by P. S. Gifford
|Friday, September 29, 2006
Trevor Steed retuns
Trevor Steed peered out at the typically grey cloudy English sky promising rain- and sighed.
“Another day in paradise,” he said in a voice remarkably similar to a bad impersonation of Sean Connery.
Grabbing his trusty black raincoat, casually he reached into the pocket, and pulled out a mint herbal. After gently removing most of the fluff, and other bits that that had accumulated on it, he tossed it into his mouth. As he sucked on the mint, he made his way over to his cluttered desk, picked up several short stories, folded them up and stuffed them into his pocket.
“Nowt better than a good mint herbal,” he said out loud in a voice remarkably similar to a bad impersonation of Roger Moore.
He suddenly realized what he was doing.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have watched that all night James Bond marathon,” he then added, in a voice remarkably like a bad impersonation of Timothy Dalton.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he flicked the remainder of his hair into place.
Then seemingly satisfied with his appearance he exited his modest semi-detached house and locked the door behind him.
‘I am going to give my gripping little tales to unsuspecting folks I meet on the street today,’ he thought as he briskly made his way along the pavement, ‘to get an everyman’s viewpoint of my short stories.’
In less than a minute he noticed a rather burly woman dressed in a brown anorak with curlers in her hair advancing vigorously towards him.
‘That is Mrs. Daily from the from the butcher’s shop.’ Trevor realized. “I just bet that she is a massive fan of pulp fiction.’
“Hello Mrs. Daily,” Trevor said as he approached her.
Mrs. Daily just stared blankly at him.
“Have you had a good day butchering? You lot make the best pork scratchin’s I have ever tasted, delicious they are…And you leave just the right amount of pig’s hair on them to make them interesting.”
Still Mrs. Daily stared blankly.
“Well, I was just thinking, maybe you would like a flash! I have been working hard on a new technique of doing them. It won’t take long, but I would love your honest opinion.”
Mrs. Daily studied Trevor, looked suspiciously at his long raincoat, abruptly turned around and began to run away screaming a variety of very nasty and unrepeatable words hysterically.
“Crikey,” Trevor cried after her shaking his head in disgust… “Everyone’s a bloody critic aren’t they?”
Undaunted Trevor continued to walk further down the street. Moments later he saw a particularly tall slender woman, dressed in a drab suit, with a pair of oversized glasses perched primly on her freckled nose.
“A-ha- That is Mrs. Bend, the librarian…Surely she, of all people, would appreciate some of my astonishing short fiction.”
He assertively made his way toward her.
“Hello Mrs. Bend, Trevor said in his most friendly voice that did not resemble any bad impersonation on any Bond what-so-ever…Not even Peter Sellers.
“Erm, Hello Mr. Steed,” Mrs. Bend replied cautiously.
“Well, I hate to trouble you, you have probably had a very bust day sorting out books, making sure that everyone stays quiet, and doing filing and such like.”
Trevor suddenly remembered he had returned a copy of Lady Chatterley’s lover to her just yesterday, and had got scolded for earmarking several particularly juicy pages.
He promptly turned a shade red even brighter that the beetroot he had eaten for lunch.
“Erm, I was wondering if you would allow me a quickie!” he spluttered, wishing he sounded like, Pierce Brosnan, but sounding far more like the Cookie Monster after he had just chugged eight jumbo sized cups of espresso instead.
“What!” Mrs. Bend shrieked back, obviously misinterpreting Trevor’s innocent request as something far naughtier and deviant.
As Trevor’s jaw dropped in disbelief, she too turned and began to sprint in the opposite direction with remarkable speed and agility, flailing her arms above her as she went.
Trevor scratched his head in disbelief.
“What is wrong with everybody toady,’ he thought.
Yet, Trevor was still undeterred
“Perhaps it was in my approach,” he said in a voice that was remarkably like a very bad impersonation of George Lazenby.
Onward he set again.
Moments later he spied Humphrey Willingthorpe, heading towards him.
‘That is what I need,’ Trevor realized ‘a man’s opinion.’
He rubbed his hands together gleefully as he chomped on the last of the herbal mint.
“Hello Humphrey!” Trevor cried as he waved. “Remember me?”
The panicked expression on Humphrey’s face revealed that he did indeed remember him.
“May I help you Trevor?” Humphrey said politely. He was after all an Englishman through and through, and being anything but impeccably polite simply wouldn’t have been cricket.
“Yes, I think you are just the chap I need to see today!” Trevor said as he made his way towards the faultlessly dressed fellow.
Humphrey eyed him suspiciously but maintained the traditional stiff upper British lip.
“I have something in my pocket I want to show you!”
Humphrey’s neatly trimmed moustache twitched.
“Do you now?” he said.
“Yes, would you like to see it?”
It was then something weird happened. Humphrey’s mind went back to when he was a younger man back in prep school…In particular he considered with great fondness the form master, a certain William Blythe.
A sparkle came across his eyes and he smiled at Trevor.
It was the sort of smile respectable men of a heterosexual disposition do not share with each other.
Trevor, somehow reading Humphrey’s unsavory thoughts, turned and began to run…as fast as his legs could carry him.
There was intended to be a particularly exciting and relevant ending to this story, but as Trevor ran along, he realized that the maximum word count of one thousand was about to be reached, and that soon he was going to have to stop mid-sentence.
Trevor suddenly had a marvelous idea...