Choggy's Finished Stories Page

The Blockage

I don't remember when I wrote this story, exactly, but I wrote it because the idea at the very end (I don't want to give away the ending if you've not already read the story, so I'll just say the sentence referring to snow) occurred to me as a really interesting mental image, so I pretty much wrote the story around that image. On reflection, I'm not certain if the rather abrupt ending - though it seemed a good idea at the time - is the best way to end the story. I may work on that in the future.

'It's in the living room, here,' said Mr. Roston as he led me into what was possibly the largest and most grandiose room I had ever seen. 'I mean, we don't really need a real fire, it'd just be nice ... sort of cozy, you know?'

'Hmm. So what actually happened?' I asked.

'Well, I'll show you.' Mr. Roston replied. He crumpled up a few pieces of newspaper and placed them in the grate. Then he put a fire lighter on top and piled on a few logs.

He took a box of matches from his pocket and a spill from the high mantle. He lit the spill and touched it to the fire lighter, which began to flame after a few seconds.

After a minute or so of silence, a reasonable fire was alight. It burned with a beautiful, warming glow which soon took the slight chill off the room.

'So,' I asked, 'What's ... '

'Shhhhh!'

I was rather annoyed to be silenced in such a manner, when I plainly had a question to ask. However, I held my tongue - after all, this man was paying me, so I'd better do as he said.

After a minute or so there was a faint noise. I couldn't quite identify where it had come from. It was partially a moan, partially a whistle and sounded vaguely like it had been made by a trapped animal. I was unsure why, but for some reason the noise unsettled me.

Immediately, the fire was doused. There was no reason for it to be extinguished, but it went out as suddenly as a snuffed candle. The chill returned to the room with a vengeance, as thought the grate had never contained a fire, but had instead been iced up.

I reached for my coat, and struggled into it, but it offered very little comfort. I was chilled to the bones.

'See?' said Mr. Roston, shivering.

'Odd.' I admitted, 'How old is the house, have you any idea?'

'Well, according to the research my wife and I conducted, it seems to have been built some time in the mid 1600's

'Hmm. Has it been occupied all that time?'

'Well, now.' He said, 'When we moved in, in March, the house had been all but vacant since the war. Apparently, most of the previous occupants moved out, shortly after a bomb hit the out-houses. An old dear stayed on, to look after the place, and had lived here, in just three rooms, ever since. We bought the house about six months after she passed away.'

'This room had actually been blocked up.' he continued, after a short pause, 'I have no idea why, it offers the most wonderful view out over the gardens and to the valley. It faces west, so you can view the sunsets from here, too. We've had some marvelous ones this summer.'

'Have you had the chimney swept, at all?' I enquired.

'Well, no' Mr. Roston looked confused, 'We didn't think chimneys needed sweeping these days. Do you think that's what the problem is?'

'Well, it seems reasonable. You see if the chimney is blocked, or sooted up, the hot air and carbon dioxide can't escape. They would then tend to back up and smother the flames.'

I could reason all I liked, but I didn't believe myself for one moment. The huge room would contain more than enough air to sustain a moderate fire for hours. And besides, a fire which was starved of oxygen would die slowly. It wouldn't extinguish itself in an instant.

'Do you have a broom handle or a long pole of any type?' I was beginning to shiver myself, 'And I'll need a few sheets, to cover the furniture - this could be messy.'

'Ah, yes, out in the back there are a few long garden canes.'

Mr. Roston bustled out of the room and returned a few moments later with several canes, the longest of which was about seven or eight feet. He was also carrying several old sheets and blankets, most of which were splattered with paint.

'Thank you, that long cane should be perfect.' I said, as I took the canes from him. 'Perhaps you could help me cover the furniture.'

When all the furniture was covered, I suggested that Mr. Roston might like to stand back from the fire, so that he wasn't covered in soot, if the chimney was blocked, as I thought. I took my coat off again and put it in the hallway, with my bag.

Mr. Roston was standing behind me and to the left, presumably so that he could get a good, supervisory view of what I was doing.

I inserted the end of the cane into the fireplace and pointed it towards the roof.

'Right,' I began, 'this should dislodge some of the dirt, but you will need to get in a professional chimney sweeper, to clean the chimneys properly, particularly if you intend to use them on a regular basis.'

I poked the cane around a little and dislodged a lot of soot and grime. Then I hit something solid.

'Ah, the chimney appears to be blocked.' I coughed, as soot got into my eyes, mouth and nose.

I bashed the cane against the blockage a few times and it began to work loose. A few more forceful shoves and the obstruction tumbled into the fireplace, in a plume of soot, that was the mortal remains of a thousand fires.

When the clouds cleared, and we stopped coughing, I think neither myself nor Mr. Roston could make sense of what we saw, for a few moments. There, in the fireplace sat the crumpled, insubstantial form of a small boy.

The boy's shirt and breeches were torn and dirty. What was left of his curly, once blonde hair was grimy and knotted. His face was filthy and he was, in more ways than one, as thin as the air of which he appeared to be composed.

As we stood, stunned and watching, the tiny, angelic, blue-eyed child looked me in the eye and smiled. He seemed to have been relieved of a great burden.

His mucky little face showed the signs of tears, and his face and knees had, in life, been grazed. His feet were filthy with soot and blood.

Then the apparition walked forward a few, shaky steps, brushing itself down. The soot which he brushed off his clothes, fell to the carpet and melted, like snow on a warm hand. I wanted to run, but I was paralysed with fear and awe.

Then the boy touched his forehead, in a gesture of respect and the apparition faded, as we heard a faint voice say 'Thank you'.

On investigation, the fireplace appeared to contain the bones of a small child, who must have been dead for at least a hundred and fifty years.

'Well, Mr. Roston,' I said, cleaning grime from my hands and face with my handkerchief, 'that appears to have been your problem.'

He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, and then shut it again when no sound came out.

'I suggest you call a chimney sweep to clean the chimneys more thoroughly. Preferably one who doesn't employ small children. Oh, and you should probably call the Police, about the bones.' I added.

Mr. Roston, understandably, still seemed lost for words.

'I'll see myself out. Good-bye.' I said as I left the room, collected my coat and bag, and headed towards the front door.

"Take me to your leader", said the small, green, bug-eyed creature, in a bad L.A. accent.

The crowd roared with laughter.

"Take me to your leader", it repeated. Again its request was met with derision and mirth.

"What, " it thought, "is wrong with these 'humans'? A perfectly reasonable request, phrased in terms that they can fully understand, yet they fail to supply the appropriate response."

"Earthlings, " it continued, "I am a member of a highly evolved race from a planet near the system you know as Alpha Centauri. Take me to your leader."

Now what? They just walk away when you introduce yourself? Had they not been viewing their instructional broadcasts? From the few he could intercept, he had learned that when a creature of another race tells a human to take it to his leader, the human should walk, stiff-leggedly with its arms outstretched giving the response "Yes master" in a monotone. Yet not one of these knew even that much.

"Please?" it tried, but now they had all walked away. All but the young one, with the garment adorned, the alien assumed, with his nominal. Perhaps he should address it directly?

"Adidas, take me to your leader, please".

"Who're you?" asked the young one.

"I have explained already, I am a highly evolved life-form from a planet near Alpha Centauri."

"Is that in Merica?" asked the young one.

This was highly confusing to the alien. Surely the young one knew where Alpha Centauri was, he looked as though he must be at least five earth cycles of age. He must have been truanting from his astronomy lecture periods.

"No, it is in a galaxy, far, far away." explained the alien.

"Are you from outer space?" asked Adidas, with what the alien assumed to be surprise.

"Yes, that is what I have already explained. Now, I have a very important mission to complete, please take me to your leader.".

"Do you know Dar Fader?"

"Who?"

"Luke Skywater's daddy."

"Who is Luke Skywater?"

"Hands Solo's friend."

The alien was beginning to think that this specimen must be of subnormal intelligence. "No, I don't know Dar Fader, Luke Skywater or Hands Solo. Please take me to your leader."

"Will Mummy do?", asked Adidas. "She's over there, talking to Aunty Gemma"

"Yes, ", said the alien, beginning to despair. " 'Mummy' will do.". Perhaps the being named 'Mummy' would show more intelligence.

Mummy was about 14 units high and had long red hair.

"Take me to your leader." he demanded.

"He's from outer space and he doesn't know Dar Fader, Mummy." explained Adidas.

Mummy looked stunned for a short time and then she began to laugh, like the others.

"It's one of those practical joke programmes, isn't it?" said Aunty Gemma. "Where's that Beadle, bloke?". She began to look around.

Exasperated, the alien gave up all hope of communicating successfully with these humans and returned to his terrain vehicle. He was about to board it when a human touched the part of his body that would equate to a shoulder.

"You can't leave that there, mate.", said the human.

"Take me to your leader?" tried the alien.

"Yeah, very funny, pal. Just move your horse, before I give it a ticket."

"Certainly." replied the alien, wondering what a ticket was, and why the human should wish to give one to a vehicle. He spoke the predetermined command words, "Hi Ho Silver". The vehicle's anti-grav servos kicked in and it rose about five units into the air. Just before his terrain vehicle sped upwards into the atmosphere and towards the mother ship, the alien noticed that the human looked amazed. It's lower mandible was bobbing up and down and it was saying "B-b-b ...". The alien flew off, satisfied in the knowledge that he had finally elicited a standard response.

Jake drained his glass and wiped his mouth.

'Well, I'd better be off, fellers.' he said. 'Suzy'll kill me if I'm not back before ten tonight!'

'Ahhhh, you're hen-pecked, mate. Completely under the thumb!' teased Phil.

'Hey, gimme a chance ... it's our anniversary, what do you expect? If she'd had her way I'd not have been here at all!'

'Go and see your wife, then kid, I suppose we've got to let her at you once or twice a year, at least.' said Steve.

'Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll see you all whenever. Take care.' and with that, Jake left the Kings Arms. He walked to the corner and walked out onto the road. Then he saw the car heading towards him. He tried to dodge, but it still hit him.

'I've broken my leg!' he thought as he fell to the floor. He didn't get a chance to think about how he knew, because as soon as he hit the floor he was knocked out.

oOo

When he came round, the car had gone. He couldn't remember what type it was, or the registration number, so going to the police would be somewhat futile. But he supposed that a hit and run incident should be reported anyway. There may have been witnesses. First though, he needed a drink. He dragged himself off the pavement, where he had landed, and dusted off his jeans and coat.

When he walked into the pub, he didn't get the jeers he had expected.

'Hey, guys!' he said. There was no response. 'That was a bit too close for comfort!'. Still no response, they were ignoring him for some reason. 'I said, that was a bit too close for comfort. I was crossing Church Lane just now and this car hit me and then drove off. I think I broke my ... '

The realisation that his friends could not see him dawned at the same time as the realisation that if his leg was broken, as he had known it was when he fell, he should be having trouble walking on it. It didn't even hurt.

'You're new, aren't you?' said a voice from behind him. He turned to face a boy in period costume.

'Er, no.' said Jake, confused. 'I've been coming here for about five years. Why are you wearing those weird clothes? And who are you anyway? You don't look old enough to be in a pub.'

'I'm Hal. I think you misunderstood. I know you've been here before, what I meant by 'new' was that you've not been here since.'

'Since?' now Jake was really confused. 'Since what?'

'Since your event. You do know, don't you?'

'What on earth are you talking about?' said Jake, who was beginning to get annoyed.

'Ah, you don't know, do you? I'm sorry if this comes as a bit of a shock, I've never had to tell anyone this before, but ... er, ... you're dead.'

'Are you trying to threaten me? I'm a brown belt in Karate, you know, I could take on you and ten of your mates any day, wimp!'

'Er, no. You are dead. I'm not threatening you, I'm stating a fact. You are no longer alive. Didn't anybody tell you?'

A shiver ran down Jake's spine. It was the strangest feeling he had ever had, because whenever it had happened before, it did at least feel like the shiver was running down his spine, rather than just a spine that happened to be in the general area of his body.

'Don't worry, it's not as bad as you always think it must be, when you're alive. Being dead, I mean.' said Hal, reassuringly. 'It's pretty much like being alive, except that people rarely see you and you don't age.'

Jake was beginning to believe the kid. He spoke with such authority and he did seem to be right about people not seeing him.

'So. Is that it? I'm just dead. Full stop? I mean, don't I get to ... well, I don't know ... ask questions or something?'

'Well, ' said Hal, 'What do you want to ask? I've been dead for coming up to three centuries, I know most of what there is to know.'

'Er ... ' Jake was suddenly lost for questions. 'I don't know. Don't I go to heaven, or hell or something? I never really believed in religion, but I never believed in life after death, either, and here I am.'

'Well, we don't know, really. Maybe you do next time. There's as little knowledge of the after-death when you're dead as there is of the after-life when you're alive.'

'What? You mean I can die again?

'Yes.'

'Oh.'

'You'll stop worrying soon. You've obviously only been dead a few minutes ----- you stop worrying about things like that fairly quickly and just, sort of, get on with it.'

'Oh.'

'It sounds like you're getting into your stride already, actually'

Jake decided to state the facts and see if they made any more sense that way, 'So,' he began, 'I'm dead. I can't say good-bye to my friends, or my wife. I don't get to go to heaven, but I don't go to hell either and I may or may not die again.'. They didn't. 'So now what?'

'Well you do whatever you did in life, really. The only thing you can't do is change your appearance. But it doesn't really bother anyone. We're all stuck with the same appearance. You get used to it.'

'I suppose you would, yes.' said Jake. He was coming to terms with it now. At least he wasn't burning in hell for sleeping with his wife before they were married, like his Dad said he would.

'Well, then, ' said Hal, raising Jake from his thoughts. 'If you've asked all the questions you want answered, do you want a drink?'

'Well, if this is it, ... I'll have a lager, please.'.

This story was written as a spin off from the late Douglas Adams' "Hitch Hikers Guide To The Galaxy". I have borrowed heavily from said work, for names, style and units of currency. If you don't know "The Guide" well, a lot of this story may well be somewhat lost on you.

Kevin hated his name. And for twenty six years he had hated his mother for it. Dad was, of course, blameless in that particular department - well how could you blame someone like him for anything? It's difficult to argue with his mother at the best of times, but if you're a double-minded narcissist and can't think about anything past where your next mirror is coming from, you're zarked!
Zaphod Beeblebrox the minus first. That's who he should have been. Kevin is a perfectly acceptable name, when combined with a normal surname - like Philips - but Kevin Beeblebrox? It just didn't work.
His name was the source of all his problems. It was because of his ridiculous name that he had never managed to make it in the music world. What self-respecting band would employ a drummer called Kevin Beeblebrox? Certainly not a band of the calibre of The Original Disaster Area. They had reformed so many times their recordings had to carry a statement that they contained minimum 20% original musicians, but none of their current or past members had a name as stupid as his.
That is why he changed his name. He wasn't sure whether to keep the Kevin or the Beeblebrox, so in the end, he decided to scrap them both. In favour of Heemwell Riddlesbridge-Quarper. His new name was a piece of inspiration. A truly fine name, which was bound to impress everyone upon whose unworthy ears its stately syllables descended. Including Detective Inspector Happleswell Thigpen of the Altair Police Department, 16th Precinct.

"Mr. ... Er ... Riddlesbridge-Quarper?", the stern looking man inquired.
"Um ... " said Kevin/Heemwell.
"Mr. Heemwell Riddlesbridge-Quarper?"
Kevin remembered that he was in one of the most up-market bars in the cosmos. The kind of place where your bank manager was contacted for a reference, before the Bouncers would even let you through the door. The kind of place where you had to tip the glass collector. The kind of place where it mattered not a jot what or who you knew, but whether your socks were by Zandra Sphaceways or Jean Paul Galaxy.
"Well, ... " Kevin/Heemwell protracted "that rather depends upon whom it is who is asking, doesn't it, old being?"
DI Happleswell Thigpen slanted a look at the young PC to his left. "Let's just say I'm an interested party."
PC Jarguraat smirked, as if to imply that Kevin/Heemwell would be better off if he introduced himself. Like his face would still be in the same order tomorrow morning. PC Jarguraat was good at looking thuggish. The facts that he was about seven feet square, built like an Intergalactic Supertanker and had a flat nose, close cropped hair and a tattoo of a spaceship crashing into a small planet on his left arm were almost as telling of his personality as the fact that when he worked "undercover" he wore a jacket with "Kill, slaughter and indiscriminately persecute" scrawled onto the back in red paint (replete with dripping gore effect.)
"An interested party, eh? Well, I am Heemwell Riddlesbridge-Quarper, what can I do for you?"
"Okay, Jarguraat," Thigpen bawled, "Cuff 'im!"
This was the bit of the job that Jarguraat really enjoyed!

"Oh come on, Mr. Riddlesbridge-Quarper," complained DI Thigpen, "You're wanted in at least 23 solar systems. You know it, we know it ... now if you just tell this nice Constable what you've done, we can all go home and get a good night's kip."
"Re can?" mumbled Kevin/Heemwell through a facefull of broken teeth and a seriously skew-whiff nose.
"Well, I say 'we'. You can't, of course. You'll be taken to the Altair Seven Remand Centre where you will await trial on Altair Six"
"How rong'll dat take?"
"Well, it's only about 80,000 astronomical units from here ... if you fess up now, you should be there by ..." Thigpen glanced at his watch "Thursday"
"No ... " sighed Kevin/Heemwell "de renand? How rong will I ee on renand for?"
"Oh, virtually no time at all, Mr. Riddlesbridge-Quarper. They're cutting down on the queues in the Courts of Altair Six - keeping the trials as short as possible. Your hearing would probably be within ... oh, seven, maybe eight years."
"EIGHT EARS? Bud I'b innocet"
"I fully understand, Mr. Riddlesbridge-Quarper. Everyone at Altair Seven Remand Centre is innocent." Thigpen grinned, "Until proven guilty."
"Ad how bedy exac'ly are brooved guildy?" asked Kevin/Heemwell, worried by the prospect of serving eight years before even being judged.
"Oh, about 100%"
"Aboud 100%? Aboud 100%? Whad precisely is 'aboud' 100%?"
"Well, for the last three fiscal years, the average conviction rate has been 99.998%" butted in Jarguraat, who had a good head for figures.
"Whad aboud the odher 0.001%"
"He died in custody"
"Bud I'b iddocent, I ca'd serve eight 'ears in sobe hell hole for sobedig I haved't dode before by case is eved heard!"
"They are very short years on Altair Seven, you know. Only 73 days. Of course, the days are 152 hours long."
"Oh, gread! Whad ab I subbosed to have dode, adyway?"
"Arms dealing" grunted Thigpen.
"BUT I'B A PACIFISD! I've dever dowingly beed withid three huddred yards of a gud. I hate violedce ... I'd a bember of de See Ed Dee for Zark's sake!"
"Not arms dealing," sighed Thigpen, "arms dealing. You know, the things that stop your hands from falling off? Hook neatly onto your shoulders? Bend conveniently half way along?"
Kevin/Heemwell gagged.
"We have evidence that you supplied the fleshware to, among others, one Mr. Zaphod Beeblebrox I, President of the Galaxy. Bodily enhancement is perfectly legal throughout the galaxy, but there are certain codes of conduct"
Kevin/Heemwell's face froze at the mention of that name. He found it hard to imagine that Dad's arms were stolen. A bizarre image of the Venus de Milo flickered into his mind. Next to the Venus, Zaphod was standing with arms made of perfectly smooth, white marble. Then the phrase 'codes of conduct' drifted across his brain and connected with the phrase 'bodily enhancement'
"Hag od ... Codes of coduct? Like whad?"
"Well, the donor has to be dead at the time of donation, for a start!"
That was it. Kevin/Heemwell retched violently and vomited onto the floor of the cell. A Klensbot shuffled out of a wall panel and started to blot at the mess with a mop which looked as though it had been made from the leaves of the lesser spotted Wigglethret plant, a hydrogen based life form considered virtually a weed on the small purple skyed planet, Callisto Epsilon. The mop was actually made of the mane of the Slaargtopple beast, also from Callisto Epsilon. The mistake is understandable, because the Slaargtopple beast has evolved to look like the lesser Spotted Wigglethret in order that it can hunt its favourite food, the Barlgi Frog. Unfortunately, due to a cruel twist of fate, the Barlgi Frog is only found on Callisto Beta, thirty five thousand astronomical units from Callisto Epsilon, but that's Fate's sense of humour for you.

Sixteen thousand light-years away, the real Heemwell was in the middle of a very important business meeting. He slugged back yet another shot of Janx and tried to remember that he was the vendor in this deal.
"Look, old pal ... you know me, I'm as honest as interstellar travel is dull ... I just can't let this fleshware go for any less than 5,000 Altarian dollars. Plus, of course tax at 49% and carriage at 3,000A$ per item."
"3,000A$ for carriage? That's a bit steep, isn't it?"
"Well, you've got to pad these things well. You wouldn't want your new face to arrive with a broken nose, would you?"
"I suppose so, but that still only comes to ..." the client did a little hasty mental arithmetic, "11,920A$. So, how come the price you're quoting is 25,000A$?"
"Overheads" said Heemwell, then added "Pardon the pun"
"Like what?"
"Well, come on, old feller, a man's got to live!"
"That's your commission? You're taking more than the cost of the goods for yourself? That's daylight robbery!"
I'm sure the donor would agree with him, thought Heemwell
"Look, that's the price. I assure you that I'm undercutting my competitors by at least 35%. And my goods are generally ... fresher."
"Yeah, but ..."
"Look, if you want to check out my competitors, feel free. I have here, the rate cards for First National Bodyparts, A1 Fleshware and Acme Limbs Inc."
The client studied the prices for a moment.
"Will you take a Altarian Express?"
"That'll do nicely, Sir."

Once the client had left, Heemwell stayed to finish his drink. A small non-descript man approached him.
"Heemwell?"
"George?"
"Heemwell, it's been millennia, how are you? Are you still calling yourself Martin Smith in Altair?"
"Oh," giggled Heemwell, "Yeah. A bit naughty of me, I know, but I'm in some trouble down there. How's business George?"
"Well, I quit my job at the bank. Retrained."
"What as?"
"Well, I'm here to serve you with a court summons, does that answer your question?"
"Oh."

"Look, Halfrunt, I don't give a damn, this guy is being subpoenaed to be in court on stardate 399823.872. And he had better damn well be there"
"Vell, his body may be, but hiz brainz vill be here vis me, being serviced. Ze prozess of servicing a brain is ve-e-ery delicate and zis operation vill take at least two montz."
"Can't you give him a courtesy brain or something?"
"Vell, I cout, but zen you vould have viz you in ze court room someone entirely different. He vould only look like Zaphod. If you vish you may speak vis my client. It vill take a few moments to hook up ze neuro-audio translators ..."
"No, that's okay ..."
The answer to his problems hit Thigpen like an oncoming Juggernaut. He smiled a 'Gotcha', put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and called across the office.
"Hey, Mike, can we subpoena just a brain? You know, if the body is ... sort of ... missing?"

Shrinks are good liars. They learn to displace the guilt. The philosophy runs something like this: I have lied, therefore I have done wrong. I learned my schemas of the concepts of right and wrong from my Mother. Therefore I have only done wrong if I accept that my Mother's value judgements are correct. My mother made me eat my greens. A little of what you fancy does you good, it thus follows that a little of what you dislike will do you harm. I dislike greens. My mother was therefore trying to harm me when she made me eat my greens. Due to evolution, selfish genes and all that jazz, I do not trust the judgements of people who try to harm me. Therefore I did not do wrong in lying.
Gag Halfrunt is especially practised in this particular form of spurious logic, which explains why Zaphod's brains were not in for a service and were, indeed, safely stowed away in his respective heads.

Zaphod's mobile phone shrilled a request for his attention.
"Uh, like this is Zaphod, who's that?"
"Zee, old pal, it's me, Heemwell"
"Aitch, long time no hear, how's it going, frood?"
"Uh, not too good, actually. I'm in a bit of a pickle. You know your third arm? Well, they've arrested me for the sale ... only it's not me ... there's this kid and he looks the spit of me and he's calling himself me only he's not and that's who they've arrested and they've called the real me as a witness only they think I'm Martin not Heemwell and ... uh ..."
"Hey, Aitch, like, slow down frood, what are you wittering on about?"
"Well, ... "
"Hang on Aitch, can you hold? I've a call on the other line ..." Deftly, Zaphod switched to the other line, "This is Zaphod, who's that?"
"Hi, Dad, it's Kevin. Um, I'm in some trouble"

"The procecution calls Martin Smith, your honour"
Heemwell was called and took the stand.
"Mr. Smith, please raise your right hand and read from the card"
"Which one?"
"Pardon? Oh, I see. Any of your three right hands will do fine, Mr. Smith"
"Okay, I, insert your name here, do solemnly swear ..."
"Uh, Mr. Smith, you're supposed to say your name"
"Oh, sure, sorry. I Hee ... uh, Martin Smith do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Mother"
"Mr. Smith, it says so help me God"
"I'm an atheist."
"Oh ... fair enough."
The attorney for the prosecution rose to his feet and sighed.
"Mr. Smith, where were you on the evening of stardate 399816.907 at roughly 6pm, central galactic time?"
"Uh ... I can't remember, was that Wednesday or Thursday?"
"Let me refresh your memory. You withdrew funds from the cash machine across the street from The Purple Pygmy Nightclub in New Harlem on Altair 2."
"Did I?"
"You did. Request to submit item 32d to the jury for examination."
The judge snuffled in his slumber. The prosecution took this to mean "okay"
"We have photographic evidence, Mr. Smith. The item the jury are currently studying is a Securi-sat print of that area taken at the time that it is alleged that one Mr. Heemwell Riddlesbridge-Quarper conducted what is known in the trade as some really dodgy business."
"Um ..."
"You, Mr. Smith are in a position to have witnessed said transaction"
Heemwell cleared his throat. The courtroom seemed to have become intolerably hot and stuffy all of a sudden.
"Uh ... I guess I may have done."

*****

"Heemwell Riddlesbridge-Quarper, the international arms dealer, is still at large!" said the news reader, rushing to finish the phrase before the next sting of the background music to which the news was being aired. "The guy the Galaxy thought was him, wasn't after all ... (zing twing-de-twang) ... Kevin Beeblebrox had been posing as Riddlesbridge- ... (twingly twang-boom-zap) ... Quarper, unaware of the felon's history of crime ... (zang le-twang-de-zzzzip) ... Kevin Beeblebrox has been released ... (de-doo zee whoop) ... And his father, Zaphod Beeblebrox, Galactic President and hoopy ... (be-zwoop lah-de-bosh) ... frood has been cleared of receiving stolen goods ... (twing bop-de-zing) ... more news on the hour ... "
Heemwell waved an arm through the sensor space of the HoloV's off switch.
"Another beer, Zee?"
"Cheers, Aitch, I don't mind if I do. I have to say, I was very impressed."
"Well, you know, you have to learn a little about the law in my line of work. I knew that Securi-sat photograph was inadmissible as evidence under regulation three-seventy-two, section ninety-one slash epsilon of the Penal Reform act of 363906. I'm pretty surprised that the prosecution didn't really. What the hell do they teach these damn lawyers nowadays?"
"I know, I know But hey, what would you have done if they had found out you are you and prosecuted you? I mean, they'd have found evidence from somewhere, surely?"
"Well yeah, Zee, but well I've gotten myself a good Lawyer. A very good lawyer. They say you can judge how good a lawyer is by how much he charges, you know - the grounding for the argument being that if he's good enough, he'll get paid no matter what he charges. And let me tell you, this guy charges an arm and a leg!"

I wrote this one quite a while ago and just found it recently. It grew from my thinking too hard (probably while under the influence) about the whole international date line concept and how it was theoretically possible to move back in time by one day just by crossing the date line. Of course, that's not what's really happening, but like I said, I was probably under the influence. ;)

"Er ... hello?" called Calvin, into the darkness. It seemed a feeble thing to say, under the circumstances, but it was all he could think of.

He hated this... this place. He had done ever since the first time and it just got creepier each and every time he had to come here. You'd think they could at least provide some light of some sort.

A disembodied face appeared in the inky blackness, uncomfortably close to his own. As usual, he tried to look away from its serene expression and unnervingly blue eyes, but no matter where he looked, the face was there - even when he closed his eyes. It was rather unpleasantly like being a well painted portrait, whose eyes were forced to follow its spectators around the room.

A second or two later, the visage spoke.

"Please hold the line. Your call is in a queue and one of our operators will be with you shortly. The Kingdom of Heaven thanks you for your patience."

A chord from a lyre hung in the air, at once soothing, mesmerising and infinitely unwelcome. Never enjoyable, piped music is least welcome when it's completely inescapable.

The image of the face blinked slowly, smiled serenely and then flickered back out of existence.

Calvin shivered. The phrase 'someone just walked over my grave' screeched to a halt in the front of his mind, arrested by the distinct possibility that it was true.

A different face appeared in front of him, more animated and real, though never the less flawless.

"Thank you for holding. My name is Gabe, how may I help you?"

"Could you put me through to my case worker, Mary, please? My name is Calvin DeBraig."

"Certainly Mr. DeBraig. Please hold while I try to connect you."

Gabe disappeared and after what seemed, and had probably been, an age, Mary's face appeared.

"Cal... hi babe - I've been meaning to contact you with the good news! Joe found a loop hole and it looks like a goer. You know all those international trips you had to take? Well, if you add up all the hours you lost - not to mention all the days when you crossed the international date line - you're due about an extra two months. Joe's getting all the paperwork sorted right now and you should go back to when you left just as soon as it's all official."

Calvin smiled his relief: "Thank you so much, Mary, you're an angel ... well, obviously, but I mean ..."

She smiled "Hey Cal, it's my job. Make the most of your lost time"

***

"Yes! We've got a pulse ... thank Heaven. Nurse, get on to intensive care and get this guy a bed ..."