GP by GP – Family Game Night

GP by GP – Family Game Night

Usually the horror of family game night would be a teeth pulling event of finding something to bond over in the hopes that the family would improve their connection and learn more about each other in the course of this riddling event of snakes and bladders. Instead of fighting to get first to a arbitrary goal in the series of sporadic luck, we have created a common goal for what we would like to achieve by having such game night events. Parents and children alike are working towards improving our knowledge and the hunt for pointless trivia has rendered this tedious task into a outlet of daily life quest for knowledge. Every time we find something to play (well every time I am playing with them anyway) it has been in some shape of trivial pursuit. You move forward in the game and in the world generally by knowledge. It might be tedious and unusable to say the least, but it is knowledge and the personal preparation, by keeping your mind and ears open in the daily life.

I will quickly add that there is the random event of Yathzee at times for the sake of mindless action while talking about life or just something to do to survive the drudges of mind-melting television, but I rarely participate and it creates a feeling of disconnection. My family is made (in my mind) of 4 rings. The center ring for me is my parents, my brother and me. It is that core that I feel everything revolves around. Not in a narcissistic manner, but more a “If this works, then everything else can go to hell for all I care” kind of way.

Back to the regular scheduled show. If we take any kind of game, we will see in its core that is has nothing else to do that being the smartest ass possible. I seldom win in these “competitions” as I usually get the wonderful chances to tell everyone about the political screenwriter that won a Nobel prize in writing books before Gutenberg were even born. Always with the African leaders or the ancient political figures that changed the arrangement of pebbles on a beach just west of Madagascar.

The difference here with having a game that requires that you know the world, instead of dumb luck is a freeing experience for me. I can’t be angry that I lost since there is no silly chance that would make it unfair for everyone. It is purely a channelization of skill and memory. If I don’t know the answer is has nothing to do with my opponents or the game. You can always be angry when someone else gets a question you know the answer too and maybe even enjoy to see them squirm when you are ready with the punchline that will make everyone burst out in orgasmic exaltation or maybe just table wide smirks.

After years of perfecting this sometimes rare event in my family, we’ve tried so many variations and so many countless iterations of the knowledge seeking game. It has been enjoyable and we can truly say that we still enjoy it immensely, even though there is only one winner on the board, it is one of the rare occasions where even the losing players are feeling some form of satisfaction.

GP by GP – Freedom, Sex, Food & Key Chain Fobs

GP by GP – Freedom, Sex, Food & Key Chain Fobs

I have stepped out of the ship Buzz, almost on my own accord. It is the only fucking freedom I have left on this ridiculous trip. I am going to choke you Buzz, there is nothing else to do to you. I hate you and your stupid face, I am sorry that it will end like that, but choking you will be the only highlight on this arduous trip. You could have sent anyone else from the ship, but choosing me due to my attitude will not improve the end result noticeably.

What? I won’t keep it down out here, the smell is coming in through the suit and yelling at you is my only entertainment as I waddle. By the way Buzz, while I have you on the intercom can you tell me why I am walking in condoms and keys? THIS IS FUCKING DISGUSTING, I know you say that the suit is sealed, but I CAN SMELL SOMETHING DISGUSTING!

I am coming back in, I stepped in something and I have a formerly mentioned business I need to execute, pun very much intended BUZZ!

What do you mean that we have work to do out here? We don’t have anything to do here! It is working on its own, we are just been sent out here to watch mold grow or paint dry. This is fucking useless you piece… yeah, yeah… tone. Always with the tone. Sure let us have a reasonable conversation when it is you standing in 288 million metric ton of waste scattered over the eastern hemisphere of this FUCKING RETARDED MOON YOU PIECE OF SHIT!

I DON’T CARE IF YOU DO NOT LIKE MY PATICULAR TONE AND YES I KNOW SARCASM IS NOTICABLE THROUGH THE COMMUNICATOR!

Yes I will tone it down or misses log-rider will eventually start crying again. DO I HAVE TO MENTION WHERE I AM AGAIN? I do not care that I am cruel or misogynistic? WHAT? I have nothing against Jennifer nor her excessive crying for the last three weeks of this toilet voyage. I don’t hate women, I hate you ALL that is misanthropist you dumb-assed MOFO!

THEN COME OUT HERE AND JOIN ME IN SANDWICH JUNCTION BUZZ, I will make you a sandwich bitch! I will shove that disgusting piece of minced pig an arms-length into your large intestine, which I just stepped in. I will choke you with a keychain of smiling kittens here where I stand and dance on your soon to be poor contribution to this exclusive project of ruining a dwarf-planet faster than we ruin Earth One. I am happy to be a part of this wonderful race against time, KNEE DEEP IN FUCKING CRAP! BUZZ I NEED YOU OUT HERE, COME AND PLAY WITH ME AND THE KITTEN KEYCHAINS! THEY EVEN HAVE HAPPY BIRTHDAY WRITTEN ON THEM!

Blow it out your ass Buzz, you are wasting more air existing in there then I am out here yelling, prick. What is it you want me to do Buzz? What is that all important project or pathetic proportions you were dribbling about yesterday? Paleontology, pathetic, it is all the same dumb-ass.

Do you want me to go dig? Are you sure that you don’t want me to spelunk in the mountain of tossed furniture by sandwich junction? Or swim in that small lake of frozen liquid I am guessing has come from soda cans?

It is minus four hundred Fahrenheit right now Buzz, nothing is liquid, wait a few hours Callisto will pass the backside of Jupiter and you can go swim in “soon to be branded as the next best thing since cigarettes” lake. Take the family to a wonderful trip to Callisto, look at the sights of shit, waste and frozen crap neatly piled together with food, key chains and posters from the nineteen seventies!

We are not going to find anything Buzz. What the hell are you hoping to find in this environment. There is no signs of life out here. You can’t drop a dead cat into a pool of blood and hope it lives because you have most of the ingredients you need dumb-ass. Bacteria? Sure, let go to space and create new diseases we can’t contain or find the cure for. We haven’t still removed AIDS yet and you want to make space bacteria that will find new and creative ways to kill off humanity… you know what? Come out here Buzz, I have a job for your immune system. You don’t need a coat, the weather is great… dumb-ass.

So you want to throw fine words around like a scholar? Scholar my ass… I am perturbed by you, a malefactor if I ever knew one. Are you sure you aren’t a son of a corrupted scrapheap owner and are just in over your league?

So is your mom Buzz! I can say what I want since I lost interest in this project long ago. Yeah, yeah stop whining you dick, I will find your precious planet wiping bacteria so we can make sure that especially you won’t reproduce anymore.

Fucking hell, this is even more disgusting than kissing a dead grandmother on the mouth after she has been dug back up to make sure she was entirely dead after you ran her face over with a lawnmower thrice! The amount of semen from these condoms have made the entire place strangely paler than the rest. I know it has something to do with salt, but still… this is… nope… just nope.

I am out Buzz, go do this searching yourself, I can’t. I don’t want to look at it. Two hundred years of waste, it is a landscape of my nightmares Buzz and you sound like you have found El Dorado. It is junk and things that ought to have biodegraded hundreds of years ago.

I don’t know where to look Buzz, neither do you. Go find something you can show back home. I hate you, I hate everyone on this ship and I especially hate you Buzz, if you didn’t get it the first ten times? I found some rope here and I am going to hang out over by the mountain of furniture. Come see me if you want, I will be the one with a smile on the face. It should be easy to find me.

No I am not coming back to the ship, go fuck yourself, preferably outside without a suit you dipshit. You have been my bane for two years now and I have so many promises not to choke you because you are the only one who can land that elongated waste bin. They are landing in water when they get home so you are even more useless than I am Buzz. Leader or not you can shove this mission so far up your ass,that it can suck the nutrients from the sandwich I want to shove down your throat.

I know that I am low on everything from air to patience, but you don’t get it Buzz…

I know there is not enough gravity for it Buzz, but that won’t stop an entrepreneur with a passion. Isn’t that your catch phrase? See you all! …and especially you Buzz, I look forward to ride your face like a toboggan straight down the highway to hell!

[>>>END OF TRANSMISSION<<<]

GP by GP – My Name is Alice Johnston, This is a Day in My Life

GP by GP – My Name is Alice Johnston, This is a Day in My Life

From:                 Alice Johnston (aljo@erbf.gov)

Subject:            The last 24 Hours?

Date:                  June 5th, 2003

 

I am writing this mail on behalf of the Midwife staff and myself. We quit!

Just so there is no misunderstanding during my explanation to this obscure and completely unethical process you are running for the women and… other… in labor here. I am aware that we are new in this complex and ignoring the complete lack of even the most basic tools for childbirth, we are unable to accept the procedures performed on the women during labor.

There tend to be asked less questions when the pay of employment is as high as you have promised us, but after three weeks we are fearing for our own health and the general wellbeing of anyone in this complex.

The last Twenty-four hours have been a strain on my nerves. I have talked with the three other midwifes I could find and we are leaving on the bus towards Vorkuta as soon as possible. There is no reason to try to contact us. We have agreed to honor the silence agreement in our contracts, but under these circumstances. If any of us is contacted by your organization or suddenly missing for no apparent reason, we will contact a coordinated variety of news agencies and authorities.

The reasons for my personal resignation starts yesterday morning at 6am where subject #6334 Anosova, Pasha had alarmed the staff of sudden abdominal pains. Being called to the operating room for what was supposed to be a birth, turned into another nightmarish experience that were getting to even your senior staff’s nerves. To keep a comical distance to the event, so not to vomit on the paper, I placed the luminescent puzzle in lead container SWU-0225 and sent it off to the basement.

I do not understand your staffs native language, but I can hear fear and concern in any voice and they were terrified. We have not had a normal birth in the three weeks I have worked here and maybe longer if I am guessing right from their rapid gossip as we left the screaming patient to the doctors.

Ushering us from the room in that manner has also been a reason for my decision and yet not the drop in itself although such rude behavior anywhere else would have made me complain to my superiors and the union.

Second issue at 9:42am I was called to block seven to retrieve a newborn child that “accidentally” fell out of a woman who hung herself in her gown. Everyone seemed surprised that she could manage to even stand in her condition and it was getting crazier since she had managed to raise her bed to get a point high enough to hang from. It took half an hour for a army of screwdrivers to arrive. Never seen so many beds being screwed to the ground and/or wall, the noise was unbearable.

Child was placed in incubation and although the level of tumors on his deformed body was enough to make me want to throw him at the wall, he survived for six hours before his internal organs had melted or rotted away. I have not seen the autopsy in the light of me wanting to eat again tomorrow.

I have seen many reasons for experimenting with augmented births to enhance our future generations, but this is creeping me out, even the daily gun shots from the various blocks are making me paranoid after three weeks. They never allow us to see who or what is being shot and I have run around to my fellow midwifes to be sure that they are not the ones being exterminated for resisting assistance.

We were called out of our delayed lunch at 1:55pm as someone had run rampant with a sharp object and several people had been found stabbed in the mouth or throat several times. Everyone was patted down and we must assume at even this point, the perpetrator is still at large. It has only been doctors and subjects that has been stabbed at the point of this letter, but we were escorted around on packs the rest of the day yesterday and this morning too.

There has been no pattern in the assaults and we fear for our lives in that manner. Even if we have a guard, we can still be stabbed before he stops the psychotic killer haunting the place.

Besides that little, microscopically unimportant bit of mundane news we still had 4:03pm. I will not describe the tension it made. I still shiver at this point. How… how could you? I never knew the extend of this complex, but what you had hidden in block 8 is too much. I know we are not allowed out there, but what Belinda described before she passed out for the second time was for my imagination, too livid.

How can you have a nine-hundred pound woman sit in her own waste, experiencing what I must imagine, mental and physical torment as she goes through a continues cycle of organ birth as her body fails to keep the amniotic sac intact during her “assembly line labor?”

I have not even seen the woman you bastards and I can’t control my tears, or the cold sweat anymore. We are terrified beyond belief here and you have not even been to see us even once since our arrival. I am unable to sleep and I have been awake for over 50 hours at this point. My mind is slowly melting like the hundreds of children your failed experiments are causing.

 

 

It has been three hours now… I think I am able to write the last couple of notes for you here. I can’t breathe properly and I am feeling dizzy, although it might be the bus ride back. I apologize for the spelling if you can’t read it, but he drives like his blood alcohol level is under five point two for the first time in a decade and he forgot his bottle.

Marybeth confirms that 6.31pm was flush hour. The trolleys were taken out again we helped merging block two, three, five and seven so block seven were empty and ready for cleaning. I did not keep track of the time beyond that and has to rely on my colleagues.

Note for future improvements in your death fortress, even though your cleaver little black curtain is placed to ward off prying eyes, it does in no way mute the screaming people your having gagged and dragged. We know that these women are sedated and probably didn’t volunteered to get their wombs pumped full of the Greek alphabet, so you might have to reconsider you business strategy if you want to keep toying with life.

But in your mind you might have to crack a few neutrons to make an omelet, so I won’t degrade your noble work, by questioning the ethics of genocide by prolonged and systematic torture.

Back to our little funhouse. Marybeth informs me that it was 8.11pm we came to find the lone wanderer. We have been informed by the staff in what they might call English, that they had a young woman at the place that was impossible to restrain. They said she was a contortionist and it was one of the reasons they kept finding her roaming the dark corridors each evening. We brought her back to her room and locked her door. She was giving off a small humming or dry laughs all the way back and kept staring at us with those dead eyes from the small window in the door, until we were out of the corridor. Marybeth and Julie found her an hour later in the basement, poking around the supply room. Marybeth says that Julie took her back to the room. None of us four, has not seen Julie since. We have left a note for her in her locker, but even we doubt that it will be English eyes reading that letter if it is ever read again.

At 11:37pm I was called from the staff room, according to Belinda. A woman had either been cut open or cut her own stomach up to get rid of the overgrown child inside her contorted stomach. We had been discussing for days how many children she would deliver, but we could not confirm anything with ultrasound equipment since the cord from the machine in the hospital in Vorkuta, couldn’t reach that far. But with a facility in a price range like this, you might have considered a 214 mile extension cord, but who am I to judge.

The humongous child is an abomination if you would even call it that. The charts says that it was a case of prenatal elephantiasis, yet it was the first child that had not either come out “some assembly required” or melted within the first hour.

What I learned this morning was that it was still breathing apart from the minor wounds it had been experiencing during its abrupt birth. For some blatantly obvious reasons, the mother did not survive the procedure long enough to get a bullet in her head as her usage had ended… somehow I feel sorry for the executioner. He had finally gotten off the crutches after shooting a toe off two days after I started.

I guess he was your preferred or main executioner, since he was trigger happy enough to shoot while the gun was holstered and pointing down at his feet. Likewise he is the only one here who looks truly like “paid work” in his face. He terrifies me. No questions. No moral obligations or afterthought. Paid work… that is all…

Once more I have drifted off into the wonderful place that I call, “anywhere else but here!” yet I have to return to point out that shortly after midnight we were locked inside the staff room together with some of the night nurses and two doctors. Apparently the killer was on the loose again. There was sounds of shots and yells all night and we were reluctantly let out this morning at 7am with the notice that we needed a guard if we as much as needed to take a shit.

Now guess who stood at the bus stop and waved goodbye to us as we got on the bus to Vorkuta. Have a wonderful time sending the lone wanderer back to her room by yourself. She is freezing, but there is no blood on her hands or feet…

 

Alice Johnston

Midwife, ERB Frontier

aljo@erbf.gov

 

 

________________________________________________________________________________

Kevin Douglas, (douger@gpost.com)             August 20th, 2003

I am writing this letter on behalf of the Midwife staff and myself. We quit! …

v

________________________________________________________________________________

 

________________________________________________________________________________

Janice Bloombauer, (jbb@news.now)           September 8th, 2003

I am writing this letter on behalf of the Midwife staff and myself. We quit! …

v

________________________________________________________________________________

 

________________________________________________________________________________

James Smith, (js73@uss.gov)                             December 2nd, 2003

I am writing this letter on behalf of the Midwife staff and myself. We quit! …

v

________________________________________________________________________________

 

________________________________________________________________________________

Vladimir Anosov, (vlano@ksp.ru)                    January 19th, 2004

I am writing this letter on behalf of the Midwife staff and myself. We quit! …

v

________________________________________________________________________________

 

________________________________________________________________________________

Fong Yun, (xuei82@ttfn.cn)  January 25th, 2004

Woman missing: 35 year old, American, Last seen August 19th 2003, After prolonged treatment of radio…

v

________________________________________________________________________________

 

________________________________________________________________________________

Billy Hayes, (Hunterdkhunterhunterdkdkhunterdkdkdk@lol.com)   March 1st, 2004

Old laptop for sale, slightly used. Need a bit of cleaning. Glows in the dark…

v

________________________________________________________________________________

 

GP by GP – I Have a Love Hate Relationship

GP by GP – I Have a Love Hate Relationship

Sitting here staring at my fan doesn’t really relinquish my feeling of vomiting. I have not felt so sick since the first time she showed me her true intentions. With that little display she put on as she fell through my door, those puppy eyes and beige lipstick were enough to draw me in. The thought makes me angry again and I light a cigarette as a symbol. Lets close the case and forget all about it. I throw my cigarette out the nearby window and lean back listening to the cars rustling in the street.

“Oh Mister Burrows, you are so kind Mister Burrows, please help me Mister Burrows…” I feel sick as I recall her sugared words. The Gramophone was humming as she stormed into my office for the first time, looking over her shoulder like she were riding at the derby. She couldn’t have made it clearer that her husband were suspecting her of cheating on him and sent a unspecified amount of people to retrieve her.

She told me her sobbing story of how he was working for some men from the federal office, helping them link crimes with the local ‘Businessmen’ and their work ethics. She even pushed a tear out to drive home her fear for him and her future together.

Usually I would ask her a few questions, but she had already entangling herself in a web on contradictions as the story progressed and I refrained from asking anything that would make her suspect me of seeing through her ironclad of makeup and acting tricks.

As she finally stopped talking to act out her patented sobbing routine, I got up from my chair and used my body language to show her that I were suckered in by the story. it weren’t deliberate although I wish it were. That would mean that I knew she were up to her tricks.

She were poison for a man like me, I would throw myself at her feet and slap her beautiful face just to see her cry at my expense. I wanted her and she used that to get under my skin.

“Very well Misses Longheart, I will take the case and look into this trouble you are putting yourself through.” I said. The words still haunt my thoughts and I feel the blood drain from my face when I see white walls. It were a grey afternoon here in Boston, as I looked out the window, while she rummaged her bag for letters and scraps on notes. She dropped it on the table like a piece of meat.

Her crying stopped after a few attempts and she got up looking around  the room for a minute before excusing herself and left. I had no idea what she were looking for… credentials?

I started my research by looking at the pieces of torn paper in a small envelope marked ‘Prescott’. It was not that hard to put together and a little glue helped me putting the notes onto a blank piece of paper. One letter were from a G.N.B. and were addressing Mr. Longheart about a place and a time down at the docks. It said that the fewer survived the better.

It looked like I needed to go to the local library to get any connection with the date and what had went down. I went through other letters, some scorched to the point of guesswork on the content and others were intact, with acronym and abbreviations galore.

If I should find anything that could shed light I had to go outside. It weren’t really a big feature to step into the open, but being held up by two men in my doorway asking me questions about my client, were rather intimidating. I didn’t deny anything about her contacting me, but I left out the stack of notes she threw at me.

If I had not done this before, I would have been cowering in my boots as these two large African men in trench coats passed me up. Yet even as they did all they could to scare information out of me without telling who they were, I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. I told them she were scared for her husband and they told me to keep my nose out of their work… business as usual for me I guess. Stop snooping around and you won’t get your nose pulled off.

I couldn’t do anything, but assure them that I didn’t want anything pulled off and had to give up my endeavours then. I took leave and got into a cab nearby, heading for the library. I had not expected anything else than them following me and had to argue with them at the library once more, telling them that since I were taken away the one only little case I might have had, I wanted to read instead.

They went back in their car, but didn’t leave. They watched me through the windows and even as I went up to the second floor they kept an eye on the exit. I paid a kid to wear my jacket and sit with his back to the second floor window and read his assignments. I always liked that jacket, but I can’t just cling on to every little detail in my past or I would never had gotten this wonderful phobia I am sporting now.

I went to their third floor, where they were collecting newspapers from the last couple of decades. They only had from this year here and the rest I were told were placed in the basement. I were still overwhelmed by this conclave of gainsay and prosy tidings.

It took hours to rummage the walls stacked with abandoned ink before I found the Daily Gammer with any result. There were a rumour that something had been going on down at the piers. A boat from Africa had been intercepted earlier that week and what sounded like gunshots were heard Saturday night. It had been reported from the local police force that some kids had broken into a contained with Chinese Fireworks and had been apprehended shortly. The newspaper had made it into a conspiracy theory and I too found it hard to believe that the answer were that simple.

There were not anything noticeable at the obituary the following weeks, nor any reports on missing people or anything suspicious about the earlier mentioned boat. Either they stopped caring or someone were silenced at the newspaper.

Well since it were getting very late I thought it could be a good a time as any to visit my favourite fish-wrapping producer. It were dark early this time of year and the questionable streetlights kept me concealed all the way downtown.

The presses were rolling as I stepped into the thundering halls of daily gossip. I went straight to the editors office and were told off for breaking an entrance on private property. I softened him with a couple of names and points of interest, I could see the greed in his eyes and his complete lack of safety for his reporters as I signed their possible death sentence. People like those I mentioned were to be approached with caution, especially since the cases were delicate.

What led me to give in those information? Were it like everyone else in this forsaken concrete hole, the shear lack of interest in anything but my own endeavour? Probably…

He sent me to a small man with so many rings under his eyes, I were worried that they were hiding immigrants. He shook off my poorly timed joke and showed me into a quieter backroom where we had a small talk about the column he made on the shipment that vanished before their eyes. Truth be told, he were paid to make a interview on an up-scaled event downtown and were dragged around by an outside photographer the entire weekend. The show were well paid for, but his tag-on assistant were relentless as he recalled how he kept wanting stories from the participants.

It could have been an eventful conversation if I weren’t knocked out early in the conversation by two masked men. I found out later that they redecorated the walls and ceiling with the poor reporter after I were unconscious.

Well at least he didn’t go through the beating I received at a abandoned warehouse, somewhere unknown. Four men kept asking me questions about Longheart and I couldn’t answer any of them if I tried. Confused and punched every time a thought formed in my mind.

I am still unaware how long that happened or if I just dreamed it all and my spleen just thought it were funny to go with the joke. I woke up in the hospital after someone had thrown me off at the kerb. The nurses had dragged me inside and pumped me so full of debt  that I have to pay taxes twice each month for a couple of years. To my luck someone from the police had barged their way into the hospital during the night and destroyed my room, clothes and apparently also hurt two nurses who defended me.

It didn’t help my reputation with the staff, but at least my hospital bill is the states problem now. I am not sure how I should take it or I should feel as sick about the officials as I were at seeing Misses Lockheart at my bedside the next morning.

She looked terrified and her red eyes showed that she had been practicing her sobbing routine while I slept. She told me how a local ‘Businessman’ were out to get his husband and they had been dressing like police officers before. If that statement were true, I couldn’t see how I should trust anyone anymore.

I were released later that day after half the town had been to my room. First misses lead-role, then nurses to tell me what had happened, then the police came to decline the possibility that it were them or anyone dressing up like them. Then the nurses came back furious that they didn’t believe the evidence. I even had a nice chat with the two stout women who had thrown their pretty faces in front of me to save me from further harm.

I left the hospital feeling sorry that I had been thrown out unconscious on their doorstep. Going home had its controversy itself since I had no money. Anything of value had been taken from me. It took me hours to get halfway, before a black Chrysler drove up to me and I were pushed inside. “We need to talk!” the delightful man with a gun halfway up my nostril said.

They drove me home, where a portly man sat at my couch drinking my scotch. He were as later discovered, the ‘Questionable Businessman’ which had a few interesting questions about this Lockheart I had been talking too, or Patty Owenheart. He addressed her as Patty and had been told by his… dancing girl…? that she had seen me at his establishment with a couple of African men, looking suspicious and asking questions about a longboat from Morocco.

Even if there were a lot of confusing questions about it, I learned more about this ‘case’ during his long monologue. Finally I got my chance to tell him what I had been told and again left out the mention of paper scraps. There weren’t anything they couldn’t have learned by asking at the library or newspaper warehouse. Everything seemed to add up with their own little investigation. He didn’t kill me at least, but told me that I ought to go have a long vacation somewhere warm and cosy. He handed me a envelope before leaving the office and went away in the black Chrysler parked at the street.

I could read in his calm but firm demeanour that he didn’t want to see me again and the three grand in the envelope would allow me to settle the small debts I had in Boston before leaving with pocket money to spare. Had he known that I were I debt? Were I watched? Could they know or?  …I were set up!

I had barely seen their ass turn a corner when the sounder of hogs came claiming my front door. They found amphetamine in my couch cushions and a large amount of money in my hands. Anything I would say could and would be used against me in a court of law.

I were brought downtown where I were put in a large white room with a elongated mirror and four chairs. A long and painful interrogation went down with a department of the law enforcement I only understood, had no apparent connection to the local force. They refused to tell me what were the issue and kept asking me questions about a Debbie Blueheart which had been working as a contact between me and someone in the local police. She had waylaid crucial information about cases that I should not know about and said she had been paid handsomely for her work. They could see where I got the money for such a expensive and dangerous line of work.

I tried to explain myself, but they didn’t care at all. They wanted me off the street and their hole closed. It were barely 2am when they threw me in a holding cell. I have not been that confused for a long time and couldn’t see the connection between these factions. My head hurt, my sides were split from the beating.

It took me a couple of days before I were moved to Charlestown State Prison where I were put on the licence-plate production. During my coming weeks in the prison I were contacted by an inmate that talked on behalf of a Misses Owenheart, who had the interesting notion that her clients were afraid what I had told the police.

A few days later I were sent a book smelling of gasoline and setting it on fire as instructed by the inmate, I were dragged from my cell into the medical facilities, where I were swept off by two porters in a laundry van. It were nearly as nerve wrecking as the interrogations, but at least I were done eating their gruel four times a day.

I were taken to a private practice surgeon, somewhere in Mid Dorchester I guess. I were unceremoniously dragged inside and thrown into another white room with Spartan furnishing. Strapped down I were interrogated yet again by three men with clubs and a scalpel. I shudder when I think of the things they told me they would do, but after repeating myself for hours that I were approached by a Misses Lockheart, about a federal officer being her husband, they left me alone in the cold room. The beating went cold down my body as I lay shackled to the table. It felt obvious that it were the same woman we talked about. She left the heart in all her surnames. Either she were doing it on purpose or she were dumber than I felt at that point.

The place were empty for a long time when she came inside. Prancing like a price horse she went over to me with her doe eyes. She didn’t speak at first, but looked at my beaten body. That well shaped face made my fractured heart melt. She genuinely looked concerned for my health and I felt her trembling as she tried to free me from the leather straps. “Oh Mister Burrows!” she uttered, her eyes shining again. She were about to tell me something when the sirens were noticeable. She turned around like a deer on the highway and quickly pulled my right hand free. Before I could unshackle myself she had run to the door. Looking back into my eyes I were reminded why my stupidity. She vanished outside and as I got free myself I didn’t linger to look for her. I knew why they were coming and I weren’t going to stamp out more licence plates in my lifetime.

I scurried along the back alleys for a while, leaning against the walls. My legs were busted and limping were making my body bounce, hurting like hell.

I needed answers and the gangster or businessman as he preferred to be called weren’t going to give me any. I found a phone booth and ran thorough the names as I ought to have done in the first place. No one by any of the three surnames and especially this Prescott were worrying me. There were too many Prescott in the city area and who knew if she had given me the right information. The only thing that I had at that point were the paper scraps she provided. I had to get home.

Going through gardens towards my home, I nicked a grey jacket and a fedora separate places to conceal my identity. The police ran the streets for hours and I met them on several occasions, but they didn’t stop at any point. My home were watched by several cars. It were easy to see from the news stand down the block that too many cars were placed strategically. They were waiting for me.

I couldn’t trick them. They knew I limped and they were looking at anyone approaching the office, if they didn’t already have someone inside waiting for me. I convinced the local paperboy to take my newspaper up to the office and report back. I had worked with him in the past, he knew my line of work and always knew when something were brewing in the neighbourhood.

Sure enough the boy were stopped on his way out and questioned by men in suits. He told me he lied to them and went down the street, so not to compromise my immediate position. I went to a local diner, where we had agreed to meet and bought him lunch on my tap.

Lucky for me there were a few allies left in this world and the boy told me that he had unlocked the alley way window to the basement. It were only accessible from the business around the block and possibly not under surveillance.

He noticed that my office were torn apart when he placed the newspaper on my desk. Several people looked out their doors as he went by and quickly shut them again when he looked back at them. Apparently it had been a messy crew working on my new decor.

When we parted the kid told me he left me a present at the office, I looked like I could use it. Nice kid… I need to help him with his sick mother when I get over this case.

I took the long route around the block and acting like I had business to do with the local courier, I went into their yard and crossed to the small open window. I didn’t care if the people saw me, I weren’t going to be in there for long.

I went to my office to see that my sign outside had been removed and the door lifted off. I weren’t stupid, just unlucky, so I stayed away from windows and went on all four along the panels. Snatching the newspaper I felt the weight of it and blessed the kid in my silent mind for the piece he had lend to me. The room were stripped except as I noticed, my wooden office chair. With its small space between the seat and the rest of the rotating chair I had discovered in my earlier days, a small room. It were there because of the sliding seat, a ideal place to hide paper and letters. No one tries to open a chair without padding and as I could see on my couch and table, they were thorough.

At that point there were nothing else than getting out of there and I am unsure if the movement of objects in the apartment or me squinting over the edge were the undoing of my stealthy plan, but I saw men on the rooftop with binoculars running along the edge when I looked up.

I had no time to spare and pelted back downstairs and into the basement, slamming the door behind me so loud I gave away my position. The locked door couldn’t keep out three men and as I pulled my aching legs out of the small window they were inside. I halted a courier on his way out and got a lift out to East Boston where I were fairly sure I weren’t followed.

Hiding in a Chinese Teashop I ran over the papers and destroyed scraps handed to me. I did not see any handwritten letters in those paper scraps that resembled the Prescott on the envelope and I got me thinking why I were looking for a man she obviously could have made up herself.

Her story were poorly executed when I thought back, I could barely remember any details about the threatened federal husband and his so-called dangerous line of work. He was looking for links in the crimes during the rise of the questionable businessmen.

I sat most afternoon arguing with a tea seller who didn’t earn anything from me not ordering, while thinking my plan through. I got an idea from a earlier case. It was not going to be nice, but I had to get some scraps of information from the right people and the only number I knew was the local law enforcements.

Pretending I gave up arguing with the store owner, I went out into the street and headed towards suburbia. I needed a vacant house and some quiet. It was getting late when I reached the picturesque streets of the common man. White houses with small fences and children playing ball in the street. The idyllic feel made me warm inside, but only for a few minutes. It took me a couple of trips around the various streets before I saw a family throwing suitcases on the roof of their truck and harnessing their youngest in the car. I went by and sat down on a fence down the street watching the kids chase each other, while the family finished up their work and went on their vacation.

Somehow the sun had found this little spot of heaven on a autumn afternoon and they were milking it for all it was worth. I got up and went back to their place. The backdoor was easily forced open and I went inside without getting noticed. Everyone was usually eating dinner at this point, so it was the burglars break as we called it in the gumshoe business.

I closed the curtains in their living room and kitchen while I could do it unnoticed and picked up the phone. It sat with it in my hand when fatigue overwhelmed me. It could wait. Everything could wait right now. No one knew I were there and it had been so long since I had slept without being knocked unconscious.

I slept through until next morning and rummaging through their canned goods, got myself some breakfast. I am not proud of it, but at least I didn’t steal anything of major value nor break anything beside the small window in their backdoor.

Phoning up the police I asked for a Prescott and was assured that prank calls were a offense. I assured the angry lady on the line that I was calling on behalf of Blueheart and wanted to speak to a Mister Prescott. She didn’t sound convinced, but passed me on to the federal bureau of investigation. Here I got in contact with a man who knew of a Misses Blueheart and stalled me with pointless conversation for nearly fifteen minutes before I had my suspicion that they were trying to locate the conversation by backtracking my call through the centrals.

I tried to remember if I had said too much to the phone ladies I talked too to get through to him and in my doubt had to hang up and leave as soon as possible. It was morning and everyone and their dog were on the pavement, showing off their wealth in the shape of clothes and horsey laughter. Apparently gossip was currency in that little slice of the world… and they say I have not learned anything from this case!?

Grabbing my coat and hat I went out the front door like everyone else and started prancing down the street like I owned half the block. Amazingly I blend in with most of the men and are still unsure if I was noticed by anyone. I greeted everyone I saw with a overly passionate smile which made me die a little inside every time and finally jumped on the back of the tram when I reached the commercial area.

It was apparently big. Notes were apparently from some correspondence between a Carlyle and a person or group signed with GNB. They wrote about import of sugar and spices through African contacts and of what I could guess it was important to hide it from the police.

Later years it would have been obvious, but I couldn’t really see the connection yet as it had barely started and no one had prevented me in buying any on the street. Dealers had not complained in my vicinity and I had so much else to worry about.

As we reached downtown I jumped off to make sure we didn’t pass too many people in the hobnob and jumble of shoppers and café loungers. I went to the harbour to get some fresh air and some privacy. On the bench I had an idea that could get me further into trouble, but this dame knew how to find me when I was in the middle of trouble, so she must have connections to this questionable businessman, which I already guessed at that point was Carlyle. Not only that, she was mentioned as a dancing girl at one of his establishments, making it easier to find her than knocking on each door in Boston, but ultimately far more dangerous.

Setting out, I grabbed a phonebook from the pier and pulled out all clubs still working in Boston. I was pretty sure it was a classy establishment from the way they dressed and had to work my way from up and down to the sleaziest joints imaginable.

It was six days of washing myself in a sink in a restaurant, sneaking off food and arguing with bouncers before I hit jackpot, or blackjack to be more precise. One evening I noticed a large black Chrysler leave a club in South Boston and a oversized bouncer stood staring down the people going inside. A couple of young men was thrown to the kerb as I approached and keeping my head cold and swooping my arm through a woman’s arm just before we entered, I managed to get by without getting noticed, too much.

I could feel his stare in my back as I stood apologizing at the coat check. She didn’t immediately push me away and I imagine we looked like a arguing couple for a moment.

Inside the place they were dancing on a long stage running halfway down the room. I couldn’t see her at first, but knew that it had been the most promising option all week. Finally she came on the stage with eight other girls dressed in feathers. Their routine was enchanting and I only woke up from my stupor when her panicked eyes met mine. She had not believed that I found her and stormed off the stage like she had been struck with a bottle.

I played it casual at first and got up to leave when I saw three men stand at the exit. Turning around I was  about to search for another way out when someone hit me with a blackjack and I passed out. For the second time I woke up in the hospital. My hand was cuffed to the bed and I could see two officers stand at the entrance.

For a couple of hours only nurses accompanied by police entered the room and gave me my medicine. I was fed well and kept pain free most of the day until she slipped in. Wearing a nurse outfit she looked at me with a deviant smile that only made it so clear that she had tricked the officer to believe she was a real nurse. She stood over me in silence for a minute before preheating my thermometer with a what smelled like a cigarette she had placed on the small tray on the bed. He didn’t really watch what she did and when she showed him the fever according to the thermometer she convinced him to get a doctor for me.

He went away and left her and the two at the door facing outwards. They looked in at us for a moment, but she stood passively looking back at them, waiting for a doctor. When they looked away, she injected me with sedatives and everything seemed to fade away.

“Fifth white room is the charm” I thought when I woke up back at the terribly familiar surgeon practice. I had been brought back to the place for some unknown reason and the first ten minutes of the conversation I apparently had with Carlyle was incoherent, since I had not regained full consciousness.

“You are so kind Mister Burrows!” Misses Lockheart whispered in my ear as she pulled out another syringe from my arm and left the room. It only took a few minutes and I was alert and painfully reminded of the past weeks beatings, with the dire fear of more to come.

Mister Carlyle had stood patiently waiting for me to look at him in a sign of mental comprehension and nodding he made his goons leave the room when he was ready to continue his speech. He told me that it was not the plan that the police should find me after I had been knocked out at his private club. I told him how I found it and he seemed either content that it was hard or impressed that it was done, he never told me which.

Giving me a small speech about how I was making unnecessary attention at his business, he assured me that there was no Prescott in the Federal bureau nor that any of the notes found on my body had ever had anything to do with illegal business. He was very curious about where I had received the scraps from and promised me immunity from his associates if I corporate.

I was just about to tell him about Lockheart when shots were fired in the room outside and the woman came tumbling into the room. There was blood on her shoulder and down her left arm as she screamed her head off about the police. Carlyle barricaded the door and ran to a opposite window and crawled outside, dragging her along. A car sped off and everything went silent. I struggled with my restraints for a while before I forced my hand back out of the strap and got free. It had been ten minutes at least and nothing happened. I was halfway at the window myself when something felt wrong. Going back outside the hallway I found the small surgeon bludgeoned to death in his office and three large men shot in the back point blank.

She was silencing people and I feared that I would be next in line. Somehow she was connected to Carlyle and something else. I went back to the window, wanting a more private escape when I noticed the letter. A small bloodstained letter lay at the floor, almost telegraphing its presence to me. I needed to get out before it got too hot for my shoes and took the letter before I ran.

When I came to the tram I jumped on and it was there I noticed that not only the papers were missing, but my borrowed gun too. This was annoying as it was a piece of comfort if I should get mugged again, although I have been down so many times without seeing my assailants that it would be needless the next time it happens.

I sat myself down in the back and read the carefully written letter. “Dear mister Burrows, you are in the middle of a war on alcohol. The government as you know has put out a prohibition that will limit the income of local businessmen. This governmental act is illegal and carried out by a bureau agent under the alias Prescott. He has used his connections in the senate’s to rouse the Protestants and Progressives in the political parties. He created problems where there were none, so alcohol would be the larger problem than it is! He owns the five companies in Africa who dare send shipments our way and charges a fortune in transport and for making the bureau look the other way. He attacks everyone who makes their own to make sure his interests grow while sending the police forces on false runs to either punish business owners for minor issues or plant fake evidence to stall time while his ships are unloaded. Beyond that he puts extra ‘taxes’ on anyone he feels earn too much money and uses the police as his own army. Please as a man of honour and justice, see it fit in your heart to help us get rid of this man! If any of this information would get out we would be thrown into another civil war and anarchy would leave a door open for the Mexicans and Russians to overwhelm us. Please keep this a secret and use the following note to track down ‘Prescott’ and help our drowning country.”

I was shocked at the notion that the Volstead Act was created on lies and crowd pleasing. He had pushed the right people down a dangerous path and the flame was running through America. I did not know what to do and thought that there ought to be a more diplomatic solution.

Going back to my place I found it strangely deserted. No one of the rooftops, no police or bureau hiding in the shadows. Everything was back to normal.

I met up with my little friend at the news stall and showed him the letter for a second pair of eyes and had to read it for him, reminding myself he wasn’t that well educated, that poor bloke.

He didn’t believe it as I myself found it hard to swallow. We sat down at the diner together watching who came and went from the building I usually occupied.

His way of looking at it was refreshing and we thought that sending a copy of the letter to the federal bureau would put it out of our hands and into theirs, making it their responsibility to keep the case under their roof.

As I reread the letter while I copied it at my office, I noticed something off as the letterhead was from a Stanford ltd. office in South Boston. Was the woman Carlyle’s secretary? If she was a mere dancer she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble using his official notes… would she? Was it a ‘stamp’ of authentication?

Why was she acting on his behalf? He didn’t seem to know about her contact with me. Something was wrong and I needed some reactions now. How could I get her to make her next move. I would be punished hard if I came back to the club and she has sent me my next assignment.

I went with buddy to the daily Gammer and asked them politely for a morning special on two newspapers. The amounts of ways I was told to go away would have made a nun melt, but it was nothing compared to the fight that broke out between me and the Editor. Finally I got my way with a reporter who at that point was able to work due to his face not swollen like his boss’s. We made out two newspapers with the headline that a Federal Bureau agent was killed and Local gangsters were rounded up, set two days ahead. After that we went to South Boston to spy on how news were distributed and to our luck we saw it hand delivered.

Waiting the last evening before our big move we knew that this would finally get the reaction we were waiting for. I made a additional letter for Carlyle and placed it all in the original envelope before handing it to buddy.

Next morning I jumped the local newspaper boy in South Boston and threw him in the trunk of a car driving north. It would be a while before he was heard over the noisy engine I hoped and quickly went back home to await the reaction.

It came just past noon where my beloved Lockheart came strolling into the office with a radiant look on her face. “You have done splendid Mister Burrows, everything has run smoothly and you are such a delightful little puppet.” she laughed.

She told me how she had used Carlyle, me and half the police force in her little charming game. “I have no shield or goons, yet no bullets ever come my way.” she said with a little grin as it had finally dawned on me that this was entirely set up from her part. She was using her dazzling exterior to trick us into thinking we were in a war against each other.

Even though I had done this mostly for the thrill of it and the blinding rage of repeatedly getting knocked out without getting even, I must admit she had me drawn in by her astounding beauty. She were telling me how puppets were used and discarded when the play was done. She had acted in her own eyes as the perfect innocent victim and were going to tell the police that a mindless little dame couldn’t have pulled off anything like that, while crying crocodile tears in their jackets. The officer was killed while she had a perfect alibi, Carlyle was choking on his food as we spoke and I would get blamed for his death.

When she got up I followed her down stairs since she didn’t sound like she was done talking and as we stood at the sidewalk she yet again pointed out that puppies were always so blindly loyal.

Letting her insult me over and over lit a burning fury I had never felt before and was frozen to the spot when three large men came up to us in the black Chrysler. As they stepped out she started her waterworks like a tap and they stood looking at us for a moment.

“I must hand it to you miss Heart, you have played your act well… but before we part, have a look at the newspaper. There might have been something you missed.

As I handed her the newspaper it dawned on her that I had played a trick on her to reveal herself too soon. She had been so sure of it since it was on black and white in the newspaper. Looking from the paper to me and then at the three men, she quivered “please help me Mister Burrows…”

With a crack they knocked her out from behind and dragged her to the trunk of the car. “Our new boss says that since you have suffered so much at this woman’s hand you are allowed to decide what we do to her. Go upstairs and wait for a few minuets for the scene to calm down. If you throw your newspaper out the window we hand her over to the police. Do you throw a lit cigarette, she disappears for good.”

GP by GP – When I Was 13-Years-Old

GP by GP – When I Was 13-Years-Old

The problem with this month’s subject is that I wasn’t born yet at that point.

Some people would say that is ludicrous and I would often reply, so is your face. This subject was consciously chosen to have at least one point in our line of stories where we share our failures of an awkward teenager and since I have no special  memory of 1995 nor the events in it, I would not be able to account for my actions or say with any certainty that it was exactly at that age I did this or that. All things considered, I might as well not have been born at that point.

There are many events in my life that either has a good or crippling effect on my conscious and from that; modesty and preservation were born. You shall learn from your errors and become a better person. Since that is in some sense true I am the wisest me that has ever been.

No one knows me better and can answer more for my actions than I. I have seen a few trying to act me or create a mocking resemblance (in my eyes), but no one has ever understood the deep line for my motivation. Very few know it at all…

Let us turn this outwards and talk pragmatics. You as a person, a being and a fucking un-moron, have to really take your time to understand what it is you are trying set in motion. If you read this to get an idea of understanding yourself, you have come to a place. If you read this for the shear shits and giggles, I will include a few jokes or profane words to keep your ongoing quest towards social justice interesting… dicksoup.

What is it that our omnipotent youth is seeking in life? That phase of life is acknowledgement and the building of a foundation which the entire life is crafted upon. That is too much for a kid that wants to watch cartoons and sleep. There is an obvious reason why we at that age start to watch more and more television. We are searching for an image. What sets trends? What does everyone like and maybe some would think further and philosophy on why that particular show or series or movie etc. has an appeal on their social group or their social goal.

Outside the long and boring discussion of why teenagers watch television there are more signs of identification and character building. Schools have become fashion shows, not to show people who can buy the shiniest pieces of shit, but a more a long exhibition of a family’s economic foundation.

Many ambitious families have their nose on the button (just for a fun mental image), they make sure that their kids are working hard and long for a good education, but at that age it is more a “battlefield” to test off communication skills and social perception. Parents often find their kids either answering in short sentences or not communicating with them at all.

It is because they can’t. It is their fight and their responsibility to get these issues set right if any. They are growing up and learning how to communicate, so don’t expect them to translate and evaluate bad scenarios from school on your level. Not many adult people are that good at communicating so why should a kid be that has never been taught the concept of insight? You will probably argue that we all know about the concept of insight and seeing things from other peoples perspective… have you seen how fast everything is going these days? They don’t care about anything that can’t be inside a tweet, which has been sending under 16,2 minutes ago. Everything beyond that is yesterday old-timer.

Kids at that age are slowly turning into young adults. They seek independence and root in their life. They are growing away from their family ties and learning to handle their own issues, which they should do! Screwing up is a part of life, even if you aren’t born at age 13 yet. School is a safe place to screw up. It will scar them mentally, but there is very seldom a financial risk or any devastating end results that could cost health or even lives.

They have to understand that millions of people have done the same stupid things before and millions will do the same afterwards. Learning from books is limited by perspective. They cannot set their own body and biological functions in motion on the same level by reading about someone being rejected by a crush or hit in the groin by a baseball. We can interpret pain as something bad, but if we have never tried it, we have no idea how the body will react or how the brains interpret the signals being throwing in all directions.

What else… oh there is the growing issue of playing computer games rather than physical contact with the world, because it is more safe for people to sit at their home being threatened with death and fire for head-shooting the same punk-assed kid five times than being in the room with the mentally unstable bastard.

There are many aspects to this and here are a few simple ones for the dear parents and parents wannabe’s. Games, in general, are easy accomplishments. You have an objective and you overcome it quickly and often in a fashion that is both very satisfying and the road to several death penalties if performed in real life.

It is frowned upon that many games are violent and a disgrace to the entertainment media, which has books, music and movies that are equally as stained as this new and money earning media. Let’s leave that beehive for the social justice groups and money grabbers everywhere. I am here to talk about awkward damn it!

Tangential as usual… Games are worlds that will let you live out fantasies, entertain you and your friends which is building social skills rather than limiting kids you know! Games will often have puzzles that will evolve their sense of abstract thinking and there are even games that will improve your motor skills. Having these fronts to hide behind the young boys often play shooter games to get out their daily frustrations or the easy fix of adrenaline, since it is limited of the body how many times you can masturbate each day before your dick falls off: op

Games are seen as an escape from the real world and they are! What are they running from? Where are they running too? What are they expecting to learn on that journey that they can’t do outside their door? Is it an unconscious call for training their primal skills, their reaction? Is it a search for wonderment or mental challenges to keep our extremely busy minds working all the time?

The child mind is working overtime from the day it is born… at some random age. We will always try to improve ourselves to become an inch better than the next person and seek new edges to challenge ourselves and others to prove we are better.

Boiling it down, it is nothing but a test of skills all the way. Physical, mental, social, primal, extraterrestrial, abstract etc. which define us. There are so many things to do, try, fail in, win, adjust, conquer and twist. We can’t as people never assume we get to do even a quarter of it and that is why measuring kids upon other kids at that age is as ludicrous as your face! There is one easy way to know if a kid has grown up right…

Are your kid turning out smarter than you were in her or his age? If your kids isn’t smarter than you are in this evolving world, you have done something fucking wrong! Do you have a long and hard education that made you the great person you are and your kid is living off your wealth with no ambition of their own? You screwed up you dumbass! That kid will never become a cog in the evolving race and is now a bother and a drain on a already extremely fragile world. Even if you are ridiculously wealthy wouldn’t you rather be young and ambitious yourself than throwing your hopes in your kids direction?

Well, I am just a sourpuss now, back to the matter at hand. If your kid grows up smarter than you, you win at life… here is your prize… no, you cannot eat it. Next…

The last thing I will include I this subject is biological changes. There is tons of books written about puberty and the sexuality drive of teenagers. The few things parents need to know is, they are horny and desperate. The physical standards of today’s expectations are skewed and warped, so there will be many kids who will end up watching porn on the internet and they will do the unspeakable thing. So know this dear parents, they are feeling emotional so they need privacy to let their genitals cry, they need it… a lot! We are a animal at heart and our main function is assuring the race to live on, even if we don’t see it that much in our daily life. Everything we work towards is preservation and duplication.

So the moral here is, stop thinking teenagers as something scary and sticky… well… not scary anyway.

OH NO I forgot to add jokes in the text… maybe your expectation for blatant stops in the text, for me to shove in bad jokes, were the joke all along?

GP by GP – My Name is Eddie Humbert, This is a Day in My Life

GP by GP – My Name is Eddie Humbert, This is a Day in My Life

Sometimes a story can be exciting even if you only know half of it. It is like listening to a phone conversation between strangers on the platform or in the street. I sometimes amuse myself thinking what the other person says, that would make this person near me, react or respond in such manner.

My name is Eddie Humbert, my lord and I’m here to represent my participation and the majority of involvement in creation of the infinite improbability drive.

I am so pleased that you have time for me so early and I will be quick about the representation. First of all I would point out that it is deeply frowned upon by the academic society that all credit goes to that little brat… I mean the student of which we are debating. Credit and rights to the project according to patent laws should go to everyone involved in the project. What do I get? A Herring…

No lord it is not due to the splendid parties held that I am commenting on this situation. I just want to get the facts straight and get the acclaim I am destined to get.

Yes lord, I do believe that destiny has somewhat an effect on the progression of motivation and front-wheel drive. None the less I will request the honor in-stored for me for making the calculations for finite improbability and basically create the generator by wiring the logic circuits of a Bambleweeny 57 Sub-Meson Brain to an atomic vector plotter suspended in a strong Brownian motion producer.

No my lord, I can’t say that three times in a row.

I beg your pardon, but I do not see the outcome of an attempt to repeat myself thrice ought to have any effect on the matter at all. I will on the other hand show you the twenty-nine books I wrote to explain and prove the finite improbability and how to use it for intergalactic travel.

Yes my lord I do expect you to read it through and with that prove that I am a victim of theft and the majority of the renown should be mine.

I am sorry lord, what do you want me to do? That is intolerable! I will certainly not stick even one book up my behind for any reason whatsoever!

Yes… I am sorry, you were just joking I see. Please forgive my outburst then. Getting back to the matter of fact, we have proof that the effect of the Infinite improbability drive has some dire and utterly random effects on the universe. This student had no idea when he stumbled upon the only solution, what effects it could have on the universe and our careful account of the population of sperm whales.

No lord I do not say that the improbability of effects could be estimated if it was discovered by someone else, but I will point out that had the illusion of time been different, we might not have had to go to Vogsphere to update The Whale logs.

I know that something else could have happened lord, but that student could not have foreseen the consequences he has put us through. Still with the usage of this drive, we are changing everything and when can we say it is no longer for the better?

No lord, I do not have pies in my briefcase. I do apologize if it is taking up your lunchtime, but my digital watch is broken.

I know I am sounding mean my lord, but time is the essence here if we are going to get this done.

I don’t know what time is for you, but if you calculate that it is lunchtime I must admit that I am using a lot of your time and is going to pick up my pace.

No lord, I do not carry a mace nor did I threaten you. Please look in the appendix of the first book and you will see that it has been written and edited by me. I do thereby…

How can that even be possible, it is machine written? I can’t write that well with a pen.

No my lord I have not edited the real author out, I am the real author. Why is that suddenly becoming the focus point of this session?

Yes lord I am sorry for my outburst… I still do not have a mace in my briefcase, you are quite safe. Back to the point as they once said, this scholar has only taken the only solution left by all our hard work and put in the easy little piece of the large puzzle, which was and still is the infinite improbability drive. We as a community, as a scientific institute and as mace-less group of physicists are frustrated to say the least of this atrocity that has befallen our lifetime achievement.

Thank you my lord, it was a mouthful… yes I would like to say more on the subject. I am not only a spokesman for the entire physicist department and engineers, but also speaking on behalf of myself when I say that if rights are not changed in this matter, I will not be held accounted for the lynching that might occur.

No my lord, lynching not launching. Take it as you may on the behalf of the inhabitants of the universe, but I will not let this smart-ass take all the credit for such an important discovery.

I understand my lord, when can I expect the verdict upon this matter?

I am sorry my lord, I am not sure what you mean? You have not touched the books nor consulted with anyone.

Yes my lord.

I understand that time is an illusion my lord and lunchtime doubly so!

I am sorry my lord, I was not trying to be funny.

I will await your verdict my lord. Can I suspect a verdict before this illusion of a day is over?

I am not trying to be boorish my lord, I am just worried for the matter at hand. I am perfectly aware that the discovery of the infinite improbability drive is the only reason I can present my case to you.

I am not sure I understand? No I cannot sing…