P - The Place

The Place

In a corner of The Place, there was a very tiny place, so tiny that in
the new
edition of the Book of Definitions (sold in all good bookshops, and
some
bad ones) it didn't actually constitute a place.
The Place. The whole known universe, and some unknown bits. You
can't
describe The Place. Some scholar inhabitants have tried to, but
have
ended up losing scholarships, through loss of intelligence, and so
don't
actually qaulify as scholars at all, precisely the reason why no
scholar will
ever be able to describe The Place. Confused? You will be.
The Place is...well...a place really. A Universe of Space and other
little
places. There are things that resemble planets hanging in
supsended
animation all over the The Place. Stars twinkled, and planets hung,
that
was about all they knew. Only the inhabitants of The Place didn't
call
planets planets. They called them better names, like Warm Place, or
Cold
Place, Slightly Chilly Place, Looks a Bit Hotter than that One Over
There
Place. They didn't actually know, of course, having never ventured into
The
Place itself, so they just went by the colours. Red was cold and blue
was
hot. Strange logic, but there you go.
But I digress. This tiny place, in the corner of The Place, had
millions of
inhabitants. They saw themselves as the centre of all things
intelligent. Like
the nucleus of a cell, the brain of an animal, and the stomach of
the
average man. They weren't, of course. Their claim to be Centre of
the
Universe ran as follows: Invented the toaster.
The thing is, in The Place, toast for breakfast didn't suggest
intelligence.
Sophisticated yes, but intelligent no. Toast may not sound
sophisticated to
you, but believe me, when the rest of The Place's morning diet was a
throw
up between Not Really Dead Iguana, and Almost Milk with Cereal,
toast
was posh with a capital P.
But I digress. I really must stop doing that.
Toasters or no toasters, the tiny place in the corner of The Place saw
itself
as The Centre of the Universe. The scholar inhabitants even rallied for
it to
be called The Place. The High Ruler of The Place said that was a breach
of
copyright, and an arguement ensued. They eventually took it to the
High
Court, and they decided that it was indeed a breach of copyright. When
the
arguement came from the scholar benches that, " We thought of it
first!"
another rowdy arguement began. But after all this confusing behaviour,
no
moment was so confusingly fraught as when the High Court Judge
announced that they would break for dinner, which would be
Plaice.
But anyway. The inhabitants of 'The Plase' (this name was
eventually
allowed, after the arguement entitled 'If the fish could change the
name
slightly, then so can we'), got on with their daily lives. Nobody
from
anywhere else bothered them, and they were quite happy with that
arrangement. Most inhabitants of The Plase were good, honest
workers,
who didn't know the first thing about The Place (the first thing being,
in case
you're ever asked in a pub quiz, that it is called The Place. Not too
difficult
a concept to grasp, but the inhabitants of The Plase were never
renowned
for their intellect - only their toasters.) They lived and worked in
The Plase,
and that was good enough for them. A day came, and, not wanting
to
impose, left again quite quickly, but then popped back for a cup of
sugar in
the morning. They took home a good sum of money at the end of the
day
(source unknown), and got on with family life as usual. They had
no
knowledge of the workings of The Place. The ideas of The High Court,
The
High Judge, and anything else particularly high, the inter-stellar
reactions
between highly charged negative Zeons and dangerously neutrally
charged
Zeons, and the ins and outs of the exact method of flagging down the
No.
43 to Kipply Froghopper, were all over their heads. Sometimes they
didn't
understand things under their heads either, like Pelican Crossings. I
mean,
pelicans weren't especially common in The Plase, so why have a
specialised crossing for them?
But don't get me wrong. No, please - that'd be awful. You wouldn't
want
that happening. Inhabitants of The Plase weren't stupid, they just
lacked the
superiority that knowledge brought, to see that there were things going
on
that they didn't know about. Where they were, they were happy. They
were
content. There may be some universal-changing decisions that could
alter
the fabric of the space-time continuum being made without my consent,
but
hey, if I can still have toast in the morning and Almost Dead Iguana at
night,
who cares?

Micky 'The Dude' Freshwater, Micky Freshwater to his mates,
strolled
down the street happy as Larry. No-one knew quite why Larry was
always
so happy, it was just in his nature. But apart from Larry, Micky was
probably
the happiest man in the whole of The Plase. Well, except for the man
who'd
just won ten million pounds on the lottery, he was pretty pleased at
this
point. But apart from him - well, the King was quite chuffed, with, you
know,
being King and all - but apart from Larry, the man who'd just won the
lottery
and the King, Micky was probably the happiest man in the whole of
The
Plase. He'd just got a new job.
Having never been able to hold a job (the little beggars always seemed
to
get away from him), he was feeling pretty smug. The only problem was,
he
didn't know what the job was. Minor setback, but he was feeling
pretty
happy none the less. His house-maid would be putting the dinner on
the
table just about now. Micky felt quite proud to be able to afford
a
house-maid, he also felt quite proud to be able to afford dinner, so
it
workded out both ways.
The reason that he'd just got a new job, was that he'd just lost his
old one.
He'd marched to the boss's office to announce his resignation, and left
with
no job, and rather a few embarrassing tear stains. His boss told him
that it
was a shame that he wanted to leave them for better things, because
he
was just about to give him a pay rise. Micky was shellshocked. Never
had
the words 'I', 'want', 'to', 'quit', 'No', 'I' 'was', 'only', 'joking',
and of course,
'please' x3, been used in one sentence to such a heart-breaking
effect.
But that was all behind him now. He had a new career in...whatever it
was
he had a career in.
He walked up to his front door, opened it, and walked into his house.
The
lovely smell of fresh Iguana Pie wafted up his nostrils, liked it
there, and
settled down and hibernated.
" Mmmmm! Smells good, Marie-Anne!" he said.
" Thankyou. But don't come in here. I'm afraid the Iguana put up a bit
of a
fight," came his house-maid's reply.
" Not again! That's the...first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth,
Seventh time
this week!"
" I know. It is a bit messier than yesterdays though."
" Oh. Well, you know where the mop is. Any mail?" he called.
" Yes. There was three bills, three letters to remind you to pay the
three
bills, and three letters to remind you what happened the last time
you
'forgot' to pay your bills."
" Not going to forget in a hurry. Was that it?"
" No. There was this," she said, walking out of the kitchen. She was a
sight.
She was covered in red - he hoped that her dress was supposed to
look
like that - or he really didn't want to see the kitchen. She handed him
the
letter. 'The Department Of Knowledge and Secrecy', it said on the back.
He
tore open the envelope, and pulled out the parchment from inside. He
sat
down in his favourite chair, and read.
' The Department of Knowledge and Secrecy welcomes you Micky
Freshwater to it's ranks. We thank you for your interest in our
experiments,
and would first and foremost like to point out the Life Insurance form
at the
bottom of this letter - please fill in and send back.
I suppose you're wondering what your job actually entails. Well, I'll
tell you.
We here at the Department-
That was as far as he got, because there was a knock on the door. He
got
up, and answered it.
" Hello, Sir." Micky sighed. It was a door-to-door-salesman. Worse, it
was a
door-to-door-salesman called Ratchet.
" Ah, Mr. Ratchet. What can I do for you? What are you selling this
time?
Watches that say 'Time you got a watch' when you ask it was the time
is?
Rusty old knives, where the bread does it more damage than the knife
does
to it? Toilet seats with feelings?"
" No, guv'nor! I got rid of all that rubbish days ago. I'm moving into
a new
line of business," said Ratchet.
" What line of business? Not a straight and narrow line,
surely?"
" Check this out. Knock, knock!"
" What?"
" No, I'm saying knock, knock."
" I know. But I've already opened the door."
" Alright, let's pretend that you've already opened it."
" But I have already opened it!"
" Shut up! Right, now. Greetings new customer! Would you be interested
in
letting me purchase your windows?"
" Windows? What do you want to go to doors asking to buy windows
for?"
" S' a living."
" No really, what do you want windows for?"
" Never you mind, young Micky," he said, tapping his nose.
" Is that it then?"
" Yeah I suppose it is." Micky slammed the door shut, and was about
to
walk back into the living room, when the door was knocked on
again.
" Hello?"
" Greetings new customer! Would you be interested in letting me
purchase
your windows?"
" Ratchet? Go away!"
" Like me to block your pipes?"
" No!"
" Plant a tree?"
" GO AWAY!" yelled Mick. He slammed the door shut. At last, some
peace
and quiet. He made his way back into his living room, and picked his
letter
back up.
We here at the Department of Knowledge and Secrets have been
instigating experiments. These experiments are far more advanced
than
those the Department of Advanced Experiments are conducting.
The Place is very large. Larger than you could possibly imagine. So
this is
why, here at The Department of Knowledge and Secrets have
employed
YOU, because we need you to-
And he had to stop again, because there was another, but much
louder,
knock on the door.

Later on that night, on the other side of town, one man's drunken
stupidity
continued unabated.
" And then...I says to 'im, I...says Daryl, yourrr standing in myy
popcorn,"
this relatively sane comment quickly became insane, as it was directed
at a
lampost.
Bob Bobbins wasn't technically stupid. Alright, he thought IQ was
a
home-shopping channel, but compared to many customers at the 'Lots
o'
Beer' pub, he was highly intellectual. In many ways, he was the
biggest
enigma never to have been tried to have been solved. After getting into
a
nasty scuffle with a particularly cheeky young Post-Box, he
swaggered
home. Swaggering was something Bob was good at, and would have
been
renowned for it if anyone cared. He could make it look decidedly
drunk,
whilst making it look like at an art-form at the same time. With the
amount
of nights he had returned home from 'Lots o' Beer' on the wrong side
of
sober, he'd had lots of practice. He somehow managed to open his
door,
crawl up the stairs, and fall into bed in a record time of twenty
minutes, and
fifty-four seconds. And he slept.

Micky was not having a very good day so far. Having woken up in a
sack,
not being able to recall quite how he got there, he'd spent all
morning
without an explanation, and he was still in a sack. He had no idea
who'd
want to kidnap him this early in the morning. After all, he thought,
they'd
have to miss their breakfast. He just hoped that it wasn't Mr.
Ratchet
performing one of his publicity stunts again. Or worse, he wanted him
to sit
in a room all day long trying out his new inventions. Or even worse,
he
wanted to sell him. No, wait, that's not as bad as sitting in a room
all day
trying out his new inventions. Few things in The Place were.
But he was quite sure that it wasn't Mr. Ratchet. For one thing, there
was
no pungent odour coming from what was probably the driver's seat.
For
another thing, he knew Ratchet didn't have a car as nice as this.
Obviously,
being in a sack, he couldn't properly appreaciate the asthetic
features, but it
was very quiet.
So he was back to sqaure one. Who'd want to kidnap him? One
minute
he'd been opening his door, the next he was shoved into a rather
uncomfortable sack (he didn't really know if other sacks were any
more
comfortable, but he was sure they'd be a darn sight more comfortable
than
this one).
" Hello?" he ventured. No reply.
" Who are you? What do you want? If your that gas company again, I
was
just about to reply to those bills!" still no reply.
" Alright, if you won't tell me who you are, at least tell me how long
we will
be before we get to where ever it is we're going!"
" Two."
" Ah, you do speak. Great. Two minutes?"
" No."
" Two hours?"
" Two days," was the gruff reply.
" Oh good. That's fourty-eight hours then is it?"
" We've got a chuffing genius, here Barry!" there was a haughty
laugh.
" That's a lot of qaulity time. How can we wile away the hours?
All
fourty-eight of them? I Spy? No, that wouldn't really work, would it,
with me
being in a sack and all. I mean, if I said 'I spy with my little eye,
something
beginning with S, you'd probably guess it, wouldn't you? Know any
good
songs?" At that moment, a very large and extremely heavy something
hit
Micky on the head.

Mr. Ratchet blew into his cupped hands. It was cold today. He picked
up
his Order form from the passenger seat. Two windows, four pipe
blockers,
and one tree. Not a bad days work, if he was honest. And normally
he
wasn't.
He'd pulled up outside No. 52, as he knew Mr. Bob Bobbins was a
dedicated customer. If truth be told, and around Mr. Ratchet it rarely
was,
his purchases were usually made after a particularly...long night out.
That
was probably why he got so angry when he found Mr. Ratchet removing
his
front room windows the next morning. He knocked on the door. And
he
knocked again, as there was no answer. He rung the bell. Still no
reply. Mr.
Ratchet wasn't unaccustomed to Bob's daily hangovers. He used the
usual
method, slipping quietly down the side of the house, and yelling at the
top
of his voice, " Get up you lazy idiot!" at the top window. Hmm. Still
no reply.
Either Bob wasn't in, or he'd had the night to end all nights.
Especially his
own.
" BOB!" he shouted.
" Shut up will yer! Some of us are trying to get some kip!" yelled the
next
door neighbour, in her nightie and night-cap.
" Sorry Mrs. Finger. I'm calling at yours next!" he replied.
" You will not! I haven't been able to go to the toilet fer weeks
because o'
your stupid toilet seats!"
" A minor production error, I assure you," Ratchet said, in his most
smooth,
you know I'm lying but you've already bought the thing, so there's
nothing
you can do about it voice - which he'd perfected over the years. Mrs.
Finger
slammed her window shut. Ratchet returned his attention to Bob's
window.
He threw a stone at the window.
When he was a child, he'd watched films and TV programmes that
always
showed people throwing stones at windows to get their friends
attention. It
always bounced harmlessly away, alerting the friend to the presence of
the
friend, and everyone was happy.
But not this one. This stone flew straight the window, sending some
rather
unfriendly shards of glass flying in all directions.
With the fear that he might have inadvertantly killed his best
customer, and
the immenent return of Mrs. Finger to his life, he fled the
Bobbins
residence. As he drove away at a high speed, he had no idea that
Bob
didn't come to the door because he was hungover, out, or simply
ignoring
him, but because that very morning, he'd been kidnapped.

" Help?" he tried again. It was no use. He'd been shouting all
morning, but
the only answer he'd got out of the driver was that it was going to
take two
days to get to where ever it was they were going.
Mr. Bob Bobbins wasn't having a very good day so far. He'd been woken
at
the unearthly time of 11.59, and unceremoniously bundled into an
uncomfortable sack. He had a great knowledge about sacks. He had
a
great knowledge about lots of things, but the morning after, he had
no
recollection where he'd learnt them. His knowledge of sacks told him
that
this one really was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most
uncomfortable
sack in The Place. After reassuring himself that it wasn't another of
Mr.
Ratchets publicity stunts (the man was always after him, trying to get
him to
buy something, or trying to remove his downstairs windows), he'd tried
to
evaluate who'd want to kidnap a drunk? Well, he wasn't a drunk now, in
the
morning. He was more of a prospective drunk. But whatever kind of
drunk
he was, he wasn't a fat lot of good to anybody. Feeling quite
depressed, but
never theless, proud of this fact, he tried to get some sleep. He was
good at
that.

When Mr. Ratchet arrived home that day, it wasn't to meet with
angry
customers like usual. It was to find a big, black van parked outside
his
house. To Mr. Ratchet, anything big, black, and outside his house
wasn't
good. Still, he thought, looking on the bright side, every person in
The
Place is a customer-to-be.
He walked around to the driver's side of the van, where a man sat
who
disturbingly reminded him of someone he'd rather not meet in a dark
alley.
The man climbed out, grabbed Mr. Ratchet, and the other man opened
the
back doors to the van. Mr. Ratchet wasn't a stranger to being
accosted
outside his own house. They weren't really friends, it was always more
of a
business nature, and had a lot to do with people tapping the sides of
their
noses in rather threatening way.
" Want discount prices on your windows, do you?"
" Shut it, rat!" Mr. Ratchet also wasn't unaccustomed to being called
rat.
Actually it had been his nickname for many years. True, it was
always
bundled along with 'Get That Stinkin' Rat Outta My House', but name's
had
to come from somewhere.
The other man opened a sack, and shoved him inside. It turned out to
be a
very uncomfortable sack. Very shoddy worksmanship. He could have
made
one at half the price, and then at least you'd have had a cheap bad
sack.
But something told him, maybe it was the statement,
" You shut up until we get there", that the occupants of the van
hadn't
intended the ride to be a first-class-sack one.
Still, he thought, looking on the bright side, where ever they're
taking me,
there must be more people, and people eqauls money. Especially
rich
people. And even more so, rich people with a drinking problem, who
said
things like 'I really need a good, strong kettle mat'.

The Plase was getting on with life as normal. The sun had come up,
which
was always a good sign, and there was no toast shortage, which
meant
everyone was to work late. On the south of the planet, Kangaroos
hopped
around the desert, trying to keep control of their sons and daughters,
who
were all called Joey. No-one dared ask why this was - Kangas are
dangerous, and Kangas with boxing gloves are even more dangerous -
but
these were more rare. In the north, the civilised world and most of
the
country called Torrinonan were setting their minds to their work, or
taking
very early coffee breaks. The birds sang requests, and houses revelled
in
the peace and quiet of the nine to five day.
This was why it was strange that an office in Harolia had an empty
desk
bearing only a name plaque that read Micky Freshwater. It was also
strange
that the steps outside the Lots o' Beer pub weren't occupied by the
snoring
Bob Bobbins. It was even more strange, although some would say a
welcome change, that Mr. Ratchet wasn't trying to sell his new range
of
Temporary CD Players.
The reasons for all these unusual absences were lying in three sacks
on
the floor of a room that looked about as welcoming as a venus fly-trap
with
an appetite for all things flesh-coloured. They all writhed and
struggled, and
the occasional 'Hmph!" or 'Errgh' or even the more rare 'Would you like
to
buy an Air Freshener?' could be heard. The doors to the room, which
was
mainly metallic coloured, were flung open, and two men dressed in
white
coats, replete with necessary pens in pocket, strode purposefully into
the
room.
" Excuse me!" came Micky's voice from one of the sacks.
" Micky?"
" Who's that?"
" Ratchet."
" Ratchet? As in 'If Anyone Else Does It Cheaper, They're Lying,
Or
They're Dead' Ratchet?"
" Ratchet?" came another voice.
" Bob?" said Ratchet.
" Bob?" said Micky.
" As in Bob Bobbins?" asked Ratchet.
" Yeah, it's me. Is that Micky?"
" Yes."
" Micky Freshwater, or Micky Orchard?"
" Freshwater."
" Ah, yes. I thought I recognised your voice-"
" Excuse me!" shouted one of the men in white coats.
" Whose that?" said Micky.
" Is that you, Ratchet?" said Bob.
" Nah, must be someone else in here."
" Shut up!" shouted the man again.
" Yeah, there's definately someone else."
" Yes! It's me!"
" Who?"
" Sounds like the Barman to me," said Bob.
" Everyone sounds like the Barman to you, Bob."
" I am not the Barman!" there was silence in the room, " At last!" the
man
was sweating furiously, and his black glasses looked like they may
be
about to go on vacation.
" I am Mr. Tenor. Head Scientist here at the Department of Knowledge
and
Secrets. I suppose you all know why you've been brought here?"
" You sent me a letter, didn't you?" said Micky.
" I don't," said Bob.
" Need radiators in here at all?" said Ratchet.
" Right, I'll go over it again. You have all applied for a position on
our new
experiment. Your applications were selected from thousands. This is
for
your special attributes. Mr. Freshwater, you have been selected for
your
calmness under pressure, and your intelligence. Mr. Bobbins, you
have
been selected because of your overwhelming wealth of knowledge,
and
your fine nose for detecting poison," this was actually true - he
sniffed his
beer, and if it didn't smell like poison, he downed it - " And Mr.
Ratchet, you
have been brought here due to your skills of deception and eye for a
good
plan. You three will be the first to-"
" Excuse me?" said one of the sacks.
" What?" said the scientist hotly.
" Can you get us out of these sacks?"
" Certainly not."
" Why not?"
" Security reasons. Now, as I was saying, you three will be the
first-"
" Could you turn the heating down a touch?" enquired another
sack.
" No! It's quite cool in here. Now, if I could just continue with what
I was
saying before I was-"
" Like to buy a new thermostat, would you?"
" Look! For the last time, no to everything! This is very important
news I'm
about to tell you. You supposed to be silent!"
" Sorry," mumbled a couple of the sacks.
" Okay. Now-"
" Open these doors and come out with your hands up!" shouted a
loud,
menacing voice.
" I've told you, shut up!" shouted the scientist.
" Erm...boss?"
" What is it, Wilson?"
" I don't think they said that, Sir."
" What do you mean they didn't say that? Of course they did-"
" Come out with your hands above your head," boomed the voice
again.
" That's not them, is it? Okay, Wilson," he said nervously, " Better
do what
they say." The two scientists put their hands above their heads.
" Excuse me?" said Micky, " But what kind of a Department of
Knowledge
and Secrecy are you running here?" The scientist kicked the sack
and
whispered,
" Be quiet!" and except for a little sqeauk on the point of boot
impact, he
obeyed. The doors were opened by one of the henchmen, and the
three
sacks' inhabitants could hear mad footsteps stampeding through the
room.
A few shots were fired, but no-one seemed hurt.
" Ok!" said the same voice, " Everybody stay against the wall with
your
hamds up. Don't anybody try anything funny. Guys, get the sacks. Do
it!"
The sack-dwellers felt themselves being hoisted from the ground. They
felt
themselves being dragged away, they felt themselves being taken
back
outdoors. They felt themselves being bundled into a Ford Minivan 2.1.
Only
Bob Bobbins knew this, though.

The problem with being in a sack for nigh on four hours, Micky,
Ratchet
and Bob were now finding out, was that it was about as comfortable
as
having a cactus up your backside. And the fact that these sacks were of
the
uncomfortable persausion didn't help matters. The van kept hitting
rocks on
the dusty road, and this was particularly irratating for Ratchet, who
seemed
to have his head resting on the back door, that wasn't properly shut,
and
kept whacking his head in a way that reminded him of his Customer
Feedback Week.
Micky was hungry. Some little Iguana was right now enjoying his life,
safe
in the knowledge that there wasn't someone called Micky who wanted
to
eat him.
Bob was feeling strange. He felt very dizzy, and momentarily sick.
He'd
heard someone called this Sober, or something, once. Whatever it was,
he
didn't like it.
" Ratchet?" said a Micky-sounding sack.
" What?"
" Are you still there?"
" Yes. I was just thinking."
" What about? Your kids? Wife? Fact that painful death is probably
nigh?"
" No. None of that. I was just wondering whether these boys could do
with
some new sacks. I know sacks aren't generally designed with comfort
in
mind, but these are especially-"
" Ratchet!"
" What?"
" Do you ever stop thinking of money?"
" Of course I do," said Ratchet, picturing a large shiny gold coin,
glittering
in the light of an autumn afternoo-
" Anyway, where's Bob?" There was a rustle behind Micky, then a
thump,
then a little squeal.
" Oh. He's still there then." What Bob was actually experiencing were
the
effects of drunkeness. Not drunkeness through the normal method,
however. He was drunk on being sober. The effects of not drinking
were
enforcing themselves all over his body, but especially on his head.
You
see, his drunkeness had become his normal state, and he'd adapted to
that
lifestyle. Rather like the way that giraffes grew long necks to stop
them
smelling their feet. Call it evolution if you will. He was now finding
it hard to
put sentences together, and he'd already made some quite good friends
of
flying pink elephants.
" Will you lot shut it back there?"
" Whose that?"
" S'me! So shut it!"
" I see. Good reasoning," said Micky.
" Do you mind me asking where you're taking us?" asked Ratchet.
" Yes."
" Right." The van trundled on, and the only noise coming from the
inside
was made by two men in the front. The internationally understood
meaning
of the word speaking however, didn't really comply with what they
were
doing. One would say,
" So I hits him and he sayss, whoooaaa theere. So I said toilet
hammer
present wouldn't leave you for a floppy, sunny-sided up tortose," and
the
other one would reply,
" Yeah, right. Good one, that." These two men weren't insane. They
just
existed on another plane, where the word sane meant completely
bonkers.
You can imagine the pleasures of the journey. Not only were the
captives
being held in very uncomfortable sacks, but they also had to listen to
the
soundtrack of tweedledum and tweedleverydum.

A small, abandoned warehouse was the vans last destination
(because
warehouses have to be abandoned in these things). It pulled up with
a
splash - rain had been hammering the street all day.
" Right, let's get 'em in. Well, out. In and out really."
"Deep."
" Yeah. Come on." The two men climbed out of the front seats and
pulled
open the double doors at the back.
" Right, you get him, and I'll get 'ese two."
" Those two?"
" No - these two. And you get that one."
" This one?"
" No - I mean, yes, that one."
" The one in the sack?"
" Yes."
The three bundles were eventually hoisted from the van, and
dragged
across the car park, and into the warehouse.
" This reminds me of that time I called round to ask Mr. Hargreaves
what
he thought of his new windows," said Mr. Ratchet.
" Why?" asked Micky, because when your in a sack, you'll accept any
form
of entertainment.
" Well he agreed. He...'took' me upstairs, you see."
" And? Were the windows good?"
" I don't know. He threw me through them."
The warehouse was completely dark and empty, and not a sound was
made, apart, that is, from the insane bickerings of the van
drivers.