by J Battle
Coffee
The Keep It Simple coffee franchise swept throughout all of the planets in Earth’s fledgling empire, with their ubiquitous motto ‘we just do coffee’ on everyone’s lips, along with their coffee.
As the name suggests, the secret of their success was simplicity. You could buy a black coffee in a standard-sized cup. There was sugar, milk and cream to one side, and that was it.
If you wanted a bigger cup, just have a free refill.
If you wanted a smaller cup, don’t finish the cup you have— just stop drinking when you’ve had as much as you want.
If you want something to eat, go to a place that sells food.
If you want to read, go to a library.
As simple as that.
Breasts
Still great!
Appendix II Complaints
On behalf of Dereks everywhere, I would just like to complain about the way Dereks have been treated in this book.
I am not a Derek myself, and I don’t know any Dereks personally, and nor do any of my friends, as they are hardly likely to live in my neighbourhood, but, if I did meet one, I’m sure that I’d find him polite, and friendly and hardworking, and undeserving of the libel in this book.
If I had the time I’m sure that, if I put the word Derek into any search engine, I’d see any number of Dereks who have made a valuable contribution.
Derek Jacobi, for instance, was a fine actor.
And then there’s Derek…there has to be more…
**********
On behalf of baristas everywhere, there is no mention of baristas in this book, which is a shame in itself. In the first book however, I think we were treated unfairly, and I am a barista, and I’d just like to say that we dedicate ourselves to hours of training just so we can give our customers choice. Is that so bad?
*Appendix III Call of the Fool
(I can't believe this but, after all you've been through, with the three full books of Phil's tiresome antics that you've had to endure, I now have to tell you that there is more to come. It is a standalone Origins tale; a sort of 'how did it all begin for Phil?' story, as if anyone is remotely interested.
I did my best for you. I protested until I was blue in the face, but nobody listens to me; nobody reads me; nobody visits my website; my mother never calls.
Sorry to get all maudlin on you.
So, here it is - Call of the Fool. The well-read reader (if you are still out there) can rest assured that this does not mean there is another tortuous tale in the pipeline. It is a one-off. If only that could have been said about the first book.
Now, whilst it's just you and me, and no-one else is paying attention, you could skip this bit, and you could go on to Appendix IV; there's a real treat in store for you there, if I have to say so myself.
Can I just say that, if we never meet again, you'll always be in my thoughts, and I'll never forget what we went through together? But we have to be brave and move on; you, to better books (and that won't be hard) and for me, recognition of The Eventual Glistening? Who knows? Farewell fellow sufferers and rejoice in the knowledge that things can only get better. N.F.)
Call of the Fool
Chapter 1 Now this is Uncomfortable
Now, I know it's my own fault, but I don't really want to be here.
I could be sitting at my desk, with my feet up and a nice mug of coffee in my hand. I'd have to make it myself of course, but I'm used to that. Or I could be down the pub; sinking a cool pint of lager and looking at women. It's Friday night and I always look at women on a Friday night.
Somehow, in a weak moment, I agreed to this Q & A inquisition, where I have to sit up on this stage with everyone looking at me, and I have to talk; and make some sort of sense.
Now, on a one to one basis, I'm OK chatting away, and I can be quite witty, with the right amount of ale inside me. But, in groups, I struggle. It's like I never got taught when to join in to the flow of a to and fro conversation. By the time I say something, it's too late and I become a non-sequitur, or I just interrupt the speaker when I think he's stopped and he's just pausing for effect, or a breath, and then I get dirty looks from the gaggle of conversers. Or I just don't say anything, and I get dirty looks for not being involved.
This is going to be much worse. There are maybe 500 people sitting there waiting to be entertained by me, and I know that, when I open my mouth and mumble a welcome, they'll all look disappointed with me. I've spent a lifetime getting disappointed looks from my mother, and I should be used to it, but I'm not.
I'm not alone up here, of course; I have my lawyer; well, not my lawyer to be honest. He works for my publisher, and I don't know what he's doing here. I doubt he'll be much help on the entertainment front. I should also have my Narrative Facilitator as well, as he must get a share of the plaudits, or the blame. But he got all worried when I asked him, and refused to come.
(Hi there, everyone. No way was I coming to be grilled by strangers, even if it would give me a chance to plug my Pixie book; The Eventual Glistening. N.F.)
'Hi, everyone,' I say, because it seems to me that someone should say something, and no-one else is volunteering, 'thanks for coming tonight, when you've probably all got other things you could be doing.'
I take a quick glance at my lawyer. I think all the words came out in the right order, but confirmation would be nice. I get nothing back from him; just that thousand yard stare he has. I don't really know what he's doing here; I don’t expect he’s here for my benefit.
'I'm going to read a few passages from the latest Fool book a little later, but, before we get to that, I'd be happy to take any questions you might have.'
I'm lying of course; I think I've already mentioned I wasn't happy to be here, but you don't show weakness in front of a ravening crowd.
'Hardly ravening, Phil.'
I knew he wouldn't be able to keep quiet, especially when I deliberately used a word he'd feel obliged to pick me up on.
'Hi Neville,' I say, in my head, 'are you here to help?' Neville is the AI I have nestled amongst the convoluted folds of my brain. He doesn’t like me calling him Neville, but it’s a little handier than Adjunct of The What If Something Really Bad Happens? AI.
'Help? You hardly need my help to converse with your fellow humans. You've evolved over many thousands of years to do just that.'
He's right, of course; it should be easier than it is.
'How did you meet Sam?' calls out a young lady from the middle rows.
'Where is Sam now?' shouts another, from a little further back.
'Do you have any photos of Sam? Without his face paint and silly hat?' This one was in the front row, and she looks perfectly sensible, despite her words.
'Will he be along later?' This time it was a bloke, sitting too far back to get the full effect of my withering stare.
Now, this is ridiculous.
'Sam couldn't make it; he's indisposed. Now, do we have any questions that don't involve Sam?'
'Where does Julie get her hair done?'
'How long will it be before you make her a full partner?'
'Do you have any photos of her wearing lingerie?'
'I don't know; I don't know, and No!'
'Mention the new book, but don't say what it's about, ' whispers the lawyer, quite out of the blue.
'If there are no other relevant questions, I can read something from the new book…'
The lawyer whispers again.
'...I can read something from the wonderful new…'
The lawyer again. I wish he'd just shut up already, and stop using me as his vocal instrument.'
'…wonderfully witty new book…'
'Can you tell us how it all began?' At last a sensible question, from a middle-aged lady in the front row.
'Well, I was born 38 years ago in a sunny Manchester neigbourhood; the first of two children fathered by my literary father.'
'If you don't mind,' she stood up to stop the flow of my words, 'I meant Chand
ler Investigations, not…you.'
'Oh, I see.' I can see what she means. She doesn't want me banging on about my first steps, my first words, my first successful attempt at the potty.
'You mean my first case…'
Close your eyes for a second as there's going to be a wavy segue moment as we transfer to live action.
You can open your eyes…now.
Chapter 2 Then, oh the dreams I had
I didn’t start out as the all action sleuth I am today, with witty one liners dropping from my lips by the second.
I know what you’re thinking; what action? And one liners that fall to the floor in silence like fragile crystal vases.
Anyway, as I was saying, I was planning a career in IT, or something safe and clever like that, and I was good enough at school to think that I might be able to pass all those complex exams and actually make my mother proud. She wasn’t full of pride when I took my first steps, or spoke my first word, Dada, so it was a bit of a push to think she might glow at my middle management ambitions.
Then I had something of an epiphany; not a Road to Damascus moment; more a road to reality hour. IT workers are 10 a penny, and they earn barely 20% above minimum wage, and there’d be a hefty 50K credit debt to carry around for the rest of my life, and there weren’t any jobs anyway.
So I quit school.
My mother was apoplectic with rage, but I think I saw a 'that’s my boy' nod from Dad.
‘What are you going to do to earn a living?’ she said, when she could actually get her words out.
‘I’ll just live off you.’ Was my parting remark as I left the room.
To be honest, I didn’t have a better answer. I’d thought about travelling; that’s what people always used to do, and Fools Squirt Technology made it so much easier. No more tramping around the world, begging for a lift, a bite to eat or a place to lay your head. You just dial up where you want to go, break your covenant of trust with your molecules, and squirt to your next destination, confident in the knowledge that you can be home for teatime.
Now, if you know about my hatred for squirting, you’ll understand why travelling was never a real option, so I spent more time than I should have down the pub.
That was until I got the call from Uncle Ray. He ran his own business; Chandler Investigations, and he wanted a quick chat.
As I’d done some work during the holidays with him, and he wasn’t all bad, I agreed. I even took a moment to ruin my mother’s evening when I told her I was going to work for him.
‘Well now, young Phil, how’s it going?’ He’s a big barn-door of a man, with a voice and a laugh to match.
‘OK, I suppose,’ I said, suddenly feeling like a teenager again.
‘Your Pa says you’re at something of a loose end.’
‘Just taking a little time to explore my options.’
We were in his office, with him sitting in the only comfy chair and me on a hard chair on the other side of the desk. The office was a scruffy-looking place, with two rooms and a small bathroom.
‘Well now lad, I think you enjoyed yourself, working here like you did, those few weeks.’
‘It was OK.’ My Uncle could be a little bombastic, which always brought out the little boy in me. In truth, it’s never been far from the surface.
‘Well, here’s an offer for you, and don’t just refuse without taking time to think it through.’
I was about to refuse anyway, just on principle, but he held up his hand. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to stop me talking, or just to impress me with the size of it. I could easily have laid a table for two within its great expanse.
‘I’m going to leave this place, and I may never come back.’
‘You’re leaving Manchester?’ Why would anybody want to leave Manchester? Manchester’s great.
‘No, well, not just Manchester. I’m leaving Earth; going to one of the new planets they’ve just opened up.’
‘Leaving Earth? But you’ll have to squirt!’ I have a very close relationship with the obvious.
‘Yep, and I can’t wait. I’m leaving tomorrow; first thing.’
I think my mouth may have opened in surprise, but I don’t remember any words falling out.
‘So, the first question that springs to mind is, what about the business?’
The first question that sprang to my mind was why would he want to squirt so far away from everyone he knew?
‘What about the business?’ I said instead.
‘You want it?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want the business? You can have it, for nothing, well, no money anyway. You just have to agree to keep it going, for a least five years. After that time, if you don’t like it, you can sell it and do something else with the money.
I looked around the sparsely furnished office for a moment, trying it on for size.
‘Is there any money in it?’ I asked.
‘It’s kept me going all these years, so it can’t be too bad. What do you say?’
To be honest, it was growing on me. Philip Humphrey Chandler; super-sleuth. Yes, I thought, that sounds just about right. My own boss; my own hours; my own business.
I nodded quietly, and then I stood up and reached across his desk and allowed him to envelope my hand in his monstrous appendage.
‘I won’t let you down,’ I said, and I meant every word; really, if you discount ‘won’t’.
‘I’ll meet you here in the morning, about eight, and we’ll go through everything, and then you can see me off. What do you think?’
I was thinking that, although I knew full well that there was an 8am to match the 8pm, we weren’t well acquainted, and it had been some time since we met.
‘8 o’clock will be fine, Uncle,’ I said, full of the ‘I can do this’ spirit.
Which was why, at 9am the next day, I was standing far too close to a squirtbooth, and hoping that he wouldn’t ask me to come to the Squirtport to see him off properly.
Now, I guess you’ve squirted here and you’ve squirted there, and never given a second thought for your poor benighted and constantly deceived particles, as you trick them in to thinking they’re massless and can be squirted to almost any place in this part of the Universe.
Well, I’m not like that. Me and my particles, we’re like that(Phil is crossing his index and middle fingers, but you can’t see that, can you? N.F.) and I don’t want to lie to them; that’s just the way I am. And, have you seen The Fly?
‘Well, Phil, this is it.’ He gave me a big hug, and a hug from my Uncle Ray is something to behold. ‘Take care of yourself and don’t…’
‘Don’t what?’ was my perfectly reasonable response.
‘Oh…nothing. Just your old uncle getting all emotional on you. If you have any problems, your Dad knows how to get in contact with me, but, on no account whatsoever, can you tell your Mum.’
‘Oh, there’s not much danger of that. I think she’s already left for her secondment as Llama Quality of Life Enabler, somewhere in the Andes.’
‘How does she get a job like that?’
‘Because she invented the job, and persuaded someone with too much money, too many insecurities, and not enough will-power, to pay for it. Where are you going, anyway?’
A more caring individual might have asked that question earlier, but I work with what I have.
‘Oh, you know,’ he said, as he stepped inside the squirt booth.
With a smile, he pressed the big red button. That’s another thing; why does it have to be red? To me, red spells danger; it spells keep away because you’re not going to like what’s about to happen.
The squirt booth started to hum, and then he was gone, with his poor tricked particles squirting to who knows where.
I turned away, and I probably shook my head. I do that a lot when exposed to the mathematical impossibility that is Fools Squirt Technology. Yes, I know it can’t be impossible, because it happens a million times a day across the world, but you try explaining it. Wi
thout using formulae, diagrams, and 15 years in college.
As it was past nine, and I hadn’t had my full quota of sleep, and what else can a young man get up to at this time of the morning, I thought that it was a good idea to go back to bed, so that I would be really ready to take on my new super-sleuthing career in the morning.
The following day I was back at my office; really early; something like 10 AM. I unlocked the door and walked through my new domain. The smaller, outer office would be for my secretary, when I got one, and I’d have the back office with the en-suite for myself.
I sat in Uncle Ray’s chair, or I should say my chair, and took a look at his ancient computer system. It must have been, I don’t know, three years old, and it had no holographic facilities and barely 100 Terrabytes of storage. On any given day, my new wrist-top could outperform it.
‘We’ll get something a little bit more exciting when the business starts to roll in,’ I said, as I leant back in the chair. Naïve as I was at the time, I was sure that there’d be no end to the demand for the services of an enterprising new kid on the block.
When the first day passed without anyone even approaching my door, I took it as just a bad start. You can’t leave the blocks like a sprinter; you have to take your time and be sure to get there in the end, like a middle-distance runner. When my circumstances hadn’t changed in a week, I was a little less sanguine about it.
I spent the rest of the month counting how much money I had left and creating projections that pinpointed the exact day and time that I would run out. It wasn’t a very challenging problem, even for Ray’s pile of rubbish system, and it wasn’t very far away.
I had two days left, and I was trying to work out if a pint or a sandwich should be my meal for the day, when someone knocked on my door.