a cutesy finger wave.
Her giggle was delightful. So was the way she used her free hand to push a lock of shiny, black hair that had fallen across her face, back over her ear. Her other hand was still trapped beneath my own and she seemed in no particular hurry to retrieve it. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair.
“So, how are you finding it here? Are you glad you joined us?” I asked with a rare smile.
Josie smiled back. “Yes. Everybody is very nice and, like you say, it is very busy.”
“Yes,” I replied as I sat back and crossed my legs. “It’ll soon be the 23rd and then we can enjoy Christmas.”
Josie recrossed her own legs, flashing some deliciously tanned inside thigh. An idea came to me.
“Actually, I’m not really fond of the Secret Santa tradition. I never know what to get the person,” I sighed.
“Oh, well who have you got to buy for?” she asked.
I gave her a look of bemused befuddlement. “I can’t tell you that, it’s a secret.”
She frowned and thought for a moment, pulling her shoulders back just enough for me to see a hint of lacy bra, as the buttons on her blouse gaped.
“Without some idea of who it’s for… gift vouchers?” She offered apologetically.
I grimaced. “Oh god no, I get those every year.”
“You poor thing, that’s so boring.” Josie’s hand, the one I’d been touching, moved toward me.
“Maybe you can help me,” I mused, shifting my weight forward. I lent my elbows on the table and leaned in conspiritorially toward her. “You may have noticed the office here is predominantly female. Now I won’t confirm it’s a woman I have to buy a gift for but it’s a strong possibility. I’d like to get something more…personal,” I confided in a hushed tone.
“Aw, that’s really sweet,” she replied, leaning in closer and cocking her head to one side. “How about perfume? That’s personal and functional.”
“Perfume?” I appeared to weigh up the idea. “I don’t know, I like that idea but I wouldn’t know one perfume from another without asking first, and that would give the game away. I think I’d like to get this person something fun.”
“Chocolates,” she offered emphatically.
“Er, chocolates are fun?”
“You can never have too much fun with chocolate,” Josie replied with a wink.
Saucy minx! “Well, you’re lucky in that you have a lovely physique, Josie. Not everyone is as blessed as you,” I countered.
She blushed. Dear sweet Josie, I could have eaten her up right there and then.
“Okay then,” she continued, “it has to be personal, functional and definitely fun… although not chocolates or perfume.”
“How exactly are chocolates functional?” I asked with a quizzical lift of my eyebrows.
“Er, to have fun.”
“Right, I will remember that,” I replied with a low chuckle. “Personal, functional, fun…chocolate is optional. You’ve been a great help, Josie. Thank you.”
She stood up and I allowed my eyes to wander over her body for a moment, admiring the way her hipbones thrust forward and accentuated the tautness of her flat tummy. She could have been a model. She should have been a model. It’s not often an angel crosses your path.
“And you’ll apologise to Shazza?”
Would I fuck! “Of course. Consider it done.”
We left the room together. I held the door open with one hand, cradling the small of her back with the other as I ushered her out before me. She was a honey all right and I knew exactly what Secret Santa would be giving her this Christmas…
*******
Part three will be along at the start of next week, Dear Reader. Until then, have a Song…
*Ha! Good choice, Clicky… /thinks… this would be an ideal opportunity to remind Dear Reader they can get a copy of The Underdog Anthology immediately on Kindle…*
secret (n.) late 14c., from Latin secretus “set apart, withdrawn; hidden, concealed, private,” past participle of secernere “to set apart, part, divide; exclude,” from se-“without, apart,” properly “on one’s own” (see se-) + cernere “separate” (see crisis).
As an adjective from late 14c., from French secret, adjective use of noun. Open secret is from 1828. Secret agent first recorded 1715; secret service is from 1737; secret weapon is from 1936.
Dear Reader, I’m given to understand that sales of The Underdog Anthology have been ‘brisk’, which is very heartening – it’s an ideal stocking filler or Secret Santa gift…
*/sharp intake of breath… That’s a good idea, Clicky! I could definitely do that… /pats snout…*
I have a Christmas tale that I wrote for the ‘Christmas Underdog Anthology’, but that won’t now happen until next year. So here, Dear Reader, for your entertainment is the first installment of ‘Secret Santa’ by Roo B. Doo…
*******
I’d been watching her do the rounds all afternoon. She was shirking again, moving from desk to desk as slowly as she possibly could, irritating the hell out of everyone with her silly bloody ritual. Eventually, she got round to me. It was inevitable really. I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the explosion of seasonal bonhomie.
“Hi Harry! How’s it going?” Shazza gaily chirped from behind a stack of reports I’d neatly stacked along the edge of my desk. She was gripping some red velvet tat between nervous fat fingers.
“Shaz. What do you want?” I replied. For once my curtness was justified; I was actually quite busy formatting and pivoting tables on my computer screen.
Shazza briefly frowned but quickly recovered. “It’s Christmas in two weeks,” she smiled brightly, holding up her hands to reveal the tatty Santa hat she’d been holding.
“Really? Who’d have thought? Why don’t you come back in two weeks then?”
I really was very busy and not in the mood for another of the ‘bonding’ activities that the Fat Kontroller dreamed up to keep our airhead receptionist entertained. If you’re in need of a raffle, bake-off, dress up, dress down or sweepstake, especially if it’s for charity, then Shazza’s your man.
“Ooh, looks like we’ve found our Scrooge!” she squealed for the benefit of the entire office. “We all have to play our part, Harry,” she continued in that irritatingly positive sing-song voice of hers, “and I’ve been chosen to organise Secret Santa this year.”
I sat back in my chair and swivelled round to face her. “Sharon, you’re chosen to organise Secret Santa every year. Look, I’m up to my arse in it at the moment, I don’t have time for this shit.”
I must have hurt her feelings, because she suddenly came over all professional. “You are required to select a name from the hat to buy a gift for. Minimum £10 spend. Wrap and label it with your recipient’s name, and place in under the office tree, no later than 23rd December as they will distributed at the Christmas party at The Exchange that night.”
She thrust the Santa hat toward me. It was the same cheap hat she used last year. A threadbare velour Poundland job that was probably past its ‘sell by’ date on the day she bought it. Its fur trim was meant to be white but was tinged grey from the entry and exit of dozens of grimy wrists. I really didn’t want to put my hand in there, but the sooner I got it over with the sooner I’d get Shazza out of my face. I winced and took the plunge.
“You do know my great-grandfather was half Jewish, don’t you? Next year, Shaz, I’d appreciate it if you used a yamaka, so my cultural sensibilities aren’t infringed.”
The hat felt empty. I rummaged around until I felt a slip of folded paper that had worked its way down into the pointy end. I pulled it out, looked at it, and held it up for Shazza to see. “It says ‘Harry’,” I sighed.
“No! You have to buy for somebody else!” she cried, snatching back the hat and peering inside. Her dismay quickly diminished as she spied another slip of folded paper wedged in its grubby depths. She took it out and handed it to me.
I opened it out, read it, put it in my pocket and turned my attention back to my PC screen.
“Who did you get?” Shazza asked excitedly.
“It’s secret,” I replied, focusing on the numbers on my screen.
She looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to know who’ll get you?”
I slid the slip of paper with my name on across the desk toward her. “No. Now piss off. We must be missing tons of important phone calls because you’re fannying about over here. We’re a very busy company. Chop, chop.”
Shazza scowled, turned on her heels and left. A few heads from neighbouring workstations bobbed up and quickly lowered. People walking away from my desk in a huff is not an uncommon event.
I thought about the name in my pocket. I hate the Secret Santa ritual – in the two years I’d been at the company I’d selected the Fat Kontroller from the hat on both occasions. The score so far was two bottles of malt whiskey for him and two £10 gift vouchers for me. They were from Boots and had all the hallmarks of an afterthought purchased whilst out buying haemorrhoid cream or a sandwich.
I hadn’t gotten my boss this year though. No, I’d picked out Josie’s name instead. Lithe limbed Josie in HR, with an elfin face, raven hair and legs up to her armpits. She was new to the company and the only honey in the office I’d even consider getting my fingers sticky with. Unfortunately, she came with baggage in the form of a muscle-bound boyfriend called Alfie, who chauffeured her to and from the office. With the visage of an Easter Island statue and phyisque large enough to affect gravity, Alfie would have no problem effecting profound change on the features of any love-struck suitor.
Still, an anonymous gift given legitimately might just open some doors, maybe some legs too. My mind began to whirl as I considered the possibilities. I checked the time: just 45 minutes until close of business. There was no point continuing with what I was doing now that Shazza had so inconsiderately shattered my concentration. A little Christmas gift web browsing might help me wind down and would, in all honesty and with hand on heart, be completely work-related…
*******
The second installment of ‘Secret Santa’ will follow in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dear Reader, have a Song…
At last! Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology is available for you to read…
In paperback or on Kindle, even a hardcover version is available if you’re feeling rich and saucy…
32 stories by nine authors across a wide range of genres – most of which are certainly not suitable for children. Sex, violence, blood, gore, booze, drugs, cowboys and smoking – this book has it all. The first anthology of Underdogs contains something for everyone and a few things that are probably for nobody. It’s a lucky dip… If you’re feeling lucky.
*You what? …/concentrates on assistant’s clicks… No, really? What is it, fucking Christmas or something? …/sigh… No matter…*
Dear Reader, apparently if you avail yourself of the ‘Look Inside’ feature from Amazon, you will be able to read my three Anthology stories in full. However, if you want to find out what happens at the end of John Duffy’s story ‘The Wheel’, you will have to buy the book…
*Oh give over… /rolls eyes…*
*******
‘The Fall’ by Frank Davis
‘Til the Fat Lady Swings
“They’re at it again!”
John’s eyes briefly flicked up from his newspaper, taking in the bulk of his wife peering through the net curtains, before returning to yesterday’s racing results. You’re at it again, he thought but decided it was safer to respond with “Who are?”
“Next door.” Sheila pursed her lips. “They’re having another one of their gatherings,” she hissed.
Sheila craned up on the balls of her feet and twitched the curtain back further to get a better view. Oh how she wished they lived in something taller than a bungalow. The fence and bushes obscured most of the neighbour’s garden but she could just make out the tops of two heads moving toward the rear. Toward the shed. She could hear the low drone of their conversation but not their words. The shed door first creaked, then thumped.
She turned back toward her husband and snorted impatiently. “Are you listening to me? Next door have got people in their shed again. They’ll be burning things, you mark my words. Goodness knows what they’re up to.”
John put down the paper and reluctantly turned his attention to Sheila. It hurt to look at her; he had no idea where the beautiful, happy girl he’d married had gone to, but he suspected the spectacularly fat harridan stood in front of him had abducted and eaten her.
“I am, and I think you’re overreacting. In all likelihood it’s nothing. It’s just people living their lives.”
“Nothing?!” Sheila squealed incredulously. She brandished her notebook at him, the one she’d been detailing all their comings and goings in. “Strangers traipsing through the garden at all hours of the night, bonfires – that’s nothing? The noise and smoke? That’s nothing?” She resumed her watchful position at the window. Whatever the reasons for next door’s social gatherings, it was bound to be no good.
John caressed the plump armrest of the sofa with the palm of his hand. There was no point arguing with Sheila when she had a bonnet full of bees. He stood up and puffed out his cheeks. “I think I’ll go to The Crown.”
“Go on then, go. Leave me here alone with that lot,” Sheila spat out contemptuously to the retreating figure of John. She heard the front door rattle shut. “Coward!”
John stopped to light a cigarette before strolling into the balmy evening light. The sun was just setting and he was in no rush to get to the pub. Custom at The Crown had dwindled a lot in recent years, especially in the winter months, but there might be some in tonight. He lived in hope. In any case it was better than sitting at home with Sheila and her paranoid fantasies. Just about.
His hopes were dashed as he stubbed out the last of his smoke and entered the cool interior of the pub. In one corner a group of teenage boys stood huddled round the fruit machine, whooping and smashing buttons. In another, Tom and Barry sat silently nursing their pints, but apart from them The Crown was empty except for Alice. The landlady stood behind the bar, dressed to her usual nines, polishing glasses. She saw John and smiled broadly.
“Evening John. Usual?”
John sat on a bar stool and watched Alice pour him a pint. She always looked good, despite her advancing years. Fitter than Sheila, who was half her age. “Quiet in here,” he said. “It’s a lovely night, I thought it would be busier.”
Alice frowned and cocked her head. “No darling, just the boys’ brigade and dad’s army in tonight.” She set a full glass in front of John and took the fiver from his hand. “I’m not going to be able to retire to the Algarve on them.”
John pulled deeply on the frothy liquid; Alice always pulled a good pint.
Her long, manicured fingers wrapped round his wrist as she gave him his change. “Say, I’m dying for a whiz and a fag, John. You wouldn’t keep an eye on the bar for me whilst I pop upstairs? Len’s off night fishing, so I’m on my tod.”
Alice disappeared and John surveyed his local. Time was when The Crown had full time bar staff, and Len and Alice would sit out with the customers all evening. A time when the fruit machine’s pings and whirls were mere background noise and the kids with soft drinks sat outside. Now they made do between the two of them, with occasional staff at the weekend. For Len and Alice, Portugal couldn’t come too soon.
John sighed and sipped his pint. He was wrong; this was worse than being at home with Sheila. She may be a bit crazy but this felt like sitting in a rotting corpse. At that thought, the fruit machine burst into a frenzy, pumping out a stream of dirty coins to the teenagers’ delight.
Jackpot! John sneered to himself.
When Alice returned he bid farewell to her bright, stiff smile, and tried to ignore the hurt in her eyes that he was leaving so soon.
“Sorry Al, I only came in for one. I’ve got to get home to Sheila.”
John shrugged and laughed with embarrassment. “She thinks next door are domestic terrorists or something. I dunno.”
“Didn’t she think they were devil worshipers?” Alice tried to entice him to stay with her playful reply but John was resolved to leave.
“No, that was last week. Next week they’ll be cannibals.”
Happy to leave on Alice’s bark of amusement, John waved from the doorway before lighting a cigarette for the return journey. Darkness was now falling but the night remained warm. With any luck Sheila would be in bed by the time he got home. If he walked slowly enough.
Sheila wasn’t asleep when John got back. As he turned the corner of his road, he spotted her rapping smartly on the neighbour’s front door. He stopped and quickly retreated; he didn’t think she’d seen him.
“Fuck!” John whispered furiously to himself. The last thing he needed was Sheila making a scene. For a moment he wished he’d stayed in the pub. He decided to sneak a peek and caught sight of his wife’s ample rear entering next door’s house. The door closed and John breathed out heavily, unaware he’d been holding his breath.
What to do? John lit another cigarette and considered his options. He could go back to the pub and come back later. Sure, Alice would be pleased to see him, but he’d already used Sheila as an excuse to leave. No, best get home unnoticed and feign ignorance when she returned from her rant. Finishing his smoke, John walked briskly home, hands in pockets and head bowed, as if it somehow made him invisible.
Safely inside, he rushed to Sheila’s favourite position, the lounge window overlooking the garden. Parting the net curtain, he peered out.
There was nothing to see – just the garden, fence and bushes. And the roof of next door’s shed. He took a step back when he heard its door creak and thud.
Tired of the drama, John slumped down on the sofa and felt something dig into his backside. He pulled Sheila’s spiral-bound notebook out from under his bum and opened it. He’d not looked at it before; she always kept it close.
The room was dark but he could make out his wife’s neat block capital writing against the white pages. He flicked through them with growing dismay. Times, dates and descriptions gave way to suspicions, theories, lamentations and solutions. Sudden fear gripped John’s stomach as he read the last entry:
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!!
“Oh, you’re home early.” Sheila’s greeting was flat but her eyes looked white with surprise against the gore streaking her face. John shrieked and turned in his seat, pointing at the bloody weapon in her hand.
“It’s next door’s axe for cutting up firewood,” Sheila stated dully.
John cringed away as his wife waddled past, on toward the window. Sticky fingers smeared the net curtain as she twitched it aside.
“It’s okay now, John.” Sheila reassured him as her eyes scanned the garden. “We don’t have to worry about the neighbours and their smoke any more.”
*******
There, Dear Reader, my efforts are quite tame compared to the rest of the stories in the first Anthology volume from the Underdogs. No, it’s really not a book for children at all…
fridge (n.)shortened and altered form of refrigerator, 1926, an unusual way of word-formation in English; perhaps influenced by Frigidaire (1919), name of a popular early brand of self-contained automatically operated iceless refrigerator (Frigidaire Corporation, Detroit, Michigan, U.S.), a name suggesting Latin frigidarium “a cooling room in a bath.” Frigerator as a colloquial shortening is attested by 1886.
Dear Reader, this week I’ve encountered the word ‘fridge’ four times from different online chums. The first was a conversation between Red Frank and TNT over at MEROVEE…
The following day, Leggy’s significant other, Poppy mentioned it during a girlie Twitter DM convo…
Later that evening, Hugo and I were chatting on Twitter DM about the back cover artwork The Underdog Anthology. He has two stories included.
I mentioned the importance of the number nine in Norse mythology and Hugo replied with a we-key link to the plot of a book I’ve never read…
Dirk Gently, who calls himself a “holistic detective”, has happened upon what he thinks is a rather comfortable situation. A wealthy man in the record industry has retained him, spinning a story about being stalked by a seven-foot-tall, green-eyed, scythe-wielding monster. Dirk pretends to understand the man’s ravings involving potatoes and a contract signed in blood coming due; when in reality, Dirk is musing about what he might do if he actually receives payment for his “services” – such as getting rid of his refrigerator, which is so filthy inside that it has become the centrepiece of a show-down between himself and his cleaning woman. The seriousness of his client’s claims becomes clear when Dirk arrives several hours late for an appointment to find a swarm of police around his client’s estate. The aforementioned client is found in a sealed and heavily barricaded room, his head neatly removed several feet from his body and rotating on a turn-table. While at his recently deceased client’s house, he discovers that his client had a son. However, after Dirk disconnects the television set the boy had been watching, the boy promptly breaks Dirk’s nose.
Nearly incapacitated by guilt, Dirk resolves to take his now-late client’s wild claims seriously. During his investigation, Gently encounters exploding airport check-in counters, the gods of Norse mythology, insulting horoscopes, a sinister nursing home, a rhino-phagic eagle, an I Chingcalculator (to which everything calculated above the value of 4 is apparently ‘a suffusion of yellow’), a god who gives his powers to a lawyer and an advertising executive in exchange for clean linen, and an attractive American woman who gets angry when she can’t get pizzadelivered in London.
Finally, yesterday afternoon, Cade included the word and the importance of chilling in one of his Sync Miss For Him scribblings…
*I know, Clicky… I don’t know what it means either, but you put a link to ‘Fools Gold’ in our Calendar Girl post at the start of this week…*
“What are you looking for?” I asked Thing 2’s backside upon entering the kitchen. The rest of him was concealed behind the open fridge door; a common enough sight these days that it’s practically a fixture.
“Nothing,” Kit Kat grunted in reply. Closing the door he turned to face me, and I wondered, not for the first time, at how a tiny little baby could turn into the hulking teenager stood before me now. He popped his backside up easily onto the kitchen worktop. “I’m doing maths homework,” he said.
“Really? In the fridge? I’m gonna make your father some scrambled eggs on toast. Would you like some?”
Kit Kat tried to play it cool but the ‘Food!’ sparkle in his eyes gave him away. “Erm…alright then.”
The response from Thing 1 upon being asked was entirely different. “Oh yes please. Thank you Mum!” Loopy said brightly before turning his attention back to his game. “Okay Deadly, do as I tell you this time and we’ll get ’em for sure,” he barked into his microphone.
Returning to Thing 2’s favourite room, I decided to enlist his help. “You know the fridge?” I asked him.
“Yeesss…” Kit Kat drawled. “I am familiar with the appliance.”
“Can you get me the eggs, butter and milk from it? I’ll cook the eggs, you do the toast and you can tell me about your homework.” I bent down to pull the toaster out from the cupboard under the sink.
Amazingly he returned with everything I asked for and set about toasting the bread. I cracked nine eggs into a mixing bowl, added a dollop of milk and a pinch of salt.
“We’re doing quadratic equations,” Kit Kat informed me as I set about beating up the mixture.
I stopped my beating to melt the butter in a pan. “Algebra?”
“Yes,” he replied and then starting reeling off a bunch of gobbledygook containing a lot of ‘xs’, ‘pluses’, ‘overs’ and numbers that made no sense to me at all, except to evoke a distant memory of the perpetually smiling face of Mr Fong, my Form and Maths Teacher from school. I concentrated on transforming to pale yellow mixture, now transferred to the oily, hot pan, into fluffy, golden, eggy clouds.
“Doesn’t quadratic have something to do with four?” I asked when Kit Kat paused for breath. He was still applying a thin layer of butter, precisely from corner to corner to the first slices of toast to have pop out of the toaster.
I sighed, put down the pan and grabbed another knife. Quickly I slavered the cooling remainder of the toast with deft strokes of buttery goodness. “I’m sorry Kitten, I haven’t done algebra for over 30 years, I don’t think I can help you with your homework,” I said dishing the buttered toast out onto three plates and piling even portions of scrambled eggs over the top.
“I wasn’t asking for your help, Mater,” he said with a look of bemusement. “Can you pass me the ketchup?”
Library of Libraries 