by J Battle
‘Nope. I want to be an investigative associate.’
‘What’s one of them?’
‘I’ve written it all up here. The justifications; my qualifications. There’s also a thorough examination of each of your past cases, with explanations of what you did wrong, and suggestions of how investigations can be improved in the future, if you employed an investigative associate, or rather, if you employed me as an investigative associate.’
Phil sipped his coffee.
‘I don’t want to read that; it the last thing I want to read; a litany of my failures. You’ve got the job, with one proviso; you make the coffee.’
There was some hugging and then Julie left him alone, hopefully to make him a coffee.
‘I hear there’s a secretarial position going?’ Sam was leaning in the doorway, all relaxed with his pointed tin hat and green face paint.
Phil nodded. ‘The job’s yours, mate.’ He smiled as Sam matched his nod and returned to the bathroom.
‘But you’ve got to do the cleaning,‘ he called at the closing door.
Sam paused for a beat, then opened the door and popped his head back into the office. He looked around pointedly, with his pointed hat. Then he smiled and nodded. ‘I’ll follow Julie’s lead.’
‘But she never actually…’
‘Exactly.’
Alone again, Phil was feeling quite relaxed as he sat back in his chair. As his AI passenger had suggested, the stock of gil-juice was confiscated mid-squirt by the authorities. There was talk of some compensation, though he didn’t hold out much hope; not when they found out how much he actually paid for the stuff.
He'd passed on the names of Mrs. Masters and Strange to the Law & Order AI, and explained their parts in the proceedings. He was a little surprised to find that there was no record of Strange's existence, and that the whereabouts of the ex Mrs. Masters were currently unknown.
He was hardly surprised. Two days earlier, still buoyed by the extravagant, if almost totally undeserved, praise he'd received, he was disturbed by a light knock on his bedroom door. Given that he lived alone, had no house guests, and was sure that he'd bolted his front door, it was quite reasonable that this should cause him concern.
After a few seconds in which he considered leaving through his bedroom window (it had worked out so well for him on Greenhaven after all), he manned up and opened the door.
'Hello Philip,' she whispered, stepping much too close, 'aren't you going to let me in?'
There may well have been moments in the previous weeks when Phil might have considered the prospects of inviting Mrs. Masters (ex) into his bedroom, but not now, without a good tidy up, and maybe some disinfectant.
'What can I do for you?' He leant one hand against the doorframe blocking access, if not the view. He couldn't resist looking over her shoulder for a dark menacing shadow.
'He's not here,' she said, allowing a smile to settle on her face, 'yet.'
'What do you want? I'm too busy for this.'
'I can imagine. But, well, if you don't want to welcome me into your boudoir, I'll tell you from here. I just want to make it clear that I want you to keep one or two things I'm sure you've found out about us close to your chest.'
'I suppose you mean the bag of gil-juice and your little hideaway.'
'So you do know, then?' At last she seemed impressed.
'I'm a detective, Mrs. Masters; I find things out; it's sort of what I do.'
'And?'
'Let's just say the details are in the hands of my lawyer and will be opened in the event of…etc. etc.'
She brushed a hand through her long straight, ever so black hair. Then she nodded.
'Until we meet again, Philip.' She touched him gently on the cheek with one gloved hand, and then she spun away.
Phil was left needing the support of the doorframe, his legs suddenly weak. Bluffing was not really his thing, but he thought he'd got away with it. He had no idea where Strange and Mrs. Masters were planning to go, and it was a complete guess that the bag Strange had carried from the hotel contained gil-juice, but if it kept him alive, then it worked for him.
‘You do realize that I am recording this?’ The voice in his head chirped up.
'Why are you recording this?'
‘I record everything.’
'And what do you do with the recordings?'
‘I send it onto my parent AI; it has decided to devote more attention to its human associates and it intends to make use of these two individuals in the future.’
'What for?'
‘I am sure that that will be revealed in the fullness of time.’
That very same voice in his head brought him back to the present, almost alone in his office.
'Perhaps a review of the systems you use for background checks when taking on new clients is in order.'
Phil checked his wrist-top.
'I thought we agreed you'd keep quiet for a full hour every other hour; it's only been 56 minutes.'
'What's 4 minutes between friends?'
'We're friends now, are we?'
'We are likely to be together for a considerable time; we may as well make the most of it; don't you think?'
'If you say so.'
'What's the difference between a man of 67 and a woman of 25?'
'Why are you telling jokes? I'm not stressed.'
'I need the practice. Go on then, ask me.'
'Ask you what?'
'What's the...'
'OK, OK. What the difference?'
'42.'
'What?'
'The answer is 42. It works on 2 levels. First as a simple mathematical result, and secondly, as a reference to the great Adams' meaning of Life, the Universe and Everything.'
'I can see that; but it's not funny, is it?'
'It made me laugh.'
'You need to adjust your humour settings; your standards are way too low.'
'This is really helpful; it is all grist to the mill, as I believe I have already mentioned.’
'You missed a double entendre there.'
‘Repetition is the death of wit.’
'Did you just make that up?'
‘Of course. I hear that there is an open mike evening at your local bar tonight; do you think I'm ready to perform a stand-up routine?'
'I'm not standing up in front of people who know me and telling them jokes; not sober anyway.'
'But we're friends. It is what friends do for each other.'
'Not this friend. And I've got one and a half minutes left of peace and quiet.'
'Spoilsport.'
Phil relaxed again in his chair, and closed his eyes.
He was no longer the richest man in the Universe, but he thought he’d be OK. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out two small transparent teardrops. Absentmindedly he began to toss them into the air.
Well, he wasn’t going to leave them stuck up Masters’ nose, was he?
Chapter 54 – Then the end II
Masters opened the hotel room door and stepped back, a little surprised.
‘You’re early, and you’re not your dad.’
‘He couldn’t make it; he has no taste for this, anyway. And I decided to get this over and done with as soon as possible.’
‘OK, if it has to be you, Alan, so be it. Your word will bind your dad just as much as his own. And I've got some time before my meeting with a new and very generous customer. ’
‘I’m not here for any agreement. I’m here to end this.’
Masters laughed. ‘I think you should check that with your father. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, would you? Or to your lovely sister.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’ The gun was surprisingly large to have been hidden by his jacket, but his grip was rock steady as he pointed it at the centre of Masters’ chest.
Masters laughed. 'So now you're a murderer, are you, kid?'
'This isn't murder; this is taking out the trash.'
Masters took a step
back, but the bed was in his way. When the gun went off, he was thrown back onto its softness, a steaming hole in his chest.
Alan put his gun away, and walked over to the dying man.
He took two vials of gil –juice from his pocket and shoved one in to each of Masters' nostrils. He took a second to check his work, then he nodded and turned. He walked quickly out of the room, pulling the door to behind him. He left the hotel without a word to anyone and climbed into his truck and drove back to his father and sister, sure that they would now be safe.
The Epilogue
Ex - ymplat - Done (or Millie as she now preferred to be called) rippled her frills at her superior to indicate her complex emotions at the results of her actions. Her crest frills admitted that yes, there was an element of failure, but there was success as well to be considered. Her personal finances were in an excellent state and there had been no financial drain on the Devotion's resources.
Still, she had to accept that little had been achieved in the way of restoring balance.
'You will go back?' It was phrased as a question, to reduce the chance of a violent response, though his frills carried a very strong sense of the imperative.
Millie was tempted to strike him for the less than subtle affront, but she held her claws and displayed equanimity and acceptance with her lower frills, and determination with her crest.
As the male slipped silently into the sea, she brought up an image of the skinny human, with his long awkward limbs and tiny mouth.
Yes she was going back; and she had plans.
She surprised herself to find that she was chuckling, in a strangely human way.
As she slipped into the cool blue of the sea, she thought that Argu had better have an excellent joke up his sleeve to weigh in the balance against what she planned to do to a certain Philip Humphrey Chandler.
No; Wait – The real epilogue (or maybe it’s the prologue?)
Argu had his audience just where he wanted them; in the cup of his claw. But it wasn’t time yet, so he teased them a little more.
He spoke of the old days; his first jokes; his first steps on the road to becoming a legend. He chuckled at those childish, misfiring attempts, and the crowd joined him; for they had also been there. They’d shared his failures for, to be a true genius, you have to risk failure.
Then he gave them a little treat, a reprieve of his most famous joke. A Jenusion, a Pillotle and a Sasasasasahionion walk into a bar and…. Well, you know the rest.
As they roared their appreciation, he removed a round green fruit from his pouch and took a chunk out of it with his lower mouth.
All through the crowd he could see people quoting parts of his great joke to each other, laughing and pulling at each other. As he tossed the core to the ground, a group of young Spinnakers stepped forward and recited the joke, word for word, in perfect synchronicity. Argu applauded them as they merged back into crowd, though he did feel that they had rushed the final five words.
He began to gnaw on a triangular piece of Pink Precious as he waited for the right moment to come. When he had cast the spine to his feet, he rooted in his bag for more and pulled out a yellow Nananana fruit.
As he peeled and tossed the skin of the juicy fruit, he began to regale his devoted audience with the history of his new joke, with the inspiration he'd received from the old masters; the great Dus, the inimitable Derek and of course, the crazy, crazy person that went by the name of Jorniper.
The time was right; the audience was ready, the moment was almost here for the greatest performance of his life.
He dragged his great weight from his custom built chair and slowly walked to the corner of the stage. He reached down and tickled the head-crest of a particularly attractive young female, and chuckled as she melted at his touch.
Then he turned and marched towards the centre of the stage.
The crowd went silent, in anticipation of what was to come.
They groaned as one as he turned on his heels and sidled back to the corner of the stage.
With his four eyes closed, he took a sideways step, then another, and another. He was in the centre of the stage, close to the edge. He opened one set of eyes and feigned surprise at finding himself there.
He pulled a yellow ball of Elinfruit from his pouch and tossed it into his lower mouth, only for it to immediately shoot back out of his upper mouth.
Then the drum roll began, slowly at first, and so quietly.
The crowd fell silent, unable to breath as the tension built with the tempo.
Then the drum stopped, and the silence seemed to echo across the chamber as the Great Argu, the Mischievous Argu, the One and Only Argu, took a long reverse step and slipped on the Nananana skin, falling as flat on his back as his tail would allow.
The crowd drew its breath as one enormous, multi-headed creature, then it laughed and history was made, and one young, particularly attractive young female knew that she had a job on her hands.
The End
And Finally, Now the Post Script
At last, it’s finished. and you should congratulate yourselves, dear reader, for having the inner strength to complete the onerous task of ploughing your way through each tortuous page.
If you feel that you need something to take away the bad taste in your mouth, you can either eat raw garlic or try my epic work on Pixies (available for a very reasonable price at [email protected]).
In the meantime, I’m thinking of something of a career change. There’s a job going, stacking shelves at a local supermarket. It’s not what I hoped for, but at least, when I’m dealing with rubbish, I’ll be provided with bright yellow rubber gloves, which will make a nice change.
If, miracle of miracles, this book enjoys any sort of success, and they ask me to write another, I intend to be a lot tougher in the negotiations, and I'll expect a book deal of my own as compensation for having to endure another episode of Phil's life. It's only fair, don't you think? N.F.
The End (yes really)
What Kind of Fool?
Now squirt-capable!
Preface - Or, what went before (just in case you haven’t read the first book. (You should though, really))
In Favour of Fools
A Sci-Fi PI Comedy Thriller set in a near future where instantaneous interstellar travel is available to everyone, as long as they don’t object to having their molecules tricked into thinking they are exotic massless particles that can be squirted to anywhere in the Galaxy.
Phil is a PI; it says so in big print on his ID. He likes to work from his comfy chair in his office, waiting for a coffee from his Sister/Secretary/Cleaner that never seems to come. He doesn’t like to travel, or to chase people, and he avoids even the idea of violence.
So how did he end up on a blazing hot planet, dozens of light years from home, searching for a man who didn’t want to be found? With a partner who won’t respect him in the morning, and imported thugs who don’t respect anybody.
It all started when Phil received a visit from the ex-wife of a vicious gangster, concerned at his disappearance, or did it start much earlier, with the misplaced bullet? If you asked Millie, she’d say that it started with the joke that the Great and Stupendous Argu broadcast to his adoring fans on the Sirius leg of his Pan Galactic tour – I May Have Said I Loved You, But I Was Only Joking.
Regardless of the starting point, Phil is hired to find the missing gangster and sets to work, assuming that the job can be completed at his desk with the help of his sneaky and barely legal search programmes.
But, the more he looks, the more complicated things become, and it seems that there are actually two missing men. When he receives a visit from Strange, an associate of the ex-wife, his choices suddenly become limited to whatever Strange tells him to do.
Using the wonder of Fool’s Squirt technology, they arrive on OK, an agricultural planet that provides the meat for Earth’s fast food restaurants; squirting it ready-minced into their kitchens. Whilst on OK, they come ac
ross their first dead body, a topless bar, a 3-legged pig and a mule called Brian.
Then they are off to Greenhaven, a planet in its hot phase where daytime temperatures reach 170 degrees Fahrenheit and Phil arranges to meet the gangster, only to find his dead body. Realising that he is going to be framed for the murder, he escapes into the burning desert, protected only by his hat and mac.
Whilst all this has been going on, The Angels on a Pinhead Devotion, the leading religion in the Alien Galactic Confederation, have sent their emissary to mess things up for mankind. Their religion is founded on balance; every good thing must be matched by an equal bad thing, and Argu’s joke was just so good.
To redress the balance, Millie has been sent to steal mankind’s Gill-Juice, the most valuable commodity in the known universe. Any money she can make in the process will help finance her own plans to become the Lord High Fulcrum, the highest position in her church.
In the guise of an eight year old girl she will charm and trick anyone who crosses her path, including the President of the newly established Earth and Off-Earth Empire Unified government. She offers him a deal that he just cannot refuse, as long as he shuts down access to the 21 planets of Earth’s Empire for 30 days; long enough for her to harvest all of the available Gill-Juice on Greenhaven.
In a rousing finale, Phil dances through the night with the Sand Mirages, happens on a previously unknown sentient race, is captured and imprisoned by Millie, receives an unexpected and annoying passenger, is instrumental in foiling Millie’s plans and, very briefly, becomes the richest man in history.
Much of the story is told in real time, uploaded directly from Phil’s brain and transmitted to the computer of his Narrative Facilitator, who has his own opinions on the failings of his MC and the qualities of the tawdry tale he is required to translate into the ‘light and witty’ text his publisher demands. He’d much rather spend his time on his own literary novel about Pixies, but he has bills to pay.