Written on the Last Train Home: 8/10/10

There is nothing more dangerous, or as threatening, as the barrel of a pointed finger, and the firing squad that greeted the Prime Minister on the cold December morning had him right between the eyes.

His had been the fifth voice of the day to declare itself "the first to admit that mistakes had been made, both costly and dangerous" but, as he had gone on to explain "the courage shown by ministers in their conviction was representative of the measures this government were prepared to take to get the job done." The soft soap had washed poorly with the public, some of whom demanded action, threatening "French-like revolts". Publicly, the PM cheerfully offered the dissenters a copy of the French partisans' track record, jovially asking which of the failed revolutions attempts the activists were hoping to replicate, but behind the closed doors of No. 10 he was as together as a Picasso. Trouble was coming, reigned in on the winds of vengeance, and tilled by the crew of the bloodthirsty and the furious. At best, he was looking at a forced general election, at worst: resignation. Despite the fact that everyone knew it wasn't his fault, no-one had felt the desire to acknowledge his innocence. His cabinet wouldn't help him, the egotistical swines, and the media were just as dependable for silence. Owing to either personal aspirations, lacking moral fibre, or protracted and bitter feuds (which the PM rueful conceded could stretch back as far a Balliol), none would come to his aid, and if the mutineers thought their captain was desperate enough to legitimately absolve himself, they were sorely mistaken.

War In The Cabinet

The unexpected surprise attack had flooded the country with a wave of fear. Demands were threatened, threats demanded, and a Minister of War appointed, whose first policy decision was to declare a state of open warfare with the offending nation. This was, the papers stated, exactly the kind of response the public had been crying out for, though the fact that the offending nation(s) had yet to be identified was something that needed immediate attention. Riding a wave of new found popularity, the PM appointed yet another cabinet minister, whose task it was to head the Office of Surprise Attack Detection; and deployed spies the world over to try and get to the bottom of who had been responsible for the explosion that had decimated a two-up-two-down in suburban Hull. Naturally, it was the French who were the first to suffer the scrutinising examination of Her Majesty's Secret Service, and when 5 spies vanished without a trace whilst tailing the French president through downtown Paris, fingers were pointed and missile hatches oiled. Denying responsibility was all well and good, the PM observed, but the fact remained that British spies had gone missing on French soil and if the slithy toads didn't produce double "Os" one through four ("nine" was seen as an acceptable loss) within the next 48 hours, swift and terrible vengeance would surely follow. Meanwhile, the Ministry of Surprise Attack Detection was doing a stand-up job. No attack had been made without them getting wind of it first, and civil servants began discovering the joys of a "sure thing" as they bet their mortgages on a car-bomb on the fifth at Doncaster.

When a British holiday maker was found dead in the water off the coast of Nice, the situation took a decidedly ugly turn. Desperate to avoid conflict, the French police insisted it had been natural causes, but the PM, to cheers and applause, insisted that two bullets in the back of the head was not, never was and never will be considered "natural". The discovery that the body had once been the property of a notorious drug smuggler sent a ripple of PR-panic through Whitehall, which transformed into a tsunami of pure terror when OO's 2 and 3 were found face down in a gutter in Amsterdam, a strain of an extremely toxic poison in their bloodstream. Carefully spinning it as dime-a-dozen drug-overdose, a vote-winning drive to raise narcotic awareness took the heat off No. 10 while the government continued to vilify the French, secretly adjusting their sights towards Holland. "Conclusive" evidence was discovered when photos of the two spies surfaced showing them being tortured and drugged for information. Proudly, the Cabinet released them, praising their heroes for their resilience in the face of suffering, and pledging to launch a relentless bombing campaign on the Dutch. Fortunately, the revelation that the images weren't depicting a torture session, but a Nazi fetish party came just in time to prevent the spies' posthumous knighthoods, but in terms of international relations the damage was permanent and the government bungle over the photographs developed into a very nasty headache as the papers and the people began to loose faith in their leaders abilities to deal with the anonymous - but no less real - threat.

Desperate to recapture some of the popularity that he had generated towards the start of the ordeal, the PM instructed the Minister of War to launch several small wars in impoverished, extremist countries. Promising the voters that this would root out the evil that had left citizens scared to leave their homes, the Minister of War, chest swelling with dignity, deployed troops into countries that had been chosen through the time-honored means of launching a dart at a globe. Even the initial praise that the Ministry of Surprise Attack Detection had enjoyed was starting to waver. With the bookies wise to the ruse, all bets involving terrorist activities were prohibited and the people, unable to profit from the department began seeing it for the first time through the cold, steely eyes of the taxpayer; and noticed flaws. While it was certainly true that the Ministry had succeeded insomuch as there had been no surprise attacks since it was formed, the general public couldn't help but question why this hadn't then led to all attacks being prevented. The observation was ruinous. In a hastily drafted speech, a nervous Minister for Surprise Attack Detection vehemently defended the work of his office, claiming that they had been instructed simply to detect surprise attacks (a task that had been routinely performed with success), but not to stop them. In a clever twist of logic, he also pointed out that once the attack had been foreseen, it ceased to be a "surprise" attack and as such extended beyond the responsibilities of his Ministerial duties. Seething, the public demanded action, if the MoSAD was not responsible for preventing un-surprise attacks, who the Hell was? The Cabinet the next morning was a sea of pointed fingers as the Minister of SAD sat calmly in his chair and lit his pipe, beaming. The Minister of Defence, whilst the obvious choice, removed himself from the proceedings, stating that he was already swamped enough with the attacks they already had to deal with, and that any more would bring them to their knees. The Foreign Secretary declared that it was the Home Office's job to take care of all events within the United Kingdom, while the Home Secretary furiously insisted that, as the attacks were coming from overseas, it was first and foremost the Foreign Office's responsibility. The Foreign Secretary retaliated, stating that no-one had a clue where the attacks were coming from, and the possibility that it was the work of terrorist forces within British Isles had yet to be disproved. For all anyone knew they could have been living here for years, they could even, he realised in a flash of inspiration, have been taught at our schools. Upon hearing this the Minister of Education, fearing the worst, struck out pre-emptively, insisting that no school under his charge was capable of teaching its pupils how to construct an explosive device of any kind, and that if the Foreign Secretary thought he could offload the burden with a cheap trick like that, he had another thing coming. A brief attempt to place it upon the shoulders of the Minister of Global Warming - on the basis that the attacks were destroying trees and therefore damaging the environment - was thwarted when it was pointed out that the welfare of vegetation was, strictly speaking, the business of Agriculture. Sensing an opportunity; the Cabinet rounded. Did the Minister of Agriculture not have a duty to British soil? Were the attacks not directly threatening that soil? Most importantly, could he find a loophole to wriggle out of? To these questions the Minister could only provide a weak, sickly smile; and the speech that he offered the expectant media outside Downing St. caused such confusion amongst journalists that no paper could bring itself to make it front-page news. Instead, they opted for the discovery of the missing spies, whose cover had been so deep that the MoD had lost track of them. However, the arrival of tractors into London along with a small army of farmers from East Anglia the next day did manage to crack the headlines. Not since the Home Guard had British Military looked so shambolic.

To the relief of the Minister of Agriculture, it took mere hours before the Prime Minister realised that a mistake had been made and it was not long before the Ministry of the Prevention of Discovered Surprise Attacks was created. In other circles, The Minister of War faced increasing criticism for his actions. To his name he had but a few small victories, each of them coloured by vast, devastating losses.

Afterlife

Two men are sitting in a room, one is asleep, the other (Michael) is rifling through a book stopping occasionally to check on the other. Presently the first man (David) stirs and Michael puts down the book to focus his attention on him

David

Where am I?

Michael

Do you want the good news or the bad news

David

The good news

Michael

You're dead

D.

What?!

M.

You dead, kapoot, gone, passed on, no more, kicked the bucket, get me?

D.

Oh my God

M.

YOUR God?

D.

Who else's God would I be talking to.

M.

If I were you, I wouldn't be too certain that you're even talking to yours.

D.

I don't care whose God I'm talking to……..I"M DEAD?!

M.

Yes

D.

And that's the GOOD news?!

M.

Okay, "good news" may have been a bit of a stretch, but it sure ain't bad news - just "news", I guess. Sorry about the labeling error

D.

So if thats the good news...

M.

No, not "good news", just "news". I thought it was good news, but I've changed my mind.

D.

So if thats the..."news"

M.

Very good

D.

What's the bad news?

M.

Ah, well...not that it will bring much comfort to you, but there's no doubt in my mind that this is definitely bad news. You definitely won't like it.

D

Well how much worse can it be than being dead?

M.

Infinitely; there's been a mix up.

D.

What kind of mix up?

M.

An identity mix up, you see, someone with the same name as you died at almost exactly the same time as you did - he was a bit of a bad egg and was due to be sent..."down there"

D.

Down where?

M.

"There"

D.

You mean hell?

M.

Well that's what you call it, we just call it "down there". Anyway, he was MEANT to go down there, but as you both died at near exactly the same time and you both had the same names, there's been a slight administrative error and you're due to go "down there" instead

D.

What?! But I've done nothing wrong!

M.

Well, we both know that that certainly isn't true...

D.

How do you know that, wait a minute, who are you?

M.

I, Michael, am your guardian angel - one of the best in the business. I tell you, I really had my work cut out looking after you.

D.

What do you mean, nothing bad happened to me my entire life.

M.

And you think that happened by accident, do you?

D.

Maybe you're just trying to take credit for something you had nothing to do with

M.

Perhaps.

D.

So this is the afterlife?

M.

No, this is the waiting room - the afterlife is still to come, not that it's too different, everything is pretty much the same here.

D.

So if there's an afterlife, does that mean there's a God?

M.

Why does everyone....you and your Gods. You're a funny lot, you humans. Well, if you must know, yes there is - not that you'll meet him, he's far too busy. He does have a universe to run, you know.

D.

What's he like

M.

What does it matter? He exists, that's all you need know.

D.

So...this administrative error.

M.

Yes

D.

What happens now.

M.

Well, realising there was a mistake, I've filed a complaint, and we are now waiting for someone to come and fix the problem. I didn't have to do that you know, bring it to attention - I could have left you to rot "down there"

D.

Why didn't you?

M.

I was feeling charitable

D.

So what is it like in Hell?

M.

DOWN THERE, it's pretty much the same as up here, just with much less pleasant people.

D.

Is it all fire and brimstone?

M.

It used to be, but the guys down there got a bit irritated by the heat, so they filed a petition to cool the place; some of the names they had on that list...I'm amazed they convinced them to get involved - they even organised a bake sale to help raise awareness and get some funding.

D.

A bake sale?

M.

Sure, the air temperature was at the perfect level for baking

D.

Really?

M.

As God is my witness.

D.

How does He feel about it?

M.

About what?

D.

About cooling down Hell?

M.

Chances are He doesn't know, he delegates a lot - trusted advisors and all that, tends to leave most of the day-to-day admin to others, not that we have "days" here, strictly speaking.

D.

Wait, let me think about those for a minute. So, I'm dead?

M.

Yes

D.

And in the afterlife

M.

Yes

D.

So, why don't I feel any different

M.

Any different to what?

D.

Any different to how I felt when I was alive, isn't there meant to be a big change or something?

M.

Or something.

D.

No seriously, aren't I meant to have some big realisation about the meaning of life, reach perfection, total consciousness and all that?

M.

When you say "meant to", who is that according to?

D.

It's what everyone else says

M.

And what do they know? Have they died? Do they have first hand experience of the afterlife?

D.

No

M.

Then what authority do they have to go deciding what does and doesn't happen after you die?

D.

I just thought...

M.

Well don't , it's very bad for you - some of your thoughts have made my job much harder than it could have been.

D.

Well how was I to know that?

M.

You weren't. But now that you do, I'd ask you to try to restrain yourself

D.

Now that I'm dead, what does that mean for you?

M.

Well, when this little discrepancy is ironed over I'll be assigned another charge.

D.

You get assigned charges?

M.

How else would we get them?

D.

Maybe you choose them

M.

That wouldn't work, you'd get all the guardian angels fighting over the best ones.

D.

So who regulates it, God?

M.

No, he delegates, he's too busy to deal with that sort of unimportant paperwork.

D.

He doesn't seem to do much

M.

Since when were you an expert?

Another man enters (Peter)

Peter.

Hello, Hello. Good. You're here, now, am I to understand there's been some kind of mix up?

D.

Yes, apparently I'm getting sent to Hell and I should be going to Heaven.

M.

No your not, you're getting sent "down there" and you should being going "up there". Although that's debatable, your life was hardly perfect.

P.

I see, well, whats your name?

D.

David

P.

David, David, ah, here we are: David

D.

Isn't there an easier way to carry that information around than in that?

P.

Like how?

D.

Like, I don't know, a computer?

M.

We don't have computers up here, they haven't been invented yet.

D.

They what?!

M.

They haven't been invented yet, you see, stuff here is invented by the same people who invented it there, and as none of the people who built the computer have died yet, they aren't here to invent it. See?

D.

So there are no computers?

M.

Not until the people who built them have died.

D.

Why can't God build them

M.

Delegation

P.

Now then, I've found your file, and there does seem to have been a mix up.

D.

Sorry to interrupt Peter, but have you met God?

P.

What?!

D.

Have you met God.

P.

There is no God

D.

What?!

P.

There is no God

D.

So how is there an afterlife?

P.

I have no idea, people die and then they arrive here, but there's no God, just us.

D.

So people just arrive here after they die?

P.

Yep.

D.

So who's in charge?

P.

We are, we run the place, sort out the paperwork, of which there is a considerable amount, and take care of any problems that arise, such as the one that has happened here.

D.

But who tells you what to do?

P.

We tell each other.

D.

Who decides who goes where?

P.

You mean Heaven and Hell?

M.

Half of the problems here arise from the fact that no-one can call anything by it's right name

P.

Well, we sort of all decided, we meet together and vote on who we think should be allocated where.

D.

So you cherry pick your favorites to live with you, and then send the rest away?

P.

God no, we choose those of the most worth, they may be hated by everyone else, but if they can be shown to bring desired attributes to Heaven, then we let them in.

M.

Bureaucratic toads

D.

You said God does exist

M.

He does, but he delegates all his responsibilities so that people don't know any better, you should consider yourself lucky I've told you.

D.

Maybe you're just lying to me about the whole "God"thing

M.

Perhaps.

D.

Does it not bother you?

P.

Does what not bother me?

D.

You die, reach the afterlife, and instead of getting the big explosion of knowledge and understanding you were expecting, nothing happens.

P.

Not really

D.

How

P.

You just realise that it doesn't matter. There's an afterlife, that is all one need know. True, it's origins are unknown but people don't seem to care about that sort of stuff so much up here.

D.

I don't believe you, if that's true then why do I care so much about God?

M.

Because you're not in the afterlife yet, you're still in the waiting room.

P.

It's possible you just haven't got used to afterlife up here. I promise that by the time you get settled in, everything will make more sense.

D.

What happens if I don't

M.

Then you're boned

P.

If I were you, I would ignore that pessimistic voice circling round your head - it will vanish once go get used to it here. Anyway...the mix-up

D.

Yes?

P.

It seems that there someone with the same name as you died at the same time as you did and the was an confusion of identity.

D.

I know

P.

How?

D.

I was told.

P.

Hmmm, anyway. It shouldn't be took tricky to fix, just need to get you to sign a few documents, so you won't sue us.

D.

You can sue up here?

M.

Sure, Laywers die too, don't they?

D.

Out of interest, this other bloke who died at the same time as me…

P.

Yes?

D.

Who was he?

M. and P.

David.

D.

Oh. Is he alright now?

M.

He's dead, and he's about to get sent "down there", what do you think?

D.

I don't think, it's dangerous.

M.

Very good.

P.

Here are your documents.

D.

What do I get if I win a lawsuit?

P.

What do you mean?

D.

If I sue you and win. What do I win?

P.

You won't be suing us, not if you sign these papers

D.

What if I refuse to sign.

P.

Then you won't leave this room.

D.

Then I'l sue you for holding me against false charges.

P.

If that's what you want then call a lawyer.

D.

Right, I will...where's the phone?

P.

Outside.

M.

Are you starting to see how things work here?

D.

Clever.

P.

Thank you. Sign here. Good, you're free to go.

D.

Which way

P.

Whichever way feels right.

D.

Right it is.

Exit Michael and David, only for them to enter immediately afterwards.

Matthew's Mistake

"I don't know why I bother, I slave away all day only for you to come home and throw it all back in my face!" she waved a finger threateningly at him. "Next time you can have beans on bloody toast!"

"Can you not bleed on the toast please" Deep within himself, Matthew had known that silence was the best (and probably only) safe course of action, but the opportunity had been too good to let pass by. She raised her head slowly and stared back with quiet, deadly calm.

"Pardon?" He weighed his options. To back down now would be to admit defeat; he had taken the first step, he told himself. He was committed.

"You said "Beans on bloody toast" and I said "could you not bleed on my toast, please", you see, I don't want my toast bloody," The hand that was holding her knife shook gently; he gathered himself and attempted to sip nonchalantly from his glass of wine.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Matthew. If you don't want you toast bloody, how do you want it?" She gazed innocently at him, though something told him it would be unwise to trust those eyes. He reviewed the situation; the question was loaded with hazard. He had, he realised, got in further than he had intended. He was deep in enemy territory and the Vietcong were closing in fast. The smallest bead of sweat announced itself on his brow and he wiped it off nervously, sensing a trap. He would have to be very careful, tripwires and proximity mines surrounded his position. She probed him further.

"Matthew? You didn't answer my question? How do you want you toast if not bloody?"...He tried. He failed. He broke...

"I want it well done,"

Game Over. She inhaled deeply and as she did Matthew realised that, despite his initial hopes, this would never become one of those incidents which they'd "laugh about in years to come". He felt almost sad, it had been a good joke and now it would go to waste.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were so particular about such things. In future I'll make more of an effort to administer to your needs. There was me thinking you'd be in the mood for a nice bowl of pasta, and all you really wanted was some beans on top of a lump of charred bread,"

"Well there's no need for chagrin, don't worry about it," He chanced a glance at her over the salad bowl; the pun had landed. There comes a point in any conflict when one side realises that they have lost, and the projected casualties are so extreme that all reserve goes out the window. Matthew was confident this point had been achieved. Indeed, until his mother-in-law was mentioned he was sure that the amount of damage he could cause had reached it's terminus.

"Chargrin?"

"It mean's..."

"I. Know. What. It. Means. Matthew." Their marriage, still a young one, had yet to witness its first argument - Matthew silently lamented that this would probably be their last "first". The point of no return far behind them, he decided to sit back, relax and enjoy this, their final milestone.

"I will give you one chance to apologise Matthew, and if you don't take it I don't quite know how I'll react," She looked at him measuredly.

"Well I'm just as excited to find out as you are, my sweet,"

It was a subdued and sleep-deprived Matthew that rolled into work the next morning. His eyes bore the tell-tale rings of a restless night, and he was irritable and short tempered. His colleagues couldn't help but notice the bruise that circled his left eye but they refused to comment on it, even though, if one looked extremely closely, the words " ...hn Lewis" could be seen beaten into it.

Confusing Commitments

"From now on, I'm committing to a total lack of commitment. And I intend to approach it with the same zeal with which I have approached every other commitment in my life."

His failure to commit to committing to nothing shortly led him to commit to everything, and soon he was chairing meetings, buying houses, getting engaged and taking up hobbies. He was depressed by his failure and resolved to try harder, but he couldn't and quickly began throwing himself with gusto into wedding plans and discussions about potential baby names. His bride was delighted, and basked in her fiancee's pitiful shortcomings, rubbing unneeded salt into his wounds by showing him off to all her friends and talking at length about all the somethings he had committed to, and never touching on all the things he had succeeded in failing to commit to; he had not had an affair; he had not left the seat up; he had not mastered card counting. Finally, he could stand the charade no longer. Without telling anyone of his plans, he secretly decided he would commit to everything. This daring game of reverse psychology was met with resounding success. The hobbies were gone, wedding plans scrapped, mortgages cancelled. His bride was shocked by this sudden, terrifying transformation - as were psychologists who, unaware of his secret plan to commit to everything, genuinely believed he had succeeded in committing to nothing. Papers were published, biographies discussed, world tours planned - but he failed to make a decision and refused to commit. This just drove the media even crazier, was there nothing this man could fail in not committing to? He became a hero overnight.

Violence at the Bar

Charles had many stories explaining how he got his scar, and he took great pleasure in recounting and creating all of them. The scar consisted of three lines that ran parallel across his right eye, and despite looking like it was sustained during a surprise panther attack, the list of those credited for it had included a sparrow, a gecko, and in one of his more creative tales, a blue whale. The perennial favorite, however, was that it was the work of a small and highly determined squirrel with "the fists of Tyson" and a short and unpredictable temper that Charles had flared while attempting to steal the tenacious critter's nuts; despite the "mighty firm grip" the little fecker had on them. Although he caught the bastard in the air as it flung itself towards him, the furry little swine, squealing and clawing maniacally, drove like greased lightning up his arm and would have taken the eye clean out of its socket had Charles not stuck the menace with his Leather-man. As it stood, he was just half-blind - a price he had willingly paid in return for a gold-standard conversation starter that he had learnt how to fully capitalise on over time. The one slight negative was that it attracted the attention of lunatics in bars, nutters who fancied themselves with a crowbar and would spend their entire evenings scouring clubs for acceptable "sparring partners". Due to his massive facial scar, Charles gave the appearance of a man who'd seen his way round a barfight or two, and while he thought that yelling "gimmie a shot o' whiskey" in a harsh, raspy voice at the barmaid made him seem enigmatic, powerful and attractive, all it did was draw hoards of knuckle-cracking behemoths, who would tap him gently on the shoulder to get his attention before ripping seven shades of shit out of him. It was after one such evening that Charles found himself in hospital with a bruise across his forehead that closely resembled Madagascar. He had been polishing off his fifth shot of whiskey with a pained expression on his face, eyes screwed closed and tongue out, when he had felt the tell-tale tap on the back of his shoulder that had the Pavlovian effect of causing his testicles to contract up to his liver in safety. But this time, he told himself, things would be different. Without uttering a word, he clenched his right fist, twisted round, and without even looking at the man who had approached him, swung hard with the kind of lightning-quick, Howitzer-sledgehammer display of force that a man doesn't get up from for a good 40 minutes. Owing to a combination of his compromised depth perception and drunkenness, Charles missed his target by a generous foot and a half and careered off, following for a brief moment the trajectory of his fist, spinning wildly out of control before slipping up on a puddle of beer on the floor and knocking himself out on the edge of the bar. He was taken, still unconscious, to the nearest A&E, where he woke up surrounded by guffawing doctors and giggling nurses; and with a concussion that was aided in no small way by a screaming hangover and an ankle he had twisted when he slipped up on the half-a-pint of Kronenbourg that some kindly stranger had thoughtfully deposited on the floor.

George's Bad Day

The differences between shouting in order to make yourself heard, and turning round and bellowing at a total stranger were explained to George far more calmly than they were received. Lost in a strange city far from home and trying desperately to get back to his hotel room, his irritated and fractious mannerisms had caught the eye of a kind and helpful stranger who had walked up and offered his aid. In his defence (which he clung to vociferously) George had gone several hours without food, and a low blood sugar level has never complemented his mood. However, the unavoidably fact remained that George had rounded on the poor man and screamed his destination with such unexpected venom and fury that the stranger had, wide-eyed with fear, pointed desperately at the first thing that had caught his adrenaline dilated eyes. Following the man's instructions, George had walked for twenty minutes before realising he had been traveling in the wrong direction and now he sat dejectedly spreading whipped butter onto his toast, and sipping with almost tangible loathing the cup of tea that room service had prepared for him.

"The yankee bastards didn't even take the bag out," He declared viciously "They have no idea, do they? The locals can't even navigate their own goddamned cities...Twenty minutes!" He tapped fixedly on his watch-face for emphasis "Twenty minutes I marched in the baking heat off the back of that swine's directions, Christ! I was halfway to Harlem before I even realised. I should have known we were staying South of the Guggenheim. In the end I got a taxi back, and the driver wasn't much better than the fool who'd sent me up there in the first place. His turban was wrapped so thick around his ears he couldn't hear a word I was saying, and even when he'd finally managed to he couldn't understand - English must have been his fifth language. I tried writing down the address and showing him the piece of paper, for all the good it did. He reads English about as well as I speak Afrikaans, and after this he has the cheek to ask if I know where it is on the map. Must have been the only complete phrase of the Queen's English the twit can summon up. I told him if I knew that I'd have been there a good couple of hours ago with a pot of strong tea and hot buttered toast," he stared menacingly at the shambles that lay on the table before him, "I see now that perhaps that may have been a stretch too far," he paused, taking a bite into the cold, soft toast and a sip from his tea cup, finishing with a look suggesting that what he'd just consumed had been befouled by the bell-boy that had brought it up. Following the treatment George had given him when he tried to order it, it would not have been altogether surprising if the poor, abused lad had taken the daring initiative to do so. "In the end," George continued "I got out of the taxi, throwing every insult at the driver I could conceive - a gesture that was repaid in kind, I might add - and got in another one. He wasn't much better either, but at least he didn't have a turban. He understood me after some struggle, but there was no way in hell he took me there on the fastest route. Little bastard must have driven me halfway round the city before we finally got here, the filching little toad, trying to double my fare," He took a small bite out of the toast before flinging it hatefully across the room, where it stuck butter side down to the wall and slid slowly to the floor. "And the berk didn't even take me round the scenic route, oh no. I MEAN REALLY!" He slammed his fist on the table, waved his arms in the air, and performed several other little maneuvers with his hands. " To fleece a man is bad enough, but why can't he make my time a little bit more enjoyable while he does it? The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Times Square - was I treated to but one of these historic landmarks? Of course not. I was allowed to gaze out onto the darkest and most disgusting backwaters this city has to offer," enraged now to an extraordinary degree, he had left his chair and began throwing himself around the room, his hand gestures continued and had become ever cruder and more impassionately executed. He raised his voice yet higher "There are parts of Chinatown that should be closed down, cordoned off, evacuated and leveled! The FILTH I saw!! You have no idea what passes for hygiene down there! I saw one man throw an open, seeping bag of God alone knows what onto the street and leave it there! And I checked," he waved a finger authoritatively in the air "the bins don't get collected in that part of town for four more days,"