The Ulterior Destiny of Missing Items.

 

While I continue to find that all manner of missing items have been donated to a svelte brunette who goes by Jerbine Parsker, I'm still not sure which tunnel I originally met her in. It must have been in the Summer months, either before or after 2011. I say that because in that year I was away on assignment for the National Drift. Prior to that, I engaged in numerous conversations about the practicality of inscribing any old variety of legend on the lower quadrant of a stack. With only one inch to spare I still managed to reach solid ground in under an hour. The light down there was horrible, but, really, it's the smell I'll never forget. I'm reminded of the time I passed a picture to a friend who was on his way to an underhanded affair. Prior to that, no one had thought him capable of independent action. Now he was even walking through casual get-togethers while pretending to ram into unsuspecting park-goers without giving it a second thought. I knew I had to get involved when his name was brought to me as photographed on the interior of a soiled platinum pellet. It was all I could to to avoid tossing my cookies. That's how shocked I learned to become. Their hair even became stiffer with time under a belt. This defies belief in a 'supreme being'. Not including Howard Hughes.

For all I know, people who live in sandstone structures sometimes feel as if the whole world owes them a special debt of gratitude. In my own life, it came at a particularly difficult time. My spouse was just getting used to seeing things appear in just a few seconds flat. For my part, it was a struggle to learn the ropes and maintain a consistent income stream while going out of my way to approach strangers with warnings of things unseen. Unseen, that is, if all you do is stand there with your head buried in your hands to avoid the light on the top side of an invidious comparison. In my own way, I always made a special effort to include the children of prehensile fabricators. They always seemed so innocent in their saddle shoes with persimmon braids. When one would call to me from the shed, I'd go in there to find them performing a scene from My Fair Lady as if no one could tell that the lines they mouthed weren't originally intended to be spoken with such an icy countenance. I would sometimes stoop to give their temperature the 'once over'. If I thought they were ready, I'd escort them to one of our larger fields and have them try their hand at throwing a miniaturized doll collar at one of the staffers who'd been collecting security medallions on our lower half. That would teach them a good way to become involved in notional matters. They'd never know the difference once their home had been painted in modest earth tones.

Would anyone ever express even the mildest surprise if all that had come before became somehow shielded, even without resort to metallic siding? The scope of the thing was, quite frankly, astonishing. I know only one person who insists that they never stood a chance when the pleats were withdrawn. A lubricator who incessantly lives in my shadow has taken to creating giant loops which would draw the attention of a certain tight-lipped constable whose appearance leaves  nothing to the imagination. By the time a remarkable dullness has invaded his clothing choices, you could count on him to try to set up a temporary soda station down by the tracks where our collections are stored for safe-keeping. He would sleep at all hours. I tried to get him interested in mandatory activities. He then accused me of working for 'them'. When I asked, 'Who is 'them'?', he answered 'Who isn't?' and then turned tail and ran into the middle distance where he was recorded asking around about positions in the recording industry writ large. I took that as a cue to take on a bigger load at work. Now when I think about it, I have to admit he had a point. But, I had one too. But it was concealed. In the sole of my left shoe. I couldn't get to it in time. So I had to wake up in the hospital and start enlarging my footprint. Is that an idea that people could live with? Not likely.

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