CuiousPages - fiction and nonfiction
CuriousPages - fiction and nonfiction
Over the twenty or so years since, Spamming gradually increased in everyday society and today, due to the prevalence of Spamming, Samuel avoided contact with all people where possible, lest they attempt to sell him a penis enlargement product or provide him with information on a cheap source for pills to enable him to gain an endless erection, should he ever require such a thing, which, of course, he surely would do, because only winners had an endless, on-demand erection.
Samuel Pam walked into his eleven a.m. meeting and sat at the head of the conference table, around which his team were already assembled. They were due to hear a summary of the “Level 5” workgroup’s report into the eradication of the number “seven” from all arithmetic problems presented to children before the age of nine. A previous report had suggested this might remedy the fifty-fourth flaw identified in his own famous “Level 2” Spam report (the number of flaws had by now reached one hundred and twenty-eight, of which only thirty of these had so far been successfully resolved). Flaw fifty-four was of particular interest because it was thought it was this that caused people to use Spam to promote sex-related products. The whole Ministry was excited by the idea of eradicating the number “seven” from arithmetic problems because this approach had never been heard of before, and the workgroup listened in eager anticipation as Jonathan Springer, a bright, fresh-faced graduate, began the presentation.
Jonathan tapped on his laptop and a graph lit up the presentation screen. Geraldine, who was thirty-two next March and whose knees lost the ability to support her whenever she saw Jonathan, Geraldine gasped at the sight of the graph. George, who was forty-five and was taking early retirement next April, sighed impatiently at Geraldine.
Jonathan tapped another key and the following words appeared beneath the graph:
While cock enlargement surgery is expensive and sometimes dangerous, pills have been found to have no such drawbacks.
Samuel stood up and left the room. In the corridor a secretary approached him. She started to say, “You too can induce a heavenly state with your….” but he quickened his pace, stepped into his office and closed the door. His window opened onto a wide ledge which he stepped out onto, then sat on. This was his favourite spot in the building, the only place he could escape the Spammers. He sighed as he listened to the noise of the distant traffic. He looked down to the street, thought he saw someone waving up at him from the opposite pavement, then recognised the mad Spanish-looking woman who was shouting up to him and beckoning him to come down to the street. He edged back on the ledge, out of sight, and watched the windows of the building opposite, which was a call centre. He looked from window to window, watching the phone operators gesticulating at their screens. A few minutes later, he noticed someone tapping at one of the windows, apparently watching him, then recognised the Spanish-looking woman. He heard a voice, looked round and saw a man kneeling on the ledge a few windows along from him.
Primrose Jones was the chairperson of The Perception Residents’ Committee. She sat in her flat at 9B Festering Resentment Passage, waiting for Francis Meeke (the committee’s secretary) and Thomas Smithe to pick her up on their way to the MP’s house.
The most noticeable feature of Primrose’s home was her coffee table, which was piled high with back issues of her favourite magazine: The Vindictive Person’s Weekly Magazine of Hints and Tips on How Best to Get Your Own Back on Absolutely Anybody.
She sat on her sofa before the coffee table, holding the committee’s completed petition. She vindictively scrutinized its thickness and contemplated the joyous prospect of getting the constabulary back for their incompetence.
She recalled her one and only encounter with a police officer. He stopped her car, leant in her window and said, “Never mind the driving licence, madam, just lift your skirt for a moment while I try my truncheon out… Oh yes, no problem there; it’s a perfect fit. Right, on you go, madam!” Then he stood back and waved her on.
She thought this procedure odd at the time, specially that curious smirk he wore as he waved her on, but after a moment’s consideration she simply shrugged the incident off (—They are professionals, after all; they must know what they’re doing). But this experience, combined with all the other stories she heard while compiling the petition over the past two weeks—stories of the police rolling up their trouser legs and dancing in village duck ponds while singing. “Where, oh where have all the criminals gone,” and stories of them reversing road signs at crossroads and laughing at the frustration and worry scurrying about the faces of the misdirected motorists, chasing this way and that but unable to find their destination—all this left Primrose Jones in considerable doubt about their ability to apprehend the mass murderer. And on top of all this, when she read that day’s news, her malice towards the police become so great she found herself spraying the newspaper with (what, to the casual observer, might have looked like) an involuntary squirt of venom.
This latest news was leaked to The Perception Daily Chronicle that morning by a uniformed constable, one P.C. William Grass, who was working in Bright Spark House, the constabulary’s headquarters. He took a telephone message from an anonymous witness who gave a description of the murderer, and he placed the message in the in‑tray of a certain Detective Sergeant Humbug (whom we shall have the pleasure of being fully informed about later).

Nonfiction

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