Max's house is back

"Mars?"

 "Well. It was somewhere."

 I nodded. I do that a lot, these days. Talking is an exertion I cannot afford to make. I need to keep my energy up. For fleeing. I'm no Rincewind, but there's a lot of things I'd rather be quite a distance from. This was one such thing.

 Max, you see, had found his house. As you regular reading bastards know, he seems to have been staying at mine for some time. You know, so we can engage in zany adventures, and drain my will to live. Anyhow, whatever had happened to Max's house was over, and it was back where it'd been when he'd bought it. I maintain that the house never moved, but Max insists it's been in space, or was taken for a joyride. He swears he saw some nuns filling it up with dried pasta at Asda. I denounced him publicly. I won't have him insulting anything that looks like a penguin.

 The house, for all the neglect and abandonment it had suffered, didn't look too bad. Sure, there was a lot of graffetti on the walls. And a lot of stray cats inside. And a crazed old man. I'd expected a crazy-cat-lady-type squatter, but what I got was a suited man who looked a little like Bismarck drinking tea from the Tupperware. I chased him out with a broom, while Max polished the banisters.

 The kitchen was bare. Max offered my a cat, but I declined, explaining I'd already eaten. Lichen fell from the ceiling, showering us as we sat at the table. I looked out the back window at the swings and see-saw outside. I looked around at the walls. I looked at Max.

 "I don't think this is your house."

 He looked around slowly.

 "No." He replied at length.

 We herded the cats back inside, rounded up the homeless and regrimed the staircase. Then we went home. I'm thinking of posting Max somewhere, but I doubt the Post Office will let me.

Swans.

Vicious, peace-loving bastards.

 The guests were fleeing in terror. I didn't blame them. Nearby, a couple recoiled, cowed by fear, as a ferocious swan pecked and honked in their general vicinity.

 Around us, the other eleven swans created similar mayhem, biting passers-bye and flapping their wings on occasion.

 "So, how did this work out? You know, in your head?"

 "Well," Max replied. "The Bride and Groom exit the Chapel, and I open the cage."

 "Yup. With you so far. Then the doves should fly out, making everything magical and dove-like?"

 "Yes. Except, as you can see, I couldn't get my hands on any doves."

 I nodded.

 "And why, Max, why did you think swans would be a good substitute?"

 Max shook his head sadly. "No idea" was the only answer offered. I nodded some more, adding the pursing of the lips to my head-based motions.

 "Why were you even allowed to handle such a delicate task? Have you been telling people you're a professional dove-wrangler again?"

 Max shrugged. After a moment, he turned and walked away, at some speed. The wind carried words back to me, and they sounded like "don't look in the van".

 I looked in the van. It was a small, white unassuming van, with the words "Professional Dove-Wrangler" painted on the side in big letters. Underneath said script lay a smaller message, explaining the owner of such a van would use doves, and not swans. I opened the van.

 Inside, tied and gagged, lay a professional dove-wrangler. He seemed rather annoyed, and explained what I'd already guessed as I untied him: Max, probably on the ether again, had attacked the man on the street, tickling him mercilessness. When he collapsed in forced mirth, Max had tied him up and stolen the van. Obviously.

 "So what about the doves?" I asked. "Surely you must have doves of your own, being a professional and not a swan-vendor."

 Sadly, the man explained that he had eaten all the doves prior to his kidnap. I nodded, finding this answer acceptable. Then I drove the van home. It's mine now, and there's nothing any of you can do about it.

Ok, I've actually gone mad. I have no idea what any of this means.

"You still got that guy stalking you?"

 I sipped gently on my coffee as I contemplated Max's succulent question. 'Yes' I would answer in time, 'yes I have'. But for now, the possibility of giving forth such an answer seemed slim. The coffee was hot, my tongue was burning, and my thoughts were far away.

 My house was still burned down. That's a recap, for those of you who are new here. If you are new here, I'd stop reading now. Go away, play in the sun or something. Eat some grapes. I don't really care. But don't lose your house in a fire. See, we've gone full circle. You're happy now? Good, let's continue.

 "Yes." I answered Max. "Yes he is."

 "Well, I know how you feel. I've got this guy following me, you see. He's very cunning, he's everywhere I go. Well, everywhere with a reflective surface."

 I nodded wisely. Surely, I thought to myself, the joke here wouldn't be that Max had mistaken his reflection for a stalker of some sorts. Surely the readers of this illustrious blog deserve humour more sophisticated than a man being scared of reflection, refraction and reduction. You deserve the works of Sartre, distilled with the finest champagne, served on the back of a moose. Or something of that ilk.

 "Max, are you sure you're not just thinking of your reflection? Because that's not a stalker; it's just science. Which, in general, is actually far scarier." I replied, the memory of failing Higher Physics still ingrained in my psyche.

Herbert Otto Gille. He looks a
bit like Max's new reflection.

 "No." Replied Max. "I thought that at first. But I remember my reflection, and it looks just like me. I've never worn an SS uniform, for one thing."

 I nodded. A few moments passed, then I looked up in the comedic stylings of the man who has just thought about what he's heard.

 "An SS uniform? Like the Waffen-SS? You have a Nazi reflection?"

 "Yea. Now you mention it, that is really weird, isn't it? Look!"

 Max, in a fit of excitement, was pointing at his coffee. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of a uniformed figure making rude hand gestures, then in our excitement, we shook the table and the reflection wobbled away.

 "That's pretty unusual Max, even for you." I offered cautiously.

 "Yea, I mea... Wait, wait! He's back!"

 Max had grabbed a spoon in a further fit of excitement, turning this way and that while yelling.

 "Look, the crafty bugger's upsides-down now!"

 "Ya!" yelled the figure from the spoon, in a particularly reflective German accent. "ve have occupied your spoon!"

 Nearby, a waiter was cleaning up tables diligently. Overhearing Max's spoon, he approached the table with a stern look on his face.

 "We'll have none of that talk here, sir!" He snapped.

 "It isn't my fault!" Max yelled out. "Nazis have occupied my reflection."

 "Look," replied the waiter, "this is a neutral café. We're like Switzerland, except without the Alps. I hate the Alps. Take your little conflict elsewhere."

 "Look," replied Max unoriginally, "We've paid for these coffees, we'll damn well finish them!"

 "And I'll have none of that language! This used to be such a peaceful café, before you came and ruined it! Get out, before I fetch the teapot!"

 "NO!" Yelled a voice from the café. A young woman, dressed in an apron, ran from the establishment. "You promised we would leave the violence behind. You said there would be no more teapots!"

 "I know my love," the waiter replied. "But I cannot stand by. I cannot allow this to go on, not in my own home!"

 For some time now, I had been sidling away. To be more exact, I'd been gently rocking my chair backwards across the terrace and onto the sidewalk. Now, I shuffled backwards into a taxi and set off for home. I didn't know how Nazis had taken over Max's reflection, and I didn't understand what had gone on in that café. All I knew was that I'd sacrificed a perfectly good scone, a brave fighter left behind, a tribute to the Gods of Old, to allow me to escape. And I wouldn't let that sacrifice go unremembered.

Someone's trying to send me a message.

At first, I thought it was was Raiden making another of his desperate attempts to befriend me - he's been hanging around a lot, telling me about things he sees in the park - and when I awoke to find Max's severed head in the bed next to me, I thought he was trying to win me over with kindness. (Don't worry, I've sewn Max's head back onto his body, he's fine now)

 Then, yesterday, a Mafia Don arrived at my house and demanded I cast his nephew in my new film. I tried to explain I didn't make films, and also - through a complex series of events that required much genealogical enterprise on my behalf - explain to the Don he had no nephew. But in the end, I had no luck in either endeavour.

 In a beautiful voice, one of the Mafia goons began to sing in Italian. The moving, dramatic score provided the perfect background music for the other two henchmen, who set fire to my living room.

 Beside me, in a flash of lightening, Raiden appeared.

 "Help! Fire!" I yelled enthusiastically at him.

 "Oh." He sulked. "You barely talk to me, but now you need something.... Well, I'll see what I can do."

 In Raiden's defence, of course, he didn't have mastery over rain or water or anything. But after the first few attempts, it should have become evident to him that lightening was not the solution to my problem. Huge bolts of the stuff flew from the sky, immolating my already smouldering shrubbery and destroying my carefully arranged garden Scrabble board. The roof of my house gave way under the combined forces of fire and a different fire, caused by lightening, which was to all effects and purposes identical to the first fire.

 I sighed, and went into the garage. I'd lost everything, especially the beehive that had been growing ever larger under my gutters. Those bees were meant to sustain me through old age, providing flying nourishment and sexual gratification...

 Oh well, this isn't real life. Don't cry for me, I'm already fictional.

You shouldn't give cats beer. Image by caffeinatedjedi via FlickrMax shuddered quietly beside the fireplace. He'd been released yesterday from what he called his "Korean Death Camp" (A title that was both inaccurate and offensive, as I tried to explain numerous times) and seemed to be taking the whole experience rather badly.

 "I hate to ask, but I need some money."

 I looked at Max over a pair of glasses I'd put on specially for the purpose of looking over.

 "What for?"

 "I need to fund my battle with alcoholism."

 I nodded. I didn't think Max was an alcoholic. To be honest, I didn't think he drank much anyway. His zany antics were generally enough to get him barred from most pubs, clubs, supermarkets and petshops in town. Not that petshops sell much alcohol. Well, not person alcohol anyway. McGregor's Pets down by the McDonalds sells a special Cat Beer I think, but that's besides the point.

 "Your 'battle with alcoholism'?"

 "Yea."

 "Ok." I replied. "But which side will you be funding?"

 "What?"

 "You say it's a battle Max. You versus the alcohol. Which side will the money help?"

 "Oh, the alcohol of course. I want to buy some beer."

 I nodded. I'd guessed as much, truth be told. I didn't give Max any money. It's not that I actually think he has a drink problem, more the fact I just don't want to give him money.

 I've already stocked up on Cat Beer anyway. And Parrot Gin. Tastes seedy.

Maxfall

                              Nazis aren't funny.                              Cover of Downfall"What've you got there Max?"

 The sun, gentle and benign in the sky was shining down on us. Max and I were seated under the azure openness of a clear summer's day, sipping tea on the veranda I imagined to be part of my garden for this setting. We'd been here for half an hour or so, but I had taken my time asking Max what he was carrying in his briefcase. He didn't usually carry a briefcase, you'll be surprised to hear, and I was gripped with the grim foreboding that accompanied almost every visit Max made to my humble abode.

 "What? Oh, this? It's a script." Max replied.

 "Ah." I offered. Max had a habit of writing film scripts, play scripts, musicals and so on, and brining them to me. They weren't, technically speaking, usually badly written. The problem was they could be a little... offensive. Well, very offensive. And I had to explain, in great detail, exactly why Max's so-called family-friendly screenplays would offend a drunken toaster.

 "And what's it called?"

 "Black Hitler." Max replied.

 I nodded. I took the script. I read the script.

 "This is, what? Just the film Downfall?"

 "Yea." Max replied.

 I nodded. It was basically Downfall, except everyone in the Third Reich was inexplicably black. To Max's credit, he hadn't written any offensive dialogue, or added a rap soundtrack. Indeed, it appeared just to be an aestetic thing - the whole cast was to be black. Of course, at no point did Max tackle the varied problems this would cause to Nazi ideology. In reality, he'd just printed the script for Downfall of the internet, and added a note that said "Everyone should be played by black actors."

 I put the script down on the table and turned to my own briefcase.

 "What've you got there?" Max asked.

 I didn't answer. I just opened the briefcase and turned on my portable shredder. The sound of paper screaming out filled the afternoon air, as the sun watched happily.

I looked out the window...

Image via WikipediaThere was a figure coming down the path, towards my front door. A familiar figure, hidden under a giant sombrero and poncho, cutting a zig-zag path to my house. Stumbling to the door, Max reached out and feebly tried to claw the door-handle.

 I opened the door and looked at him in silence.

 "Señorita !" He yelled, "It is I! El Drunko, the Mexican drunk!"

 I continued to look on impassively. After a few moments, a group of banditos arrived and started to shoot at Max. I went back into the house and boiled the kettle. I was thirsty, and wanted some tea.

The dog was a blur in the distance, zig-zagging horizontally and vertically, up then down across the landscape.

 "See Spot!" Max exclaimed excitedly.

 I nodded. I didn't know if Max was asking me if I saw spot or telling me that I saw, so I just nodded. You can tell by the lack of question mark that it was a statement, but I had no such luxury. You grammar Nazis.

 "See Spot Run!" Max continued.

 I nodded again. I could see Spot run.

 "Run Spot, Run!" Max yelled happily.

 I squinted into the distance. Something wasn't right here.

 "You sure that's Spot? He looks older, and more... Yellow..."

 "Nah, it must be." Besides," Max replied, "He looks more... Yeller..."

 "And he's kinda frothing... at the mouth."

"Ah, yes." Max replied. "Yea, that's not good, is it?"

"No," I replied as we looked on in horror. The re-animated, frenzied corpse of Old Yeller bore down on us, picking up speed with every passing second.

 See Max.
 See Max Run.
 For Fuck's Sake Max, Run Faster.

Nothing like this happened. Image by The Library of Congress via FlickrThe sea lapped gently at the sides of the boat. Not very exciting, I know, but such is life. For the last week, Max and I had survived in the maw of the beast, eating tinned tuna. Don't ask how.

 Yesterday, we felt a jolt around noon. Well, it was probably noon. I don't know, our watches were broken, and there's little sun in the belly of a whale. So, actually, it probably wasn't noon. But I'm narrating this verbal abortion, so I'm going to say that's when it was. Anyhow...

 The jolt awakened us from our slumber, sending us leaping up from our whale-tongue duvets. This was unusual, the great leviathan usually swam peacefully unless attending its Yoga class. Unleashing a great cry, the beast threw open the mouth that had housed us this past week, streaming in sunlight and sea air. We had surfaced, the beast encircled by great craft - a whaling party. A showdown so epic, so spectacular, so stunning occurred. So I won't bore you with the details.

 Suffice to say, Max and I are now on a Japanese whaling craft. The crew have been very kind, giving us warm tea and a safe trip to Dover. I mean, that's what we think is happening. We don't speak Japanese, so maybe we're just going to be eaten. Who knows?

The pursuit is over. My dogged determinism has paid off, and like a dog, I have my bone. Only this time, it's a whale.

 The ocean laps around my feet. The boat is sinking. Only minutes ago, I chanced upon the leviathan as he rose from the water, seeking air and a copy of the London papers. Disguising myself as a newspaper vendor, I lured the unsuspecting beast near me. However, the clammy sea air permeated my moustache adhesive, and my disguise faltered at the crucial moment.

 Eye-to-eye, we looked upon each other. My hand was outstretched, offering the newspaper. His flipper-thing similarly reached out, curled and holding money. We were inches apart, his warm breath enveloping me, the scent of fish and long-discarded paper boats staining my clothes. Then he leaped mightily, silhouetted against the sun like Free Willy, free and unfettered by the hands of man.

 He struck the sea, a mighty blow that send waves across my poop deck, and sank down into the azure. I aimed to follow, but the great shock had sent my mast into the deck, and the water was rising fast.

 Is this the end of me?

 Nah...

I am at sea

A whale's back. It is erotic. Image via Wikipedia

Call my Ishmael. It isn't my name, but the change will do me good.

The whale took Max some days ago. As is always the case, it lured him into a van with the promise of sweets. I followed the trail for days, losing the hump-backed kidnapper when he entered the ocean. Overhearing the gossip of fishermen in a seaside tavern, I picked up the beast's scent again yesterday and headed into the tempest brewing off-shore.

Moo. Image via Wikipedia
Endless fields.

 They stretched as far as the eye could see, field after field, as if there was no end to the fields. It was worse than space.



We were not at Woodstock. We were in a crappy field. There were 14 hippies overall, and about 7 cows. To my eternal disappointment, the cows weren't wearing hats, but that's not the issue here. I'd made some general enquiries as to where we were, but the cows were too stoned to help and the hippies generally just mooed.

 Some time passed on that grassy hell, stretching out like something long and stretchy. A big elastic band, perhaps. But I digress. Max was getting hungry. So was I, but I wasn't planning cannibalism yet.

 "So, you still don't know where we are?" I asked the lead hippie.

 "You can't, like, be here man." He replied distantly.

 "Seriously? We're doing this? You're a cliche. You're all cliches!" I raged, "Why can't I meet fleshed-out, relatable characters?"

 "You've got me!" Max chirped up from behind a cow.

 "You're not fleshed-out!" I yelled angrily. It was true, Max was just a stupid sidekick really. I mean, he has a tramautic backstory and a dogey past filled with tragedy and triumph, but you never ask about that, do you? No, all you want to hear is another story about Max getting his head stuck in an ostrich or carrying out race crimes against Smurfs.

 Damn you! Damn you all!

It's like Woodstock all over again.

You can, however, stack wood.
Image via Wikimedia Commons

The safety pod descended at breakneck speed.

 That was a lie. Our necks were unbroken. I considered breaking Max's and blaming it on speed, but it seemed like a lot of work.

 Things had been going well on the Spaceship - we'd bought some branded clothing and souvenirs from the gift shop and began training to fight Martians (Just in case) when Max... Well, it was Max... he killed about 14 people. Well, they were robots. It was an accident. On purpose. They touched his comb. Their own faults. He said.

 Anyhow, that explains our exile in the escape pod, in which we were currently breaking our necks. A while ago, Earth had reared her ugly head afore us, scraping the dark sky with her continental hair and surfacewaters. We entered the atmosphere at speeds that could... well, break one's neck...

 And now we were crashing. Earth piling up on both sides of us, a chasm of soil spreading out across the countryside. A few cows meandered across our path, flying onto the screen of our extraterrestrial vehicle and blocking the view until we put on the windscreen wipers. Slowly, we slowed down over a long period of time, slowing to a halt in a field full of Hippies and cows, both of whom were meandering around slowly.

 We emerged, yawning and stretching into the sun. I wondered where we were, and approached the lead hippie. Well, the tallest:

 "Is this Woodstock? Did we travel through time again?"

 "No man." The Hippie replied. "You can't, like, stock wood."

 "Are you going to be a cliche?" I asked.

Space is so big that it's small. Or something.

The Moon. If this story has
taught me one thing, it's that
all of Space has a dark side.

Outside, the stars hung silently in the night sky.

 Of course, that's wrong. Stars aren't hung, for one thing. Besides, it wasn't the sky they were in, and night is just a relative term, worthless in the endless expanses of space that enveloped our ship.

 Max, as befits a man of his staggering Maxness, had acquired a job as a cook on a space-liner. Of course, such things don't exist, but you never complained when I wrote about Unicorns or Piranha-Bears, so shut up. The liner was pretty empty, to be honest. After all, who wants to cruise Space?

 Yes, you probably do. Please stop interrupting.

 We were in the cafeteria. It was one of those generic places you might see in Sci-Fi piece, all gunmetal grey with exposed framework and cold metal tiles. The tables were fixed in place, long flat surfaces with uncomfortable benches bolted down besides them. It was like a school lunch room, I suppose, except in space. All in all, a very depressing scene.

 Max was sitting opposite me, poking at his space-gruel with a space-fork. We had a window seat, by the window. A huge, thick pane of something transparent, the window framed the open space that surrounded and oppressed us, and also served as a great place to stick up posters.

 There were no posters on our window though. That would not be appropriate.

 "I want to go home."

 I looked up at Max, lowering my space-spoon from my mouth.

 "It's too cold in space. And I feel so claustrophobic."

 I looked outside. Around us, the emptiness stretched to infinity (and beyond, I understand). Max was right - the openness was oppressive, crushing and unending. I felt trapped.
 Still, no point getting depressed about it all. The space-gruel was good anyway.

 "Come on," I said with fake cheer, reaching out to pat Max, "We'll go and get some fleeces from the gift shop, then I'll take you home."

I've found Max

This used to be my calendar. Image via WikipediaAfter my recent period of coma-based vacation, I returned home to a particularly notable lack of Max. My cattle were unspooked, my vegetable patch free of maps of the Holy land, and all the writing in my house hadn't been translated into Cyrillic. It was most disconcerting, I can assure you.

 Anyhow, I did the logical thing and set about tracking him down. I don't really want him back, but I've grown accustom to his ways. Besides, it doesn't seem fair to inflict him on other people, and I think I have legal responsibilities as his owner.

 So, hiring a Native American tracker so stereotypical as to cause offence, I set off on my epic search. It was long, arduous and exciting, but I shan't bore you with the details. Anyway, regardless of the trials of my journey - filled as it was with magic, unicorns and sexy green beasts (Sorry, I know you're not interested in this) - I succeeded and found our wayward friend at last.

 Of course, there was a complication.

 He was in space.

 Obviously

I escape the gang of horse-burglars! Using all my cunning, tact and dexterity, I ran away from them. Well, ok, that was a terrible plan - they just chased me, clearing obstacles with ease. So I hid in a phonebox, and held the door shut. Not having hands, the horses simply bashed at the sides for a while, until they got bored and went away.

 Another brave victory over the forces of darkness, methinks!

 Anyway, since I was in a phonebox anyway, I decided to make a call. If there was one person who would survive a horsepocalypse, it was Max. Carrying on with life out a sheer willpower. Or annoyance.

 After a few rings, he answered the phone. My phone, it should be noted. I knew he was after my house - a belief further enforced when he answered with my name. He's stolen my identity! That little bastard, I'll have to get it back now. Or, at least, an identity of equal worth. Or a better identity. That's really what I want.

 Oh, and he told me the horse-thing was just localised, they'd taken over a small area of the city. So there'll be no more talk of horses, ok?

Winter-based shit was going down.

Ok, let's face it - they weren't
a great example of the joys of Marriage. Image via WikipediaOn the trees, snowdrops glistened. All around us, romantic, winter-based shit was going down. Max, wrapped in an over-sized scarf, jacket and padded hot-pants, looked particularly morose in the winter morn.

 
 "Why did things not work out with Maxine?" He asked at length.

 "You kidnapped her, remember." I said.

  "Well. Yes, so we weren't perfect. But you know, I'd hoped we might last. I just want someone to go the distance with. You know, like that couple... Hitler and Eva Braun."

  I double-took. It wasn't hilariously over-the-top. I just looked at him, looked away, then looked back suddenly in shock. Ok, Max was obviously just mistaken. But still...

  "Hitler... Hitler and Eva Braun? They didn't really last Max. They're dead, for one thing."

  "Dead? Oh no, when did this happen? Do people know... Oh, the children! What about the children?"

  "Yea. It's a pretty well-known story. They killed themselves not long after getting married, for one thing. And there weren't any children. Are you sure you're thinking about Hitler here?"

  "Pretty sure, yea. On no, wait a second... Prince Charles and Diana! That was who I was thinking of!"

  I nodded sadly. I wasn't sure where he got these ideas from. I mean, I'm not Prince Charles' biggest fan, but he's no Hitler. I retraced the conversation and realised Max was still not exactly on Love Boulevard.

  "Max... They got divorced."

  "What? But, at least they've still got their health?"

The snow fell around us. I'd upset Max enough for one day, so I just smiled and nodded. After a while, some penguins arrived and frolicked happily. In real life, Penguins aren't overly romantic, of course, but these were Disnified. In front of us, they did little to cheer Max up, forming budding romances and entering monogamous relationships. Above us, the disimbodied voice of Morgan Freeman tried to confort Max, but it was no good, and he cried all through that cold, winter morn.

 

Winter wonderland.

A cold wind blew from the East. It wasn't dramatic though, just chilly.

 Max and I were in the park. In the warmth of my home, going out had seemed like a good idea - the morning frost glistened on the eyebrows of the tramp in my tree-house, the breeze lifted stray newspapers and sent them into the faces of elderly dears, and the whole world looked like some sort of snow-globe. Or something, I don't really remember. But anyway, it looked nicer when I was inside in the warm.

 Which reminds me, must throw some more fire out to the tramp. Not too much, of course, tree-houses are flammable. Besides, I need my fire. Prometheus went to a lot of effort to get my that fire, not to mention the personal expense. Oh, and the eagle-innards thing.

 Actually, I don't trust the tramp with fire. He certainly couldn't manage his hedge fund, which is why he's in my tree-house. I charge him rent. You're probably ashamed of me, shaking your head in disgust. But let me tell you, he's not a nice man. He keeps pretending he's a chesnut, and when I'm out, he steals my bed linen to make flags.

 But I digress, where was I? Oh yea, don't trust him with fire. So I think I'll freeze the tree-house with liquid nitrogen, so when I give him the fire, he won't go making mischief.

  It seems the most humane thing to do...

A story containing hilarious innocent misunderstandings

Max, if he displayed more emotion.

Image via Wikipedia

"How'd you like your Christmas present then?"
" Oh, it was great, thanks for that!" Max replied, happily.
I don't know why I'd asked, it was obvious Max liked his Superman costume. For one thing, he was wearing it now. And we were on a pretty busy street.
 "Yea, and... Oh God! Quick, in here!"

 Grabbing me, Max dragged us into a newsagents, where he hid behind a small pile of magazines and peaked outside with fear.
 "What is it?"
 "It's, what's his name? Clive! You know, Maxine's father?"
 "Oh... Yea."
 "You know how he is - he could never stand the sight of me, even when I was with Maxine. And well, since I stopped seeing her, he's been just insufferable whenever I run into him."
 I looked at Max dispassionately. Of course, Max was right. There had been a lot of problems relating to Maxine, and they were not limited to the name similarity. For one thing, Maxine wasn't Max's ex. She was a woman he kidnapped from the bus station.

 Now, in all fairness to Max, it had been an accident - he's gone to pick up his mother. With anyone else, of course, this would be no excuse - while Maxine was a 27-year old fitness instructor of Japanese decent, Max's mother was an 87-year old, wheelchair-bound obese woman from Hull. The differences, one would think, were obvious. But not to Max, who simply believed his mother, a lovely dear who was easily confused, had become easily confused. Stuffing her into his boot and driving off at high speed had, of course, furthered the illusion he was a kidnapper. But, again, the back seat of his car was occupied by livestock, and he was in a rush. So - at least from Max's point of view - the whole thing was innocent.

 Of course, demanding a ransom had been a mistake. But that was just unfortunate - Max, at the time inspired by a bolstered ego (No doubt because his mother, confused as she was, referred to him as a "handsome Prince"), had written to all the fathers in town, offering himself as a potential husband to their daughters, for a dowry of £100,000. The note, poorly written, had simply been confused for a ransom.

  And that is why Clive was rarely happy to see Max. Of course, laid out like this, you can surely see how a series of innocent mistakes were hilariously misconstrued, but it becomes clear how innocent Max really was.

 Of course, if you want to arrest him anyway, I won't stop you. Hell, why not form a lynch mob? They always looked fun in Westerns...

I'm shopping

The snow was pelting down, and I was on a desperate shopping trip to buy Max something for Christmas. Nothing... Sticky this year, I've learned my lesson.

This isn't what I was going to buy...
Image via Wikipedia

"Cards! Lots and Lots of Cards!" The sign boldly proclaimed. Well, I thought hopefully, this looked like the right kind of place to buy a Christmas card, at least. That would be one thing done, and so early in the trip! Smiling at how smart I was - buying a Christmas Card all by myself - I headed into the almost empty store. Crossing the threshold, I became aware of a loop of cheers and whoops, a short audio recording repeating over and over again. Confetti was showering from the ceiling, and a banner had unfurled before me.

 "Congratulations!" I began, "You're in our store. There are no prizes."

I looked at the young sales assistant at the desk.

 "Why... Do you have this?"

 "I'm sorry, it's store policy. Apparently, it makes customers happy."

 "Does... Does it work?" I asked feebly.



 "Well," he replied sheepishly, "For a few seconds. Then they realise they've not won anything. And then, of course, Tim makes a disparaging remark about their appearance. Store policy, you see. Actually... Better wake him!"

 I watched as the assistant reached under the counter and fetched a broom. Reaching out with the broom, he began to poke an elderly figure sleeping in the corner of the store. He was an odd-looking fellow, lanky - if such a word can be used on the elderly - and who looked a little like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, if he was 60 and wearing a shirt.
  "Whut? Wuu..." He scream-mumbled, "You're... you are fat and ugly. Merry Christmas!"

I left the store. I did not, you may have guessed, buy a Christmas Card. I might go back next year. With any luck, Tim'll be dead by then...