From the rarely free flowing pen of Sebastian Tombs
From the rarely free flowing pen of Sebastian Tombs
3 poufs and a piano
A broken door
Madonna's conical bra
It is amazing the unrelated events that can cause the creative juices to flow. (For good or bad). Just such a course of events began to occur prior to Christmas 2013.
If you have struggled through Creative Class 1 you will know a list entered my life in 1999, what you will not know is the damned thing is still there! It has survived transition from Windows98 to my current Windows7, not to mention upgrade from Office2000 to Office 2010, a successful junking session and reverting to a more sensible Office2003. The Damn list still sits in my documents crowing over my defeat.
For a full account we need to go back to 1970's. You know Starsky and Hutch, big hair, no aids etc. Anyway we both worked for the same cab company as part-timers for the same reason. Our wives spent more than we could earn in our full time jobs. This little snippet of background information moves us on to 2009 when I moved to a new flat. The communal car park had allocated parking spaces one was Gordon's. We renewed our acquaintanceship and over the next few years became friends.
Both Gordon and I had a penchant for 'taking the piss' much to the chagrin of some of our neighbours. This moves us forward to December 2013 when a neighbour installed a security post in his parking space and then promptly reversed into it, giving Gordon and I plenty of fuel to indulge our pastime of piss taking.
Gordon made a mistake when driving the point home to our neighbour; he described himself as a professional driver. I do not know the state of the Taxi Industry worldwide but in the UK any Licensed Hackney Carriage Driver (that's Taxi driver to you) will tell you no doubt at great length there is a world of difference between a Taxi Driver and a Private Hire Driver including some rivalry. Gordon had been private hire whereas I had driven a Taxi for many years, such a statement deserved punishment, but how?
Sometimes the Gods just seem to smile on you. Early in the New Year Gordon was manoeuvring his Nissan Primera in a dark, cramped car park when he had (fortunately for me) a meeting with a bollard, a piece of angle iron actually. This meeting broke the FRONT indicator and cracked the FRONT bumper. Very professional. A couple of other small unrelated incidents around the same time and that damned list came into my mind again, only this time I felt there just may be a pathway through it and a couple of weeks ago I presented Gordon with the first draft of the following.
GORDON'S LUCKY DAY
A short story by the modern bard This is a story of fiction and as such any similarities to persons past and present is totally circumstantial. If you believe that, I do a very nice line in London Bridges. Cheapest on E-bay please send your £10,000 with order to...
It usually takes a few unfortunate coincidences and the fickle hand of fate, to make a story, not to mention an incident of breathtaking proportions. Of such things, are best sellers made.
Lacking all these attributes we shall proceed.
Beelzebub cut a fine figure of a demon, dressed in tasteful green scales, burnished steel shod claws on his extremities and the latest thing in stainless steel tipped fangs he felt as sharp as he thought he looked. Many traditional demons however certainly do not agree with Beelzebub's opinion. The more traditional pus leaking demons believed he looked positively hideous and had complained of his attire many times to Satan, but as Satan repeatedly told them, "that as an ex-director of RBS no one was better suited to run the finances of Hell"
So this particular Monday morning Beelzebub was in an excellent mood flaying Susan, his Girl Friday, over the desk as was his want most mornings, or at least he was until Encrusted Pus tapped on his door knocking it clean off its hinges. The sight that met Encrusteds gaze caused him to blurt out, "Golly 'Bub I never new a demon could do that with his tail". He instantly wished he'd kept his mouth shut, as the gout of hellfire that bathed him and it really done a number on the coat of fresh pus he had painstakingly applied that morning, (to impress the tart in the canteen). It was totally ruined.
Following the gout of hellfire was the admonishment, "I've told you before don't call me Bub". Beelzebub waited a full thirty seconds before asking why he was being disturbed, he knew he was not going to like the answer. After all no one bothered him until he had roasted the first soul of the day. "What do you want?"
"Well sir it is probable that ... er..." and Encrusted Pus finished in a nervous rush "we will run out of heating oil this afternoon". Beelzebub looked at him incredulously "Well phone them up and tell them to deliver now". He paused for a second still not believing that he was being disturbed over something so trivial, "And find the idiot who failed to order the oil. Cast him into brimstone for a thousand years". "It was ordered Sir, supposed to have been delivered Friday afternoon. We sent an e-mail when it failed to arrive". Encrusted paused for breath and Beelzebub got a sinking feeling in his tummy. Encrusted carried on, "We got a reply this morning saying there would be no further deliveries until the bill was paid".
On hearing Encrusted words Beelzebub turned positively puce with rage, one flick of his tail and Susan still in the throes of orgasm sailed across the office and broke against the wall the bits landing on the shattered door. This did not worry either Beelzebub or Encrusted, as they knew Human Resources department would have her up and cuming within the hour. Beelzebub losing the blindness of his rage realised he stood the chance of roasting some bigger fish than his minions.
Celestial Heating Oils was a company that was set up to supply Hell with heating oil. The furnaces of hell in the basement also controlled the balmy temperatures of Heaven upstairs, and nobody in their right mind would do anything that would make him upstairs even think he felt a draft. He was after all considered the most unforgiving Boss, ever!
George W senior was singled out as he entered Hell to be the CEO of Celestial Heating. His brief was very singular, keep Hell supplied with heating oil. Failure would result in being incarcerated for thousands of years in a cinema playing a never-ending loop of Rock Hudson movies. Success of course gave him a key to the executive toilets. Beelzebub did not like George W senior.
Beelzebub looked around, Human Resources were already picking up the bits of Susan to put back together again, and then his eyes alighted on Encrusted Pus. "Until Susan is returned you'll have to do". "What!" said an alarmed Encrusted, "You're going to show me how to do that thing with your tail?" Beelzebub was swiftly losing what little good humour he had regained. "NO!" he thundered, "Get me George 'bloody' Wanker senior on the phone". Encrusted Pus knew he was on really thin ice. "I can't do that sir". Beelzebub raised himself to his full stature intent on tearing Encrusted limb from limb. Encrusted fully aware of his danger carried on quickly, "George is no longer at Celestial".
"Tell me more" Beelzebub said in a more normal voice, slowly receding to the size he usually assumed around the office. A somewhat relieved Encrusted carried on, "It would appear when George came before the board to deliver his end of year report and George used the 'G' word in front of Satan". Beelzebub couldn't resist a grin. An even more relieved Encrusted carried on, "Satan in his anger bathed George in so much hellfire that Human Resources claim it will be five hundred years before he cools down enough for them to start work on him".
Beelzebub was openly smiling now but Encrusteds next words wiped the smile clean off his face. "They say the fire was so hot it melted his executive toilet key". Beelzebub looked positively pale as he sat heavily, muttering "No. Not even Satan could be that evil".
It wasn't the hellfire that so upset Beelzebub, after all a little hellfire was no worse than being sent to work the spit roaster in the kitchens. The time frame, well to a demon five hundred years was no worse than queuing in Tesco on a Friday afternoon.
The Executive Toilet Key however was a different story. The Executive Toilet Key was (apart from being a key to the loo) a demons badge of office and the means of controlling the lost souls of Hell.
You see even have Demons had an Achilles Heel. As Kryptonite is to Superman so brimstone is to Demons, unless of course you have your Executive Toilet Key to negate the effects. Not only that, the only place to take a dump without a loo key was the brimstone pit. One really did not know what one was likely to pickup in the Pit; even worse one did not know what was going to pick you up.
They say payback is a bitch and Liberarchie (The undisputed Queen of the Pits), was said to be hung like a horse.
Beelzebub made the mental effort to pull him self out of the frightening scenarios he was contemplating. "O.K. Encrusted, get Celestial on the phone. Who's in charge now?" "The gossip is Sir that 'him upstairs' has put his own man in, some Spaniard called Sant Andare, a bonus orientated geezer by all accounts".
Needless to say Beelzebub's day went rapidly downhill from that moment on. We will not dwell on the intransigence, jobs worth attitude and the joy of declining your American Express because you cannot remember your Mothers maiden name. Although to be fair in Beelzebub's case it was news to him that he had a mother.