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The Launderette,
the Plumber, and the Blotting Machine
The launderette was located directly next door to the local ink
factory, the two being separated by a narrow alleyway, filled with
tubes and pipes carrying waste pigments, solvent and begrimed soapy
water.
The old cross-eyed plumber from across town could often be found
here, tangled in a mass of ducts and hoses... trying to make some
kind of order from the mess.
The inkworks was the plumber`s favourite customer, since after an
afternoon of breathing the noxious solvent fumes, he didn`t have
to pay for the bus ride home... he could fly there.
Many was the time the local air-traffic controllers could be found
in a state of panic, an unidentified flying object appearing and
disappearing on their radar screens. The police had their fair share
of worries too, being called out to talk the plumber down from a
particularly tall lamp-post.
Inside the launderette, the
couple were doing their weekly wash, while over in the corner, a
group of little known saints, desguised as small time salesmen and
alcoholic bagmen, were holding their Anual General Meeting.
"So I`m selling specially absorbant water beds to incontinent
pensioners at the moment. They`ve got a high salt content you see...
they work by osmosis. The longer you own one, the better it gets."
He stared at their washing as
it went round and round. He sometimes wondered if this machine was
actually a portal to another universe where everything was turned
the opposite colour. There was evidence to suggest that this might
be the case, since on several occasions, he had put their best white
sheets in, only for them to come out the most impenetrable black.
And completely colourfast too. It had occured to him that if he
were to pull the sheets out while the cycle was only half complete,
he could go into business, selling oversized boards to short sighted
chess masters.
A rather scruffy-looking individual, one of the more unsavoury among
those in the corner, came shambling over to them.
"Excuse me please. You look like good church-going people,
could you spare a little folding money for a victim of circumstance?"
"The only circumstance you`re a victim of the the local bar
refusing you credit."
"But surely in the church they preach..."
"Church? Listen.. I believe that true faith and football crowd
mentality are mutually exclusive. We have no intention of becoming
sheep, whoever the shepherd may be. And let me tell you something
else. I had a dream once, and in it, God came to me and said `Don`t
listen to that lot... make up your own mind.`"
"Oh..er.. I see. Thank you."
The tramp shambled back over to his group in the corner.
As she bundled their clothes into the dryer, he watched her, and
considered how they had first met.
He had been walking to a friend`s house, in a foul mood, despite
bunking off work that day. Then he saw her. She was crouching down,
leaning over something on the ground, so he went to take a look.
Even to this day, he could not figure out why she would wish to
set light to a pile of horese shit. It occured to him that if she
had chosen to become a proffesional arsonist, instead of a writer,
she would have starved to death within the first month. Not that
her work was doing any better now. Still, he couldn`t really complain,
since he hadn`t managed to sell a single painting so far either.
Meanwhile, next door...
The blotting machine was having
another breakdown. Whenever anyone came near, to try and sort things
out, it would just scream at them.
"No! It`s all just too much for me! Why can`t you just leave
me in pieces?"
A frantic technician made a dive for the control panel, but was
beaten back by an extra thick roll of blotting paper, aimed at his
midriff.
"Keep away! Keep away!" the machine yelled, but they just
kept on coming.
Then, just as it looked too late, an automatic guillotine came charging
over and severed all their heads, blood squirting everywhere, like
in a cheap splatter movie.
"Quick, send for an inkwell bearer! Don`t let all this beautiful
pigment go to waste!" it yelled.
Presently, what looked like a mechanical bucket and mop came trundling
along. It slopped about on the floor, squeezing the bright red fluid
into its large container.
"No-one will be able to tell it from the real thing."
it said, chortling away as it worked.
Shortly, their washing done,
they left the launderette, and started off home, past the ink factory.
She looked up at the place, a mass of broken windows and half collapsed
walls. The company should have conducted repairs years ago, but
said ventilation was cheaper this way. Peering inside, through one
of the broken windows, she saw a group of machines clearing up a
large spill of red ink.
"Isn`t it amasing what machines can do these days? They don`t
need minders or anything, they just get on with their work without
being told."
As they walked, it began to
rain, lightly at first, but getting heavier quite quickly.
He put his brolly up.
"Oh what extacy, eh dear?"
"What?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing, Just talking to...."
The rain came down harder, splashing off the pavement, soaking their
legs.
Harder: The leaves were knocked off young trees.
Harder: The grass at the side of the path was washed away in a sea
of mud.
Harder: The drains could no longer handle the deluge, and what had
once been a lazy street was now a raging torrent.
Harder: His beloved brolly was torn to shreds by the onslaught of
rocket powered raindrops.
They ran the rest of the short distance home.
When they got in, he threw the ruined umberella across the room,
screamed, and burst into tears.
"Never mind dear, don`t get upset about it. I`ll get you a
new one."
"A new one? A new one?!! How could you possibly get me a new
one?"
"Well, I`ll just nip down to Wollies as soon as it stops raining,
and buy you a new one."
"You don`t understand do you? That umberella was a Nineteen-Sixty-Four
Rainmaster Plus! Totally irreplacable!!"
"Oh." she sighed. Good grief.
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