PPPI Gets A Case

He pulled the beret from the hook and fashioned it on his head. Years of wear caused it to fall into the position that it always had. On shutting the front door behind him, he saw his neighbour opening his. Home from the Night Shift. A curt nod echoed between them. They were separated by more than walls. He let his chair free wheel down the ramp before engaging the electric motor. Another nod, this time from the bus driver, his relationship with the bus driver was way better than that with his neighbour. "Hello", he said. It was a mere twenty minute journey into the town centre. He used the time wisely, to do absolutely nothing.

By the time he had reached the office, he had cleared his mind ready to face the coming challenges. He rolled the chair through the widened entrance way. Lights came on automatically. A few moments later, his assistant rolled her way through the door. They decided that tea was the best thing. As they sipped, the Postie appeared with a small bundle. The Postie was an inveterate source of mostly local information, but not today. After tea they sorted the post into three piles; yes, no and oh no. Today the yes pile was the smallest pile. The first two envelopes from the pile turned out to be just general enquiries but the third...

The third was a largest stiff brown envelope. "Bung" said Valerie. "Well, it would pay your wages." said Peter hopefully as he tipped the contents onto the table. There were several sheets of paper two small Ziploc bags and a green labelled key."Okay!" they echoed. On the first sheet of paper was written.

'INVESTIGATE!'

The best way to get a PP philosophical investigation initiated was to shout a lot or feeling that write down an instruction in strong, black capital letters. Peter and his assistant Mary smiled broadly at each other, spread all the papers out and then said almost simultaneously, "We need to call Paul".

The Road To

Peter Plumb became a wheelchair user at the age of 10. A tragic accident, an RTA in officialese. That's what they wrote on his hospital records. He was the passenger, mum and dad in the front seats had died in the ensuing fire. A passing driver had pulled Peter clear. Peter remembered nothing of this. When he came around from the induced coma a couple of weeks later his life had changed.

 

After several further weeks of recovery Peter started to notice the differences. Small at first, he realised that somethings he had previously found difficult were now easy. Well, initially at least, easier. When he returned to school, he suddenly found that subjects that were previously baffling had become straightforward, subjects that he already had a grasp of became staggeringly simple. 

 

Despite his wheelchair complications within two years, he had been moved to a specialist school and within another year he had started a degree in Mathematics and Philosophy and then moved almost seamlessly onto his PhD.

 

Now at the age of almost 19 he sat in his own office, a new office, with PP Philosophical Investigations etched boldly into the door glass. He waits his first client. It has been a long quiet morning and now as he is tucking into a rich bowl of sardine salad, into the office walks a woman. A young woman of indeterminant origins, and without preamble asks in an accented voice, "Of course, you do investigate road traffic accidents?"

The Weevil Eaters

The little people lived in the bole of a tree. Their home is festooned with artifacts taken from everyone within striking distance. The little people have a god, he is called O’Dan. They stole him from the big people. They keep him chained high in their tree. Whenever things are bad they climb the tree to worship him. When times are good the little people ignore him. 

There was the time when the tree was almost overrun with the Greater European Wood Weevil. O’Dan, the god, suggested after a lot of worshipping that the weevil would be good roasted with some butter. The little people ate well for a month. O’Dan was just relieved that they had stopped hitting him. 

The little people understood very little but managed to get by.

DNA Trail

On every Continent Cruiser there is at least one director's carriage. It is true that even on some of the the loops minor connecting lines there are some with corresponding carriages, but they are nothing compared with the ones on the loop. They are known as Mariposa Suites. They are opulence in a society otherwise without gratuitous demonstrations of decadence. They are a widely known secret. They are on occasion the target of the so called extreme luddite faction of the NFTA.

I have never been in one. Until now. A few weeks ago, it was early in the morning before my work day began. My wrist wrap started buzzing wildly. Wildly was a little of an understatement, overwhelming understatement. In fact I hadn't, and no one else I asked had, known they could do that. It scared the shit out of me. Then it started flashing. Wrist wraps are difficult to get off even when you're calm and relaxed. The skin insertions make it difficult. But that's what I tried to do and then when I realised it wasn't doing any harm, I did the relaxing thing. I took deep breaths karma really deep breaths. As I relaxed the buzzing and flashing eased. I realised that a message I was scrolling across the face of the wrap. The message said that I should go to an office in downtown two days later. I did, and now I'm here, about to enter and Mariposa suite.

As I approach the stationery cruiser my wrist wrap glows blue, I've been warned that this would happen. Then as I walk towards the rear carriages the blue changes to a sort of gold colour and the entrance ramp to the sweet folds down. A large, muscled security operative occupies the doorway. He looks intently at my wrist wrap, his eyes change colour to match my wrap. He may not be human. I haven't been warned about that but so many things have happened in the last few days that I wouldn't be beyond surprised. He moves aside, it is my invite inside. I walk cautiously up the ramp, its surface has a gentle give that absorbs my weight I am told that I am to meet with Brendon. Moving into the carriage away from the entrance, interior lighting increases. I realise then why they are called Mariposa, the colours, purples, yellows, pinks and oranges. Contrast with this, the character sat in all white robes. He's overweight and speaks in similar tones. Is Brendon and he is offering me a job. Not a job, so much as work, private work for Brendon. The obvious question and he just smiled, explaining in his flowery manner. DNA trial. My father, I never knew him, carried out similar work for Brendon and others of his like. Successfully, very successfully. I clearly looked bemused because he said, it's in your DNA. We can see it. But I was a simple production line worker, contributing what I could. You will be good at it. Go home and wait. And that is it. 

I'm heading down the ramp when my wrist wrap starts doing the buzzing thing. I take a deep breath and look down. My credit account is increasing rapidly. I have never seen it do that before. I have a feeling I might find that these wrist wraps can do an awful lot more than I ever knew.

No Appeal

Crayford Burns had spent the last 20 years working in the Department for Undelivered Mail, popularly known as the dump. He will not work there for much longer. They, the management, are making redundancies. Crayford and his two fellow dumpsters are to go. Subsequent to their departure the undelivered mail will be held in a holding pen for the obligatory wait time and then automatically incinerated. The policy is known as postal synergy. 

For the last month Crayford has been secretly taking as much mail as he can possibly fit into his daily knapsack without arousing suspicion home with him. His home is at the top, 15th floor, of tower block number z37 in suburb i7. The z indicates that the tower is occupied by unmarried, mostly, men - i suburb is for unqualified workers. From the single large window Crayford can see across the east of the city towards the mountains. In the summer months he often gets up early and watches the sunrise, occasionally glimpsing a purple light cast upon the city's armoured border posts. The view is slowly being consumed by the growing piles of undelivered mail from the dump. Crayford has persuaded his to coworkers, to at least assist him, with the absconding of the seemingly unloved, unwanted mail.

Why did Crayford care? He didn't. It was just something he felt the urge to do. After 20 years he couldn't stop. On the last day of the dump he was giving his reassignment. He was to be repurposed at the Transport Allocation Department but he wasn't required for three weeks. So, a holiday but nowhere to go. No matter, he never went anywhere anyway. He would use his time sorting and analysing the undelivered mail that had rapidly grown to a small mountain. He would start first thing tomorrow. 

First thing tomorrow there was a loud banging at the door to Crayford's accommodation. Surprised, as he never got any visitors, he opened the door wide. On reflection he wasn't sure who he was expecting, but the six upright armed militia that marched straight in were not on the list. The obvious leader handed over a sheet of closely printed paper while the other five started stuffing the piled but unsorted mail into large green postal sacks. When he looked at the paper the lead militia man had given him it seemed that his reassignment had been reassessed. He was to be dispatched with immediate effect to the farthest most border post where he would spend three years on solitary watch. Watching, but no one ever came to the border. Crayford was handed a large pair of binoculars and a one way travel warrant. 

He was reassigned, no argument, no appeal.

Paying The Black Tax

From the roughhewn parapet of our bastle I could see them. A ramshackle band of about fifteen. At their vantage, despite the cold autumn mist, they must see the black sack hanging from our boundary post. 

One of the band pulled away and slow trotted his hobbler down from Spotters Rise and across the bog. Reaching the boundary mark he hoisted the sack across his sturdy pony and headed away, raising his fist in salute. 

I hollered down through the trapdoor. ‘They’ve taken it, they are heading off.’ There was a palpable sense of relief. We could relax until spring.

A Lunchtime Session

Bradford was half way through his pint when he felt it coming. It built slowly, eventually he could no longer contain it. The fart ripped between his cheeks, bounced off the chair and echoed loudly around the oak lined bar. Colin, the barman, and the few other lunchtime customers turned their heads sharply. Bradford, who had a mouthful of beer, attempted to apologise. What actually happened was a decibel shattering belch. The air was rich with multiple unctuous odours. Bradford flushed. The lunchtime drinkers as one, got up leaving Bradford alone to his miasma. Colin, the now reluctant barman, vomited.