On the Subject of Pie - Part Two

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Primary Phase - Part Two

John Phillip Pie! What the hell were you thinking?

But dad, I didn't mean to...*sob*... it wasn't my fault...

What sort of fool runs around near deep water like that? You're in serious trouble, young man...

John opened his eyes to find that he was back in his room and that twenty years now separated him from that miserable autumn day. He'd been having that dream since childhood, the one where he'd fallen through the rotten boardwalk while playing by the river, and that telling-off felt just as soul-destroying as it did all those years ago. John remembered the water rushing up to swallow him, the feeling of hopelessness as it surrounded him. He hadn't felt the invisible force which had plucked him from the murky depths and so the next part of his dream simply depicted John's late father finding him and going absolutely spare. John had no idea how he was still alive, but he had good enough reason to be depressed about it. He decided that he would stay in bed for a while until he felt more relaxed, perhaps having a cup of tea in an hour or two.

At that moment, a series of parcels dropped onto the doormat, having been shoved inside by an unseen hand. Great. Now he had to get out of bed, or his curiosity would drive him mad. Life could be so cruel at times that it was almost unbelievable and so John made a cup of tea and sipped it slowly just to point out to life that it would have to wait until he had his caffeine fix. Feeling slightly less like the living dead, he ambled over to the doorway to see that the parcels were wrapped in black paper and had no address or stamps on them. John began to wonder if he was going mad, but was forced to pick up the smallest of the parcels and open it as his curiosity was now starting to become uncontrollable.

It contained something that looked like a small pack of cards, but was in fact actually a small pack of cards. Each one of them bore the same writing:


John Dvorak - Private Investigator Extraordinaire


37 Travers Road

London N7 7PQ


All assignments accepted

Mrs Bewidigeldi was singing to herself quite happily, her lyrics generally involving the beautiful weather, the lovely green grass and her cat, though not necessarily in that order. She wasn't exactly what the average person would describe as mad, but then this would be more a reflection on the average person than a statement about the sanity of Mrs Bewidigeldi. She was just making her way outside to water her mould spores when she realised that two rather putrid-looking men were sitting on her patio furniture. One of them pointed out that they had seen her advert for a lodger in the papers and that they would like to stay at her house for an unspecified length of time. Mrs Bewidigeldi nodded, then rushed inside and made them a cup of tea.

John stared blankly at the set of business cards for several moments until he was eventually disturbed by a large waterfowl ruffling its feathers directly behind him. He spun around on the spot to see what was there, only to see nothing but an empty floor. The empty floor decided to quack at him, then waddled off to find something more interesting to do. John spent a few seconds in denial about what had just happened and then turned his attention back to the curious black parcels. Unwrapping a slightly larger but squidgier one revealed a black t-shirt with a little cartoon alien on the front. Attached to it was a tag, which read:

Here mate, wear this. Nobody will ever suspect you're a private investigator if ya look like that...

John marvelled at the neatness of the handwriting for a moment and then got round to reading the writing. Then the phone rang, making it seem as if John would never get to discover all of his mysterious new possessions. Answering it, he heard an oddly familiar voice:

Hi there John... what do ya think of
my new idea?

What do you mean, 'your new idea'?

Aw, I knew you'd be like this, John...
Just take a look at the papers...

Who are you???

The guy hung up, leaving John wondering what on earth was going on. Seeing that there was a copy of the local paper sitting underneath the black parcels, John grabbed it and opened it to page thirty-something, finding his advert in the paper. It wasn't a bad size, considering he had only paid a fiver for it, but it wasn't terribly accurate except for the fact that his address and phone number were correct and it was a perfect reproduction of the business cards that were now sitting in his trouser pocket. John decided that he didn't really want to know what was in the other parcels and, having realised he was wandering around topless, he grabbed a conveniently placed black t-shirt and went to have breakfast.

Mrs Bewidigeldi collected the empty cups of tea using a tray which depicted The Fonz, this being her joint seventh favourite tea tray of all time and one which she would only pull out of retirement for use when guests were present. And these seemed to be very important guests — maybe she should offer them another drink.

'Can I get you gentlemen anything else?'

'No, we're fine, thanks.'

'Yes, that will be all.'

'I'll be inside if you need anything...'


'You idiot — did no-one ever teach you any manners? 'That will be all' — honestly, you should be ashamed.'

'What? It's not as if it makes any difference.'

'Difference?! If you go around treating every elderly person who brings you tea as if they're just there to serve you, do you really think they'll keep offering you another cup?!'

'Err... well I... erm...'

'Just shut up and eat your scones.'

So he was supposed to be a private eye, John pondered as he worked his way through some particularly unremarkable cornflakes which were languishing in some equally unremarkable semi-skimmed milk. The idea sounded interesting, but how was he supposed to cope when he had no idea what he was doing? His train of thought was interrupted by a quacking sound, causing him to leap out of his seat, spilling the remainder of his breakfast all over both the linoleum floor and the apparition of a late swan. Since being covered in soggy cornflakes wasn't one of the swan's favourite hobbies, it proceeded to ruffle its feathers in an attempt to remove them, then waddled out of the room, leaving a trail of semi-skimmed behind it. John decided he would need another cup of tea.

On the Subject of Pie Archive

AlexAshman

21.09.06 Front Page

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