A Salad Too Far

By Neil Swallow

A scifi dramatic comedy of farcicaly romantic proportions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326277499

Book preview

A Salad Too Far

A Salad Too Far

or

Circularity is the Mother of Inversion

by Neil Swallow

Praise for A Salad Too Far:

'One of the best books I’ve ever read' The author

'One of the best books I’ve ever written' The author

'One of the worst books I’ve never read or written' Another author

'not A very good book' Sympathy Dexterity

'I never said that' Stephen King

'This book never fails to generate a laugh – when I tell people how much I paid for it.'  A guy who thought he was buying a cookery book

'If you only read one book this year why not read a good one instead?'  Gilbonnet L. Queracnid

'don't Read this book!'  Gradient Slowmuller

'This book is FULL of wonder – I wonder why I bought it, I wonder why I started reading it and most of all I wonder why I didn't burn it three pages in.  Then I remember – I did.'  Sephran Pomlgadst

I don’t have time to be dishing out random, philosophic sound–bites, for you to be including on your book.'  The Great Cosmic Onion

Praise For the Author:

'Erm',  Michael McMichaelburg

Also Available By the author:

Check back here later.

Copyright © 2011 Neil Swallow

The right of Neil Swallow to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published  in 2011

by Lulu.com

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN  978-1-326-27749-9

Author's Introduction

Books.  Stories.  Tales.  Yarns.  Pamphlets.  Leaflets.  They all have introductions... well, some of them always have introductions.... some of them, sometimes have introductions.  This bit is the introduction to the gripping story/tale/yarn, 'A Salad Too Far'.

The following story/tale/yarn has taken hours of research (two) and days of writing (three), and contains many, zany adventures that you will soon be able to read about in my next book 'The Zany Adventures From A Salad Too Far'.  If you don't want to wait that long, why not read about them in this book instead.

Whilst, at first glance, this story/tale/yarn is light-hearted enough in nature, look beneath the pages and you will find many more pages.  Look beneath those pages and you will find layers of meaning that mean they have many meanings.  This means many things to many people. 

As a result of all the meanings, and due to the hours of research (two), that I have undertaken, there may be several, more, or even no terms or concepts contained in this story/tale/yarn that you are not familiar with.  If you come across such a term, please do not feel embarrassed, ashamed or inadequate if you have to refer to the Glossary (Appendix B) which I have included for embarrassed, ashamed and inadequate people.

A cast of thousands – including many celebrities – has been employed to enhance your enjoyment and to aid your understanding of the marvels contained herein.  Please feel free to also refer to the detailed character/actor/actress/singer/milkman biographies included in Appendix C.

Now.  Sit down, relax, close your mind, open your eyes, move them from left to right and slowly downwards, read, enjoy, and most importantly, pay for .... a story/tale/yarn of insignificant significance or significant insignificance – whichever is more significant...

A Salad Too Far (or Circularity is the Mother of Inversion).

Neil Swallow 10th April 2011

Pre–Prologue

As the force crushed the last breath from his failing body, he reflected on his recently ruined home and the fact that he still hadn’t managed to pay his phone bill (which had been an unusually high £42,005.72p) this quarter.

With the final darkness descending and, faced with an eternal future of either bleak nothingness or euphoric delirium however, he thought,

Sod it, they’ll never catch me now. Let the buggers cut me off!

Finally, wishing with every ounce of rapidly failing strength left to him  that he could have been somewhere – anywhere – less painful than this, he was just beginning to wonder how come he was getting so much time to think for a man who had recently become less than two centimetres tall, when he ‘died’.

Prologue

Bob Chubbb wasn’t a fan of life, but at two thirty pm, on Sunday the twelfth of November, he changed his outlook completely – and forever – and for about forty three seconds. 

Suddenly he had a purpose in life and the first thing the new–and–improved Bob was going to do was change his name. Bob Chubbb was dead, along with all the overwhelmingly amusing comments people made when he signed his name.

Ooo sir you are silly – you’ve put too many 'bs' on your name.

Those days were gone and so was Bob Chubbb.

Yes, Bob Chubbb is dead. Long Live Bob Chuddd!

Had he been given the time to reflect on this monumental decision, Bob may have realised the potential futility contained in his error.  He may also have judged this whole life–altering, home destroying, money–owing experience to be some unfathomable form of divine intervention into his name–challenged life.

He may have realised or achieved many things.

Unfortunately, the two–tonne, fifty–foot, blue, steel pickle falling from a trendy, new 3–D advertising billboard had other ideas on the meaning of the term 'inspiration from above'.  Or rather, the shifty looking chap who pushed it had other ideas – two–tonne, fifty–foot, blue, steel pickles rarely have ideas of there own – rarely.

Part One - New Romancer

There are some people you like immediately, some whom you think you might learn to like in the fullness of time, and some that you simply want to push away from you with a sharp stick.

Douglas Adams  –

The Long Dark Tea–time of the Soul

Section 1  :

Health Warning:

Please note that the following tale is not particularly good.  It is strongly advised that you lower any expectations you may have regarding any possible enjoyment being gained from reading it.

Sub–Section 1 :

Warning:

You're expectations are still too high.  A bit lower please....

Sub–Par–Section 1 :

Lower!

Chapter 1: What Do You Mean, ‘A Cardboard Box’?

Excuse me, I plsssppperrrrrrlast!

You 'plsssppperrrrrrlast''?  What the hell are you talk…..?

Elroy G. Prim – a man neither called Bob, nor who – as far as he was aware, knew anyone called Bob, was, in general, a fan of life.  Whether his lack of any 'Bob' associates was a reason for this, he simply did not know – but nor did he let it eat away at his every waking thought. 

Elroy enjoyed getting out of bed, enjoyed his work and his house and his shoes and his cat and his cat's unusual habit of biting left–handed civil servants whenever they dropped by.  In fact, the only thing he didn’t enjoy was science fiction.

I believe his exact feelings on all things alien/time–travelling/inter–dimensional/trans–warping–fluctuations in science fiction – and indeed science fact, were, 'codswallop'.   Hence the title of his new book:

'Codswallop: My exact feelings on all things alien/time–travelling/inter–dimensional/trans–warping–fluctuations in science fiction and science fact.'

the lucky publishers of which were bound to realise that they were lucky enough to be the publishers of said tome at any moment.

Yes, life was pretty sunny according to Elroy G. Prim.  That was of course until he saw a total stranger crushed to death beneath a two–tonne, fifty–foot blue, steel pickle from what could (with imagination) be called a trendy, 3–D, advertising billboard.

Seeing someone reduced to a somewhat pizza–esque appearance – albeit a large pizza (with anchovies), was bad enough, but what really made the experience infuriating was the way the man had seemed to be on the verge of saying something profound to Elroy just seconds before his untimely end.  Now that the pickle–crushing had occurred though, Elroy would never know what that something was going to be.  Don’t you just hate that?

****

He'd woken up that morning via the usual method of no longer being asleep, combined with a curious sense that someone was buried up to his or her knees in the flower beds of his back garden.  Not bothering to check on such an unlikely scenario and with half a piece of toast (the top half), two–thirds of the way down his neck (the middle two thirds), he fussed his way out of his house, closed the front door behind him and prepared to set his intricate security system to the traditional house–vacating 'on' position.

At this point however, a tap on his shoulder, tapped him on the shoulder.

Hello there, helloed a stranger, are these your windowsills?

Elroy followed the man's pointing finger all the way to one windowsill even as that very same digit progressed on its merry way to the next, in order to justify its owner's pluralisation. 

Yes, indeed, he gloated.

Excellent.  In that case these must be your windows.

The cornered window–owner sighed.  He'd fallen for the oldest double–glazing–sales trick in the double–glazing–sales book.   Yes, he admitted, reluctant as a spaniel on a bridge.

"Then do I have an offer for you!"

Elroy kicked a cat that may or may not have been his and began to walk down the street, away from the man and his undercover double–glazing–sales van.

The man insisted on following and in his haste to avoid more eye contact, Elroy bowled over a Sikh on a bike.

Well, to be honest, he stammered, picking himself off the Sikh, I'm just on my way for some breakfast at a new continental festival, around the corner, before ....

What I have to tell you will blow all the food out of your mouth.

I certainly hope not – that half a piece of toast I just ate didn't fill me up much, so I'm pretty hungry.  The last thing I need is you blowing food out of my mouth before I get to send it on its way to my belly.

It was just an expression, explained the man as though to a simpleton. 

It's difficult to believe Elroy had a pre–prepared plan to evade being sold double–glazing at eight o'clock in the morning, but it was more difficult to believe that the subsequent rambling, diversionary, conversational–tangent could be accidental – that would indicate a very unstable mind.  It continued.

Hmm, it's not a phrase I'm familiar with, and after speaking the English language for nearly twenty years, let me tell you, I've picked up most of the known phrases by now – as well as one or two of the unknown ones.

That may well be, but... twenty years?  The salesman look perplexed

Yes indeed.  Does that perspex you?  Ho, ho!

Ho, ho?

You know – perplex/perspex ... flat, transparent material, formed into sheets .... glass .... double–glazing....  No?

No.  The man didn't seem willing to budge on this point so Elroy shrugged his elbows.  What I mean is, continued the ever–less–likely–to–succeed sales pitch, you look a teensy–bit older than twenty.

I'll be thirty four, fifteen months ago, last year.

The man quickly gave up trying to work that out on his fingers.  And yet you've only been speaking English for twenty years?

Oh, yes – but twenty years is a long time you know – ask any burglar.

"So what's your first language?"

This confused Elroy who was not seeing the temporal discrepancy.  English.  I told you, I'm an expert by now.

OK.  Well, perspex aside, it certainly is an odd language, I'll grant you that, said the salesman, desperate to return the topic to whatever it was he was supposed to be selling.

How so?  came the unwanted, conversation–extending reply. 

You know, like having words that mean more than one thing.  

Like?

Like...erm, 'there', or 'can' or 'bear'.  Or...or...

Three?  

Three? The man forgot one of the golden rules of sales at this comment and began to lose his cool with this cucumber.  Don't be ridiculous, what on earth does three have to do with it?  Three is three – the end. 

No it isn't.  

"Name just two different uses of the word three."  

OK.  Three dogs and...  For a moment Elroy began to wonder if he had indeed spoken rashly, but then it struck him ".....and three knees."

You've not quite grasped this have you?

The two of them had covered roughly the distance it takes to talk sixteen litres of twaddle and were still motoring along at a brisk pace, but Elroy stopped suddenly at this point, hoping the man would get confused and carry on walking without him.  Unfortunately, for some reason the ploy backfired – as ploy's are want to do.  Or is that cars?  Anyway....

Anyway. said the man, redundantly.  Windows.

Elroy glanced at his watch and then relented.  Go on then.  Wow me!

Clearing his throat in a most professional manner, the salesman began to do what he did best.  If what he did best was selling double–glazing rather than clearing his throat in a professional manner then things may have turned out very differently.  But it wasn't and they didn't.  My name is Voigt Kamph and I represent Soler–P glass, he announced, "the soler alternative."

He handed Elroy a business card which our hero examined respectfully before dropping to the floor.

Don't you spell solar with an 'A'?

With a what?

You know, an 'A'..... for Andromeda.

That's a bit of a strain –  Saler powered?  No, no, no, I really don't think so.  

Good point, Soler–P glass it is.  What does the P stand for?  

Powered.

Powered?

Exactly.  The sales pitch was in full flow now and the man was quite literally jumping around in excitement.  Tell me – which part of your house is always facing out to the sunlight?

The roof.

The literal jumping was replaced by literal stopping.  That answer was clearly unexpected. 

Granted, he said slowly, "but apart from the roof?"

The walls.

"Yes, yes, OK, but apart from the walls?"

A light came on over Elroy's head. 

That's odd, the street lights don't normally turn on at this hour, he mused as he looked up over his own head.  Apart from the roof and the walls...  The windows?

He's got it!  Voigt was genuinely delighted and the jigging had resumed in earnest.  So why pay money to power your windows with electricity from a plug–hole...

Socket.

"...when all that sunlight is already out there, freely available and already beating down on those very window?"

That... is absolute.... GENIUS!  The connotations were staggering to Elroy's psyche and the implications were almost twice as boggling.  Immediately however, a potential flaw occurred to him.  Hang on though, what happens at night?  

Well, I don't know about you, but I go to bed with a good book.  

No, no, what happens to the glass?  

How do you mean?  

"If the glass is solar – sorry, soler–powered – what happens when the sun goes down?"  

It gets dark.  Believe me though, that happens regardless of the type of glass you have installed. 

Exactly.  

But who wants to look out of a window at night, anyway?

As though this was the only reason he could think of not to purchase 'soler' powered glass and with that objection met and overcome, Elroy agreed to buy the downstairs windows and subsequently get the upstairs ones for three times as much.

Well, said Voigt, after a binding handshake, it is at this juncture...

At that juncture he ran away, got in his undercover, double–glazing–sales van and drove away at high speed.

Wait! screamed Elroy, impotently as he ran after the odd salesman, What's a juncture?

****

With the events of his morning behind him and the promise of some pretty state–of–the–art windows ahead of him, Elroy had gone about his day as normally as one can when one has no normal way of going about one's day.

Walking along a busy stretch of road outside a row of shops, the man  excusing himself with a 'plsssppperrrrrrlast' pulled Elroy out of a strange urge he was having to check his phone bill again (which had been unusually low this quarter). 

Taking in the tragedy of the pickle/pizza/squashage scene behind him, he would undoubtedly have gone into considerable, sugary–tea–requiring shock, but shouts of Look, There, Up there and Look up there, caused him to join his fellow pedestrians in 'looking up there' at a small, decidedly shifty – if familiar, looking chap as he jumped down from an empty, one hundred foot, pickle jar and landed as safely as a small, shifty–looking cat, on the pickle below.

After a quick glance around with a pair of eyes which simply oozed failure, the chap then dropped the final few feet to the ground beside Elroy, whispered, I will spare your life for a cardboard box, and – after receiving no such hand–out, ran off.

What?

What? squeaked a remarkably fat and mildly ugly woman stood next to Elroy.  One of the many things he could never seem to explain in life – one of the BIG questions, if you like – was why there always seemed to be a fat woman stood near him.  What did he say to you?

Me?

Yes, you.

Well I’m not sure it was aimed directly at me, but he said, ‘I will spare your life for a cardboard box’.

PERVERT! she screamed, slapping Elroy a cracker on the face just seconds before fainting clean away from what the doctors later labelled 'a fainting spell'.  The genius of modern medicine in action.

What?

Elroy was quickly coming to the conclusion that he was still tucked—up, asleep in bed, having one of his cheddar–induced episodes.  ‘Maybe,’ he thought, ‘I should pinch myself and....’

OWWW!  Dazed from being called a pervert and then slapped by a complete stranger for the first time in at least three days for just mentioning a cardboard box, Elroy had failed to notice that everyone else in the now expanding crowed of rubber–necking pedestrians had suddenly turned their attentions upon him and – assuming he had said or done something untoward to the fainting, fat woman had – in a bizarre coincidence to his current train of thought – started pinching him.

Pinch him.  Pinch him! came a rumbling chant, emanating from deep within the crowd.  As the rest of them took up the low chant this same chant—instigating voice demanded,

What did you do to that woman?

Nothing…OUCH!  Stop that

What did you do, what did you do? the altered chant insisted.

I, OW, only said, OUCH!

You said what?  Ouch?

No, I only…  WILL YOU STOP PIN…  OW!  I only said, ‘I will spare your life for a cardboard box’!

The crowd went silent.  En mass, they gradually backed away.  Then, through the general gasps of terror coming from all over the now – not inconsiderable, assembly,  He was going to kill her! gasped a business man on his day off.

And now he’s threatening us! screamed a school teacher moments before a completely unrelated heart attack.

Yes … and all for a cart–horse in a box!

No, no, no, pleaded an exasperated Elroy, trying to clear up the wrong misunderstanding,  not a cart–horse.

A pony then?

What ?!

A Shetland pony.

No.

A race horse?

NO!

What’s wrong with Shetland ponies – I’m from the Shetlands – I've lived there all my life.  Not once in my quiet, unassuming and mundane life have I ever ventured from my village and now, along comes an ugly looking murderer who tells me my ponies are no good, cried an anguished voice, in a broad Spanish accent.

"I’m not a murderer – where did that come from?  Look…  As Elroy was about to explain the situation once more to those loonies still listening, a somewhat more important fact sank in, What do you mean ugly?"

Well, let’s face it, you’re no oil–painting are you? replied the Shetland Spaniard.

"I’m not ugly.  It’s this woman who was ugly," retorted Elroy, pointing at the woman he was rapidly coming to think of as 'that–ugly–woman–who–got–me–into–this–mess'.

That really did the trick.  Those in the crowd who had started to leave and those with even less sense who were still there, all gasped with equal vigour.

Even when she’s dead he can’t leave her be.  Were the two of you married?

Look.  I AM NOT UGLY.

Vain, too.  Now they were talking amongst themselves and if anything Elroy was even more put out by this than being slapped and pinched.

No I’m not ….. look, that’s not the issue anyway.

Well, what is then, ugly–boy?

A MAN HAS JUST BEEN REDUCED TO NO MORE THAN PICKLE JUICE AND THE PERSON WHO DID IT IS – AS WE ARGUE –  FLEEING THE SCENE.

Various cries of It was you! You did it! I love it when he’s angry!  What man reduced to pickle juice? and Do pickle’s have juice? prompted Elroy to re–establish the facts of the situation so far.

Look…

Where?

Shut it!  Look, I didn’t kill the pickle–man.

That’s right, came a voice of reason.

Thank you.

No, he killed the woman who’d eaten his Shire horse, came the voice of slightly reduced reason.

WHAT ABOUT THE MURDERER? screamed Elroy.

Is he ugly too, ‘cause that would just be too much.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!

Chapter 2:  Flimsy Grip on Consciousness

What did you mean ‘a cardboard box’?

Sssshhhhh, hissed the shifty, little man. 

Actually, now that he was up close – or as close as the stench allowed – Elroy noted with surprise that the man was taller than he had first appeared.

Beginning to sense that he may well spend the rest of his life trying to explain his predicament to a crowd of people whose only intellectual inferiors were the massed nincompoopery of an X–Factor audience, Elroy employed the old 'Oh–my–god–is–that–Simon–Cowell' trick and – whilst these masses were busy looking in the direction thus indicated, he had followed the timeless ruse to its ultimate conclusion and legged it.

Fleeing the crowd, he had then stumbled along several – thankfully deserted, highways, bi–ways and alleyways before a foul smell crept up behind him and dragged him into the yard of a local, Bolivian take–away.  After very nearly losing the snails he had partaken of for breakfast that morning, and upon completion of the obligatory grovelling for his 'worthless–and–poor–honest–I–haven’t–got–any–money' life, he realised the stranger had no ambitions of ending it anyway.  A fact backed up by his snoring.

That’s the travelling, said the man in muffled tones achievable only by a mouth covered with a pink scarf, after Elroy inadvisedly woke him up rather than running away.

What is?

That makes me look smaller.

Eh?

And smell bad.  That’s the worst bit actually.

Make sense you fool.

You were wondering why I look taller than I did before.

Yes, but how….Look, never mind all that, why did you kill that man?

I didn’t.

Yes you did.

I never touched him.

Of course you did – hundreds of witnesses ... witnessed it.

I didn’t.  Officially, death was brought on by a pickle.

That you pushed onto him from a great height!

It never happened.

I beg your pardon?

It was aaaaalllllll a dream, said the man in his best wavy, 'it–was–all–a–dream' voice, before ruining the perfect get–out by trying to add some credibility solidifying additional information, induced by having just met your future self, who had recently appeared to you in the form of a snail after his/your space/time injunctional, control/measurement kite failed/decided not to integrate his molecular, particle structure correctly.  Essentially, it lost his inverse pattern matrix you see, and had to choose an alternative form as quickly as possible, whilst producing a reasonably close personality match in order to avoid any permanent mental degradation.

Really?

No.

Eh?

I’m sorry, I just made all that up in a last ditch attempt to convince you that I’m a normal person and not an intra–dimensional, time–bending assassin on a secret mission to kill you.  Not a bad story though – someone told it to me a while back when I got into a similar scrape to the one you’re in now.

I wasn’t aware….sorry, would you mind standing a bit further away please?

Oh, yes, of course.

Thank you….WHAT??!?!  You’re an inter–dimensional, time–bending assassin?

"No, no, no, no.  It’s ‘intra’."

Intra??

Intra–dimensional – nobody goes ‘inter’ these days – its just not spacial.  Anyway how did you know that?  No–one's supposed to know that.  Classified it is – for her eye’s only.  The man took a menacing and wholly unpleasant step forward.  Well that’s torn it – now I’m going to have to kill you.

Puzzled, Elroy pondered this for a second before replying.

But you were going to do that anyway weren’t you?

You know my mission as well?  Oh this is just fantastic.  Have you got crystal balls, or what?  Well that’s it, I’m finished, he sighed like the smelly assassin he was, my cover is pickle–juice.

Elroy winced at the inappropriate reference but, before he could begin to question whether or not there was even such a thing as pickle juice, a more important thought struggled to the murky surface that currently passed for his consciousness.

"Hang on.  So I didn’t meet my future self as a snail, but you are from another time and dimension……right?"

"Well, OK you did meet yourself as a snail."

I did?  When?

The assassin spent several minutes trying to press several minute buttons on an a ridiculously oversized wristwatch that appeared to have almost no more features than that of a normal watch with too many buttons.

This morning, said Mr. Smelly–verse, with a hint of surprise in his manner and voice.  Didn’t you notice?

The only snails I’ve seen today are the ones I had for breakfast at Frenchie's Fast Food, Fry and Feed Festival, this morning.

You ate the snail? queried the walking incarnation of the word pong, before mumbling, hmm, that didn’t happen last time, seemingly to himself.  Ah….ermm…OK…alright…forget that bit, we’ll wing it!

Wing it?  Hold on, cried Elroy, "what do you mean ‘Forget that bit’?  You can’t tell me to forget something in a tone that’s screaming 'Oh crikey, he ate the snail' and seriously expect me to forget anything.  He was a tad concerned – after all, the implications were a mite more serious than say, biting your own toe–nails.  You’re trying to tell me that I ate a future, snail version of myself for breakfast at a cheap and extremely tacky French fast food joint’s opening two–pounds–off–with–a–coupon–special–never–to–be–repeated–because–we’re–French–bonanza?"

Yep.

And you’re a time–travelling assassin?

Well…in a word…..yes.

You’re bonkers, mate! observed Elroy before fainting from a lack of nice smelling oxygen.

Chapter 3:  An Unpainted Garden Gnome

On regaining his now infamous, flimsy grip on consciousness – if not reality – Elroy took a few moments to consider what he was sure was to be his last few hours of not being a long–term resident of the local funny farm.  After then, somewhat pointlessly considering if he even had a local funny farm (I mean they aren’t exactly on every street corner now are they, and why farm?  Why not Zany–Zoo or actually–quite–a–normal–aquarium), he surveyed the surroundings he had had little time to take in during his discoveries of a few moments earlier.

The yard he occupied was a mere twenty feet square and contained only the three old, dark, grey, brick walls that defined its boundaries and the dank looking forth wall which now served as his pillow – wall which was almost certainly the rear–end of a Bolivian take–away.  This, a conclusion drawn from the unmistakable smell and from the pool of maggot–imitating rice and noodles he was now encased in (it was Chinese day at the Bolivian take–away). 

The bare concrete floor of the yard would almost certainly have been preferable to this mess for two reasons.  The first was that, due to the flowing motion of some of the rice, Elroy wasn’t entirely convinced it was simply imitating maggots.  The clincher however, was the rat that popped its bloated rear–end up from within its lunch/home to welcome its new neighbour.  Neither Elroy, nor ratty were particularly impressed by the others company.  The rat fled.  As did Elroy.  Well, he didn’t so much flee as roll…slowly, off the mound of soggy noodles into a puddle of, arguably, preferable grease.  He couldn’t move.

Elroy summarised: 

In all he had seen a man get entirely squashed, had been heckled and infuriated by a crowd of imbeciles, told he’d eaten himself, by a time–travelling dwarf and had his nasal–passages assaulted to the point of unconsciousness, via that same dwarf–encounter.  Not the worst kind of day he’d ever had, but it came a close third.

Quick, came a now annoyingly familiar voice.

Quick?  Did you see me flee for my life when faced with that humongous, man–devouring, mutant rat from the seedier side of Hell?  I no longer seem to be able to do ‘quick’.

That’s just the ropes.  Here, let me untie you.

The stranger began working on the greasy knots that, until now, Elroy had managed to completely not notice.

Why am I tied up? he asked.

Why not? was the reply.  Elroy felt under no obligation to argue.

As the last of the rope fell to the floor, Elroy raised himself carefully to his feet, eyes ever–searching for Ratty and the many legions of hell–mutants that might at any moment rise up from the secret entrance to Hades that he now knew existed under the noodle and rice mound in front of him.  He didn’t like rats.  A tug on his sleeve from the now, slightly aromatic – and somewhat less dwarf–like, stranger, reminded him he was supposed to be doing ‘quick’.

Come on, we haven’t much time – you’re about to come into the yard  and you can’t be allowed to meet yourself too many times.

Meet myself?  It took Elroy a moment or two to process this concept, Ohhhh right, yes – the intra–dimensional, time–travelling, blah, blah, blah.  OK, I'll bite – why can't I be allowed to meet myself too many times?  The man didn't get the opportunity to accept Elroy sarcastic invitation.  No!!  Don’t tell me.  All my molecules would suddenly implode into nothingness, causing a chain reaction of unimaginable chaos throughout the universe and turning every remaining atom in existence into a huge, mutant rat from hell.  Wouldn't it

No.  Not exactly.

So, what then?  Worlds collide?  Worlds end?  Worlds torn asunder?  Tomorrows World repeats?  Please tell me – why can I not be allowed to meet myself too many times?

Well, it just starts to get downright confusing doesn’t it? was the reply as he herded Elroy towards and into a large cardboard box.

Confusing? sighed Elroy. Don’t concern yourself with confusing me at this stage, mate.  Look.  Number one:  How is it you expect me to meet myself?   Number 2…

The man was furiously kicking and punching the cardboard box as though it were a cheap Austin Allegro on a dark and dreary December morning.

HELLO!  I’m trying to have a serious conversation here – I’m even using a numbering system in order to emphasize each of my points strongly – will you please listen?  Number two:  where are we going?  And 'C': how do expect me to walk anywhere when – even as I make my numbered–list points – you are tying me to a cardboard box?

I didn’t say you had to walk anywhere, and the ropes are so you don’t fall out.

Fall out?  Of a cardboard box?  That’s sat on the ground?  Your concern is most welcome at this time of great stress on my patience, nerves and dry cleaning abilities but, to be honest, I rather think I’d survive the fall, thank you very much all the same.

My god, I never knew I talked so much, mumbled the man, pulling at his increasingly sweaty looking pink, face–masking scarf.  Now then – please prepare yourself.   He tentatively prodded and tested the edges of the box with a tiny finger.

Talk so much?  You’ve said next–to–nothing……

Nearly there.

…..since I met you – absolutely nothing if…..

Just about to get the spot.

…..you only count the stuff that…..

Oh, yes that’s the place.

……made any sense.  What do you mean, prepare myself?

This seemingly innocuous response seemed to anger the stranger rather a lot, as was demonstrated by the almighty kick he gave Elroy's cardboard kingdom.  The effect the kick had was slightly odder than one might imagine (unless you’ve already skipped ahead and read chapter eleven – now that’s odd – but anyway you’re getting ahead of myself…).  As the kick connected, Elroy’s vision blurred slightly and the sound of the fryers in the take–away behind him seemed, at first, to rise to single point, as though all the sound they would make in ten minutes of frying had been squashed up together into a single fortune cookie (remember it is Chinese day) and then trodden on by Pavarotti. 

Looking over towards the stranger, Elroy noticed he hadn’t moved an inch – his foot was still attached to the side of the box.  Then he saw that the stranger was also stood a few feet away, just off to the side of the box.  And a few feet more away, as though in the process of walking towards a second box.  In fact in all there were now twelve strangers in the yard.  The final one was sat in the second box, looking back towards him like a mirror image.

Suddenly, as though no time had passed, Elroy felt the kick again and then there was only stranger number one, laying his boot into Elroy’s ribs.

OK, quickly now – we’re here, said the man, without moving his lips, as he struggled to undo the ropes he had only just tied.

"I know we’re here.   We’ve been here for quite some time now.  That’s the problem.  Tell me when we’re not here – that’ll be news worth broadcasting.  And what’s the deal with the ropes – what if I fall out?"

I think you’ll survive the fall.  Again, no lip movement.

And what’s with the lips?

I’ve told you once.  And don’t you know it’s bad grammar to start a sentence with the word ‘and’?

You just did it?

Well, that should give you a bit of a clue then shouldn’t it?  Now get up and follow me, we’ve got to leave.

"I thought we already had.  ‘We’re here’ you said.  If we’re here that automatically implies that that we were elsewhere, that we travelled some distance and that now…..we’re here!  So let me see now.  Elroy proceeded to examine his new surroundings with meticulous sarcasm, The yard we now occupy is a mere twenty feet square and contains only the three old, dark, grey, brick walls that define its boundaries and the dank looking wall I recently used as a pillow which is almost certainly the rear of a Bolivian take–away.  A conclusion I draw from the unmistakable smell, the pool of maggot–imitating rice and noodles I was so happily encased in – oh, and the fact that it’s Chinese day.  The bare concrete floor of the yard would almost certainly have been preferable to that mess, due to the flowing motion of some of the rice.  You know I wasn’t entirely convinced that that rice was simply imitating maggots.  The only thing missing is the rat that popped up its bloated rear–end from within its lunch/home to welcome me as its new neighbour."

The rat’s still asleep – you haven’t woken it up yet.  Now come on. 

Rather than allow Elroy to wander aimlessly about any longer, the stranger decided to drag him out of the yard by his eyebrows.  All of Elroy’s recent arrogant blustering dissolved as he instantly remembered that he was scared witless by this deadly assassin.  That and the foul smell that he now noticed had returned.  This time it was twice as bad, however – almost as though there were now two people in the yard who had purchased and bathed in Channel No. Stench.  Elroy was too scared to tell himself that ‘Stench’ wasn’t a number let alone that Channel would probably sue him if he ever made such a witty remark in public, because he was now being forced head first into a gap behind two wheel–less wheelie–bins.

Oh, do come on.  This is surely more than…  Elroy continued to talk, but the smelly hand over his mouth soon encouraged him to stop – apparently just in time. 

As the two small and foul–smelling men of dubious character cowered behind some green council wheelie–bins, one small and foul–smelling man rushed past, as though being pursued.  From under–cover of plastic, Elroy was able to make out the diminutive figure running into the yard they had so recently vacated.

Moments later, a second person – less small and a bit less smelly, could be heard approaching.  The stranger's hold on Elroy tightened but not before he saw that second figure pounced upon and dragged into the oblivion of the take–away yard.  If ever he had felt compelled to help a poor soul who seemed hell–bent on making the same life choices as he himself had blundered into, then now was the time.  The stranger’s grasp had been relaxed and Elroy was free to save the day.  He decided not to bother.

So?

So?

Explanation time, I believe.

You’d think wouldn’t you?

Yes – now stop stalling and spill.

OK.  Like I said, we had to leave in order to stop you running into yourself.

Yes and then you tied me to a cardboard box and kicked me, before dragging me to these bins.

Right.

So, how exactly does your explanation fit in with the actual events that occurred, pray tell?

We travelled back in time in order to avoid detection by our past–selves when they came into the yard.  That gave us the few seconds we needed to slip out and hide before we arrived.  Elroy’s face said it all. Wipe that look off your face – my mother was not the head nut–job at the local funny farm – we don’t even have a local funny farm.  Don’t you get it yet?

Strangely enough ….. no.

Go and look in the yard then.

Alright, I will.

He did.

The stranger stayed put while Elroy coughed, stood, postured and then proceeded to straighten a jacket he wasn't actually wearing – clearly putting off the obvious encounter for as long as possible.  Eventually he sidled over to the yard and slowly, so very slowly – so very slowly that he wasn't actually moving for a good five minutes – he stuck his head round the gate.  Then, with a sudden rush of apparent and completely unexpected bravery, Elroy disappeared inside the yard itself.

What the hell are you doing? screamed the stranger, bursting from behind the bins and rushing across the alley.

On approaching the open gate the stranger fully expected to see a bizarre scene with three almost identical people all prancing about in panic – wide eyed and gob–smacked.  What he actually saw was a rice slag–heap with ratty once again trying to burrow his way inside.  Confused, the stranger…

BOO!!

Boo?

In a fit of childish cheekiness, Elroy had decided to hide in one of the dark corners, out of eye–shot of the yard's gate and jump out at the stranger in order to scare the pants off him, hopefully getting back at him for some of the things he’d been put through recently.  It’s a shame he wasn’t a little more intelligent or he may have simply stayed hidden and run away when the coast was clear.  Nevertheless, decision made and plan executed perfectly, he had succeeded in giving the man the shock of his life and no mistake.

If you think that can be classed as one of the big shocks of my life then you’re very much mistaken, said the irritating stranger.  Now let’s get back to business – did you see us?

"No, Mr. Unshockable, I didn’t see us, because we weren’t here.  Well, yes, OK we were here but another us most definitely wasn’t here – explain that Mr. I–can–explain–everything–in–terms–no–one–understands–because–I–make–it–all–up"

Mr. What?

You heard, Mr. I–pretend–not–to–hear–things–when–I–don’t–like–what–more–attractive–and–more– intelligent–people–say–to–me.

I’m going to put your current, odd behaviour down to the stress of the events you’ve just been through – all previous behaviour you’ll just have to accept as being a character flaw and get some counselling.

Oh, ha, ha Mr. I’m–a–great–big–fat–ugly…..

Look, enough with the Mr. I’m–getting–tired–of–all–this–prattle–and–will–punch–you–if–you–don’t–shut–up, stuff.

….

Good.  So you didn’t see us?

….no…..

Hmmm.  They must have travelled just before you got here.

Travelled where?  How? pleaded Elroy, his head was getting a bit fuzzy by now and he was starting to think the chap under the pickle had received the better end of this deal.

You really should be getting an inkling of what’s going on by now.

….

No?  OK, I’ll explain.

Oh, how generous you are, Mr.….. sorry.  Please continue.

Right.  We came into the yard, yes?

"You came into the yard and then dragged me in, tied me up, untied me, and then tied me to a cardboard box.  Yes."

OK, sighed the stranger in defeated tones,  "once secured into the devices, we travelled back in time a few minutes in order to avoid being caught out by ourselves as we came into the yard a few moments later.  OK?"

….

You see it’s like there are three sets of us.  There is the ‘us’ that comes into the yard, then we travel in order to avoid our future selves gone into the past catching us in the yard and there’s us in the past proper who we hide from behind the bins and who have to travel back in order to avoid being seen by us now.

That’s all a bit convenient isn’t it?

Convenient?

"Yes, just as we’re about to see ourselves each time, we’re just a little late, or we just happen to be stuck behind some wheelie–bins.  Look, if we only went back to avoid ourselves why not just not go back.  If we don’t go back we don’t try and see ourselves later and so we wouldn’t have to go back."

"It’s because it’s not us now, it's us from the future – they’ve already gone back so we have to go back in order to avoid them."

"So we’ve set off some sort of loop.  No, not us – they’ve set off some sort of loop.  Hang on…  He suddenly looked concerned as the pennies began to fall.   If we're running from us now, then won’t we be running from us forever?  No matter what I do, I’ll always be one step behind myself."

Or one step ahead, grinned the stranger, who was starting to gain some amusement out of Elroy’s boggled mind.

But why bother?  I mean why did it happen to start with?

"Who knows?  In fact, if you think about it, there is no start.  Time is a sea.  A sea that flows in one direction.  Like a river....  Time is a river, flowing in a straight line from no–where to some–where, and we’re all trapped in the water like spiders caught in the water, flowing from a tap to the plug–hole....  Time is like a tap which is to say, it’s like a plug–hole and men and women, merely ants...  Time is a hole in the ground…."

"OK, OK, I get the picture.  So if you don’t know about time, what about us – I mean why bother to have this loop – if you can’t tell me when it would have started, can you tell me why?"

Alright, I admit it’s not been going since the beginning of the eternal plug—hole–river – we’ve basically set things in motion like this, so that if we botch up, maybe the other chap will have better luck.

….

At least that’s the plan

There’s a plan?

Yes, well after last time….

Last time?  So I’m not number one?  The chap who disappeared as we arrived is the original?  I’m a second–hand, half–a–man, clone, imitation, shadow of myself?

Errmmm, as I was saying – to be honest it didn’t work out too well last time – quite badly in fact.

How badly?

He wasn’t Elroy number one – he was Elroy number seventeen

So that makes me…

Elroy number eighteen

Elroy sighed.   I always knew I was special.  Now I know ... I’m not!

"Forget about you – what about me – I’m going to have to wait thirty years for a decent cardboard box to be developed.

You realise, of course, you have serious mental issues?

The boxes appeared first. 

One second they were alone with the rat and the next, in a sort of cheap, cartoon, wobble effect, the rather flash looking boxes appeared out of no–where.  With almost unreal (!) speed, a second wobble brought with it two very small and now recognisably smelly, thugs in phone company uniforms.  Before the wobbling had completely subsided, thug number one – whom we shall refer to as Francis (as that is his name, it does not seem an unreasonable thing to do) – threw down a third, shiny, new, cardboard box at the feet of the stranger, remarking,

Here…..and that’s the last time I help you, Primm

I got him for you didn’t I?

No, hang on – I’m Prim, argued Elroy G. Prim, like the idiot that he was.

"Yes, I know – that's why, to avoid confusion, we called him Primm.  Simpleton."

During this introductory banter two things occurred.  Primm, stepping lightly into the freshly supplied box, wobbled and disappeared – instantly proving that either he was in fact David Copperfield, or, that he’d been telling the truth all along. 

Secondly, Francis’ twin cousin, Shindig, had sneaked behind Elroy and now threw down a somewhat second–hand looking box at his feet.  After prodding him with a finger, supposed to resemble the barrel of a gun, he screamed,

Shhhhhhhut up and get in.

He did.  He wobbled. He disappeared.

Chapter 4:  Cataclysmic Disappointment

The sensation was quite different to removing your ear with an unpainted garden gnome (which was how the first occurrence of time–travel struck Elroy.  Mind you, that was only a journey of a few minutes and they had remained in–situ).  No, this was nothing like the gnome.  This was more like an ornamental fountain.  With cherubs.  And fish in the little pool at the bottom.  And it didn’t so much seem to remove his ear, as his whole face. 

The journey itself was disappointingly similar to a trip on a ferry around a very small lake.  More wobbling, fishy smells and sea sickness despite no sign of the sea.  The visual impact also failed to deliver any of the promise of the many science fiction films Elroy had never watched. 

There appeared to be what appeared to have the appearance of people, floating along nothingness in every which direction – often followed by themselves, sometimes preceded by themselves.  On one occasion, a bored looking bloke was playing cards with seven other versions of himself.  Of course, one of them was from slightly later in time than the others and so already knew what cards everyone else was holding.  A fact the others seemed oblivious too.

The wobblisation back into existence brought more smells and more shrinkage to all. 

Shindig had apparently – and most unfortunately – taken a wrong turning on the time/space highway and had arrived with prisoner Elroy a week ago, last Tuesday.  Rather than wait around for days, he decided to take a rest and had walked home only to find himself in bed with his own wife.  Such was his rage at what he saw that he dashed for the gun he kept hidden under his slipper.

Unfortunately, his earlier self was wearing the slippers at the time and so had been able to get to the gun first.  He shot himself stone dead.  Then, piecing the mismatching pieces together and realising he no longer had a future, the earlier Shindig jumped out of the bedroom window.  The implications of this incident are – needless to say, far reaching in the scheme of quantum theory and, because it’s needless to say it....  I won’t. 

Elroy, having witnessed this homo/suicide, was now free of this most inconvenient time–travel business and so went home and lived happily ever after.

Of course, since Shindig didn’t live long enough to be sent to collect Elroy, his brother Logan was sent instead.  So it came to be that Francis, Logan and Elroy wobblised into the small interrogation room and Elroy didn't live happily ever after ... after all. 

Actually, to be perfectly fair, rather than the three of them wobblising into the small interrogation room, Elroy appeared just outside but was, unfortunately,  too disoriented to take advantage and run away before Logan appeared at the door to the room and pulled him quickly inside, with a sheepish glance left and right along the corridor as he did so.

Right, scum, what have you got to say for yourself?

"Well, first of all, I’ll say that ‘scum’ is a bit harsh.  Second of all, Mr. Prim, I’d say that it is we who are supposed to be interrogating you!"

Fair enough.   Off you go then.

Thank you.  Now, following the failed attempt upon your life, Mr. Primm–seventeen was recalled and only saved his own neck by keeping you busy until we could arrive to arrest you, thus allowing you the opportunity to assist us with our enquires….

You mean when my assassination failed you decided to bring me in for questioning?

Exactly.  And to Logan he whispered, rather loudly, Sharp one this, we’ll have to watch out.

Erm, yes.  Isn’t that rather the wrong way of doing things?

Oh ho!!  We’ve got a clever dick here.  OK – pray tell us, oh–intelligent–and–high–ranking–phone–company–executive, how exactly would you have gone about doing my job for me?

Well, if I have some information you need why on earth would you want to kill me before getting hold of it?  In fact why would you want me killed at all?  What have I ever done to you?

It was Mr. Primm–seventeen’s idea, to be honest and….

At that moment a rat in a corn–flake packet wobbled into being, on the small picnic table that held the classic interrogators spotlight.  The rat looked around a few times, said, sorry, wrong planet, and wobbled back into nothingness.

OK, that’s the second rat encounter of the day for me and it’s wearing a bit thin, sighed Elroy.  Will one of you three please tell me what’s going on.  And why do you keep calling that idiot from earlier Mr–Primm–seventeen.

Numbering is the best way to keep track of you box–jockeys, explained Logan.  And what do you mean, 'three' of us – there are only two of us here, look….  Logan stood up and quite unnecessarily shone the spotlight first on himself and then on Francis who had fallen asleep on the floor in the corner, whilst indicating the numeration of each of them by raising a finger on his left hand.  See?  One.  Two.  One.  Two.

Elroy ignored this show of mathematical supremacy as the realisation that had hit everyone else several pages ago suddenly hit him.  The stranger had said Elroy was the eighteenth version of Elroy Prim in a time–loop.  These telephone engineers called the stranger Mr. Primm–seventeen.  So.  The small, smelly assassin was in fact him.  He had effectively tried to squash himself with a giant pickle!  Worse, it had all been his own idea.  Worse yet, he’d made a complete hash of it and so got himself arrested as a way of shirking all responsibility.  It was high school all over again.  Sort of.

True enough in some respects, said Count Logan. Mr. Primm–seventeen escaped our custody and tried to kill you in order to take your place and avoid recapture.  When he failed – as we knew he would – we know everything, after all – we swooped in to re–arrest him.

But you arrested me!

An oversight, yawned Francis from the corner.  Now what did you mean by ‘the three of you’?

Eh?

A moment ago, you sent Logan off on a counting spree that could have lasted all week, by indicating there were three of us.  Why?

Well, I meant the other chap too.  ‘Shindig’ it said on his badge – odd name if you ask me….

SHINDIG!  So it was you? screamed Logan lunging over the desk at Elroy and missing both of them simultaneously in order to end up in a heap on the floor.

What was?

You cloned my brother so you could shoot him and then push him out of a window at the same time!

Nooooo, he arrested me a few minutes ago.

You think he arrested you, so you killed him!

No….

Lock him up! screeched a seething Logan and, in response, a twelve year old girl entered the room, knocked Elroy unconscious with his own shoe and carried him out to waiting cell.

****

When Elroy came round he was consumed by total darkness.  A darkness so total, in fact that if you multiplied it by two and added seven, the new total wouldn’t be any different to the old one. 

Panic set in instantly – well, why wait – and lasted a wall–crashing, girly–screaming, five minutes, before he realised that, actually he had forgotten to open his eyes. 

The total–ness of the darkness was reduced instantly to be replaced by a rather feeble dimness.  Then, when he found the light switch by the door, all was right again in the world.  All except that he was stood in a four foot by four foot room made entirely of Venetian blinds with a ceiling of corrugated milk.  He immediately thought of escape (that's immediately as in, immediately after the embarrassing I’m–blind–I’m–blind incident), but he’d never been any good at opening Venetian blinds so, after a good three days, he gave up and concentrated all his efforts on trying to figure out how on earth one would go about corrugating milk.

After the strain of a three day Venetian blind opening attempt it was obvious to the sixteen million people watching the hit reality television show, Cell–TV, that he didn’t stand a chance of figuring out the milk, so it was fortunate that they all phoned in to vote that he should be given some food.  Those who had earlier voted for him to be force–fed nitroglycerine and then told to go trampolining, perked up for a few minutes but, unfortunately, the food was of the normal, non–volatile variety.

The door swung open and Mrs. Valdeechy–Romstanley of Fishgate in Lancashire won £52,000 for being the only viewer to believe that Elroy wouldn’t realise the door to his prison cell was unlocked, before someone came in to tell him.

Grub up…. said the newcomer, whose eyes then met the visage that was Elroy's face, ....YOU!?

‘Grub up me?’  I’d rather consume it in the regular fashion, if it’s all the same to you.

No, they were two, separate statements – one indicating that I had food for you and a second – slightly overlapping the first, I will admit – was an exclamation of recognition.

I see.  Does this happen to you often?

Is that relevant?

No, it’s just that my old teacher Mrs. Valdeechy–Romstanley, always claimed I didn’t pay enough attention to detail, so I like to be as precise and as thorough as I can in a rather successful bid to prove her wrong.

Ah.

So, who am I?

Don’t you know?

Of course I know but then, that isn’t the claim is it?

It isn’t?

No

So what is?

You burst in here, through that unlocked……oh.

Ah yes – YOU! repeated the man.

In his disappointment at missing the fact that, not only had the door been unlocked for the past three days, but had – now that he came to think about it – also been slightly ajar, he regarded this new arrival with a renewed resolve of precision that Mrs. Valdeechy–Romstanley would be proud of.  He was quite tall and had a moustache.  Oh, and he was carrying a tray of food.

Before we talk, I have some food for you.

Yes, said Elroy with a very self–satisfied look on his face, I’d noticed that.

By the time Elroy had finished his meal of bread, cheese, ham and butter, arranged conveniently into the style of a sandwich, the viewing figures for Cell–TV had plummeted to fifteen.  The subsequent increase in publicity, surrounding the reporting of this epic, tele–visual disaster pulled in another four curious viewers who had refused to believe a TV show could be that bad.  They were wrong. 

It was also discovered that twelve of the original die–hard ‘fans’ had actually tuned in expecting to see a 'Food and Drink' special on the success of ‘National Chinese day at Your Local Bolivian Take–away.’  Needless to say these viewers sued the TV company, then the phone company and then Elroy himself – although he never did find out about that.  Good job really, or it may have tipped the balance and made this the second worst day of his life.  It was a shame for the TV company and the viewers really, because things were about to pick up.  Still, while there’s a viewer there’s a broadcast…..

So, newcomer – what be–est thou preferred referential label?  Elroy was prone to talking in a manner that he perceived as ‘right clever’ from time to time.  Those who came closest to understanding him however, rarely admitted to it.

Eh?

What is your name? clarified Elroy – smug to have out–worded yet another dim–wit.

You mean you really don’t know?

That is precisely what I mean.

Hmmm, that’s right, you said this would happen.

No I didn’t.

No, but you will.

GUARD!!!!! shouted Elroy – fearing for his life.  The man appeared normal enough – tall, blonde hair (that’s ‘tall blonde hair’ not ‘tall, with blonde hair’.  We need to get this established early to avoid confusion – his blonde hair was actually tall), stocky build, average features, two arms and a leg.  It was the leg that finally made Elroy shout for assistance – people who are to be trusted just don’t carry random legs around with them.

Shhhhhhhh! hushed the newcomer.  Listen, Elroy…

Easily calmed down and, not wishing to appear rude in new company, Elroy did as he was asked and stopped shouting.

How do you know my name, nutter?  Have we met?

You see, it’s like this – I’ve met you, but you haven’t met me yet.

"Well, I’ll admit