Brenty Four 2013 - Chapter 18
While Smasher was covering himself in food rather than glory, I trudged home, sweating from literally every part of my body after my run up that wretched hill. I was all ready to throw Anthony Van Starbuck’s useless book into my rubbish bin (yes – Bendaton Council – I only recognise one rubbish bin and have no need for, nor interest in, your pink, purple, orange and burnt scarlet receptacles) when it fell open of its own accord. The spine had been broken at a particularly well read bit (one of the reasons I never let my books be published in paperback as I wouldn’t want that to happen to my keenest readers) entitled “Sealing the Deal”. This sounded ideal as I had a deal which I very much hoped to seal that very evening.
“Talk to her about things she might be interested in” explained Van Starbuck, “and try to avoid overly-macho subjects like sports, politics or automobiles. Mention several times that you have feelings and emotions. Don’t say it too often or she might think you pitch for the other team if you get my drift, but don’t just say it once and assume that she’s picked up on it as women are like butterflies who flap from flower to flower without necessarily taking everything in.”
This was invaluable. I didn’t know anything about sport or automobiles but I was a keen political analyst thanks to the Daily Mail and may well have put the world to rights without realising I was wasting my opinions on someone unable to fully appreciate them. I was less keen on this whole emotion thing but thanks to my Stout Boys Book of Dictionary Words I discovered that anger, humour and attention to detail were all emotions (the latter falling under an umbrella heading of “Obsession”) so I already had plenty of weapons in my emotional arsenal. Throw in some lying and feigned interest in her and I was as good as hired.
“When the evening is drawing to a close” continued Van Starbuck, “why not suggest taking coffee in the lounge so you can continue your conversation in more intimate setting?”
I wasn’t keen on this – coffee in restaurants is notoriously expensive. I can get an 8 ounce jar of coffee from Bargainsave for 35p and that makes 50 cups of nicely weak coffee. That’s 0.7p per cup. I’ve seen restaurants charging £5 for a simple cup of coffee which I calculate to be a 71,429% mark up. Disgusting.
“When you’re feeling all relaxed after a magical evening that is the moment to ask if she’d like to come back to your place for a drink.”
This seemed more sensible. I mentally reshuffled the order of events and decided to ask her to accompany me to Brent Towers before the coffee course to save each of us £5. I also had some sherry (from Bargainsave) which would impress her if she fancied something stronger than weak coffee. It packs a bit of a punch (though I’m sure 74% proof is a typing error) so I could dilute it for a lady. That way I’d get two glasses for the price of one and I wouldn’t run the risk of killing her. I was very glad I hadn’t thrown the book away as it had redeemed itself in one brief chapter.
“If she says yes to coming back to your place then you’ve as good as sealed the deal.”
Excellent – official biographer to Lola Whitecastle was in the bag.
“Dim the lights, put some romantic music on and sit as close to her as feels comfortable. Then employ what I call the PUHTY™ method. Pretend U Have To Yawn. The PUHTY™ method will make her literally putty in your hands. Yawn and raise your arms in the air as one does when yawning for real. Then, when you return your arms to a more comfortable position, place only one arm back where it came from. The other should settle on her shoulder, thus enveloping her in a gentle embrace. She’ll be excited by this move and will almost certainly turn towards you, pouting her lips and inviting you to kiss…”
I threw the book away in shock. Was that when he’d meant by sealing the deal? He wasn’t talking about a business transaction but intimate physical contact? I lost all my new found respect for Mr So-called Anthony Van Starbuck and was too appalled to pick the book up again. I’d been wasting my time reading it. All his useless advice had been designed with the end goal of rubbing one’s body against a lady. Utter, utter rubbish. If I hadn’t realised I may well have lead Lola Whitecastle to believe that I was romantically interested in her and we all know women cannot help themselves once they believe a man is romantically drawn to them. Something to do with breeding in order to prolong the species. They can’t help themselves, bless them, it’s in their genes. Not that I believe in genes – there was a very well researched editorial in the Daily Mail which cast real doubt on the whole idea that human beings are made of genes as the author had never seen one which was definitely proof of a scientific conspiracy to trick the tax payer into constantly funding work looking for things that are either invisible or imaginary.
I got some rubber gloves from the scullery and used them to dispose of that book. With my sitting room now purified, I settled down to plan what I was going to say to Lola Whitecastle to ensure my complete and utter victory over Melba, Francois Devine, Smasher and the rest of the British telehistorical community. I may have closed my eyes briefly as part of a visualisation technique I learned in Tibet while still an apprentice telehistorian.
“Captain Maitland, we’ve lost him” sobbed Penny Danger. “Dennis Brent is dead.”
“Don’t be pathetically stupid” I said wittily, opening my eyes and proving her wrong. “I feel absolutely fine.”
“It’s a miracle” she cooed. “And I’m never trusting John to interpret a graph ever again”.
“Dammit, Pen, I made a pretty good stab at guessing what all those numbers mean. He didn’t reply when I asked if anyone wanted a coffee so I naturally assumed…”
“Why do I feel so good?” I asked.
“A meteor came through the window in the NUDE room and struck you on the head. I’m afraid the medibots got a bit carried away again and removed a section of your skull, half your brain and most of your hair. Luckily, Penny found some bits and bobs in the medical cupboard and we still had enough detergent left over to almost completely sterilise them. We’ve built you a new semi-head.”
He gave me a mirror and what starred back at me was half-Dennis, half-machine. I was the first ever telehistorian cyborg.
