|
Chapter 1 It had turned out to be a crisp yet tangy morning as Burt "Lancaster Bomber" Harris finished his packet of onion flavoured crisps. "Yes," he mused aloud. "I do like this tangy type of crisps, or chips as they are known to our American friends. How confusing it must be for them to enter one of our chip shops for the first time." This thought saddened him briefly, but he was a robust fellow and he wasn't one to dwell on unhappy things for too long. This time it was about a minute and a half of crisp/chip confusion-related sadness. But then he remembered that he had not had a client for some time now. How long had it been? The fiddle detective business was certainly slow these days. But then it had always been slow, had it not? Why am I asking you? It had always been slow, and that's that. People rarely lose their fiddles, either through carelessness or theft, and in fact fiddles are not quite as popular generally as Burt had first surmised. "I thought they'd be the one thing everyone would want to own", he remembered. So he had started his fiddle detective agency, and printed up two million business cards that said:
BURT HARRIS, DETECTIVE. They were gold with gold lettering, for maximum flair and prestige, but this sadly made them unreadable. Burt's stupid old bitch of a wife had tried to warn him. "When have you ever heard of a fiddle detective?" she scoffed. But how could he take her seriously, when he knew her to be so stupid, with an IQ so small it had to be measured in fractions. They had taken her to the IQ testing place, and the man inspected her and scratched his head for two hours before saying "She's a woman." Burt nodded. "And you want to know her IQ?" the man asked, astonished. "Yes, yes," said Burt with growing impatience. "Fair enough," said the tester. The test commenced, and Burt's wife obtained an IQ of a hundred and forty, which the tester explained must then be "rounded down" to three sixteenths as she was a woman. "Where did she go," mused Burt. "Ahh yes, I pushed her off a bridge." But this was no time for happy memories, because he was a man with a mission. He needed to go and collect his benefit handouts. But first, a short prayer. He rolled up his trouser legs, knelt on his praying cushion and began: "Oh Lord, With that, he felt the Holy Spirit descend onto his head, where it balanced delicately. He wondered what to do about this. It had never happened to him before, in over two weeks of praying (it was a new thing he was trying to see if it helped with the massive feelings of random emotional pain that had attacked him since his thirties.) "I suppose I'll just have to walk around with the Holy Spirit squatting on my head all morning, or perhaps longer." He reached up to stroke the Holy Spirit, and it growled happily at him. "I hope you're good at balancing on peoples' heads," he chuckled. He set off, gingerly, because he had ginger hair. He often tried to cut it all off, to lessen the shame, but then it would grow back, as if it wanted to ruin his life. But this was no time to think about hair. He was on the way to visit the council, so they could give him his regular state benefits. Amongst the benefits he collected were:
It had been difficult to persuade the lady at the council to believe that there was such a thing as Misc. benefit but she had given in eventually, after he had threatened to strangle her. As he walked along tried to whistle a happy tune but found that he could not. "Good," he thought. "Cannot whistle benefit." But when he arrived at the benefit office, he was in for an unpleasant shock. There was a large sign that read: SEE BELOW Just below it, there was a smaller sign: NOW LEFT A BIT Finally, just a bit to the left, there was a very small sign that said: IT IS WITH GREAT SADNESS THAT THIS "I wonder what it will be," thought Burt. One thing was for sure, the fiddle detective business was no way of surviving. It was more a way of sitting around and picking his nose. He walked home briskly, and continued to wonder where his life would take him next. He did not have to wonder for long. In the television shop over the road from his house, he saw a news flash starting. The news reader was visibly upset - she was crying, and holding up a small sign that said: I AM SAD. The reason for her sadness soon became clear. Society had crumbled. There was footage of reporters running around shouting, because they had gone mad at the thought of civilisation no longer existing. People were setting fire to their own pencils. Nothing was sacred anymore. Burt couldn't quite believe it at first. But no. There was David Dimbleby holding a burning pencil. What more proof could you ask for? Society had crumbled. Burt had been worrying for some time about whether he should have a pension, because you've got to think about these things. But now it seemed such things would be unnecessary. There was some film of a bank manager wiping his bottom with money, because society had crumbled. So clearly there was no further use for such foolish things as "money" or "possessions" anymore. "It's a bit like that John Lennon song," thought Burt. But there would be no more songs from now on, because society had crumbled. It was certainly a strange time to be living in. Who was in charge? That was when the idea hit him. It hit him so hard, he said "Ow. That was a bloody good idea." He realised that no one was in charge, and that could mean only one thing. He was now going to be in charge. He reasoned as follows: [1] No one is in charge. [2] Therefore no one exists. [3] But I exist. [4] Therefore I am in charge (see [3]). It was the only possible conclusion. The problem was, no one knew this yet, apart from himself. What he needed was a propaganda machine. From behind him, he heard the sound of rioting and looting. Sure enough, when he turned around, he saw several people smashing up cars, breaking into shops, and generally having a terrific and exciting morning. "You could do that," said the Holy Spirit. "Oh," said Burt. "I'd forgotten you were up there." "Go on. Smash a few windows. God will forgive you." "I'm afraid I can't," said Burt. "As fun as it would be. I am too busy. But I am going to do something just as exciting and fun." "What's that," said the Holy Spirit, hopping up and down on Burt's head with excitement. "I'm going to steal that car over there, and drive it to the BBC, and then I'm going to take over the country." The Holy Spirit laughed enthusiastically. "Yes! Yes! Take over the country! God is surely on your side!" "Oh, I will, don't you worry," said Burt confidently. "And then," said the Holy Spirit, "You could eat as many onions as you wanted to. All the onions would be yours for the taking. Never again would you have to restrain yourself. You'd just be able to cram yourself with them endlessly. Onions, onions, onions, oh, you are a lucky man, Burt!" "Well, quite. And now, we shall steal that car." This proved harder than expected. He waggled the door handled for several minutes, gradually becoming more frustrated and violent. He tried kicking the door, but this made the alarm go off. Some rioters further up the street cheered at this sound, and began to kick other cars. Soon there was a cacophony of alarms, like church bells ringing out the news of the crumbling of society in some dreary metaphor. "This isn't working," said Burt. "Got any ideas?" The Holy Spirit thought for a few seconds. "I reckon you could chuck a brick at the rear side window. That usually does the trick for me." "Right you are then." Conveniently, a lorry full of screaming people crashed into the public library a few yards away from where Burt was standing, leaving a superb pile of bricks and books all mixed up together. "Careful you don't pick up a book instead of a brick by accident!" chuckled the Holy Spirit. "I won't," said Burt. He had in fact just picked up a book by accident but he quickly put it down and found a brick instead. "Right, here goes." He threw it at the car, and hit an old lady who was standing near by. She slumped to the ground, dead. "Very good," said the Holy Spirit, "But aim more at the car. Try again." Burt tried again, and this time he smashed the car window. "Yes!" he cried, triumphantly. He clambered into the car, and then a thought struck him. "How am I going to start the bloody thing?" The Holy Spirit said, "Try the key on your key ring." Burt looked, and sure enough, there was a car key in his very pocket. Then he thought for a bit. "This is my car, isn't it?" "Yes," said the Holy Spirit. "Fine. Right, off we go then." And so off they set, off to a new chapter in the life of Burt "Lancaster Bomber" Harris, for whom fiddle detecting was now but a distant memory. |