Colliding Eventualities: Report.

 

If I'm ever called out of a meeting and my clothing gives off a strong aroma of wrinkled paper trinklets, then anyone who lives within a mile or two of my former inlaws should be asked to get their affairs in order because there's a very long road ahead of us. On the other hand, what is it that gives some people the right to loiter in doorways, write stuff in stolen notebooks and look for all the world like a good examples of actionable computer wraiths? I ask because in all the hubbub surrounding our appearance at an annual shielding festival, I seem to have lost touch with my grooming aide and, given the time of year, just cannot be bothered to give her folks a call without letting a few details slip. They're all about keeping a lid on emerging difficulties, whereas I'm never not in the mood to be bowled over by some of the looks I get while I explore dry wells the world over. You can train them once and you won't live to regret it. However, if you go for Number Two, well, .... the sky itself has a limit, if I'm being honest.

So, we worked on her car until midnight the next morning. I'd placed my favorite jacket in a secure duct for safekeeping. Her undergarments were found on a road at least three hours from here to the East. I rounded up one of my premier crews and laid it on the line. They were, by turns, incredulous, disconsolate, insufferable and not a little volatile. No one has paid me to say this or anything else. Which means there's no money in the bank if one of my lackies turns a downmarket key in a very suspicious lock and we decide to move together as one into an overbroad lake in more ways than one. When I say that I have a right to suspect irregular marauders of handscaping a look-see, then no one in their right mind will think it proper to do double duty while a Christian contemplative rides shotgun on a molecular veranda. It's not for nothing that they pack them in groups of three for just this reason and not much more.

It'll be kind of a 'pay-me-down', rather than the more customary 'pay-me-over' affair once we've been assured that a linked fissure will be ours for the asking. If no one ever quizzes you about our plan to inter a noxious monad with the personal effects of an abortive skell, could you please guarantee us that you won't stand near a tank of liquid nitrogen while providing back-up for one of the most halting excuses of an Executive Affairs Assistant that anyone's ever seen? The only reason we feel the need to iron this out is the one which you yourself actually put your finger on when we exposed your teenage daughter to sunlight in the most speculative way imaginable. And yet still you prefer to play the 'dumb' card and go about your business without first getting the go-ahead from our Comintern or one of its many proxies in the field. This will leave a serious mark on the record which you like to keep daily. In view of the above, we'd like to have you entertain the notion of faster-than-light travel when the truth is finally set free to roam about without compunction. You are all we have left and now even that is washed away like a tidal frumcake. Happy?

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