One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [55]
“Well,” said Sprockett, stretching the barbed-quip wire back across the hole in the fence to keep the five hundred or so mimes from escaping, “I think that was a close-run thing, ma’am. Might I congratulate you on your quick thinking?”
“Let’s just say it was a team effort.”
He bowed politely, and I sat on a rock by the side of the road to regain my composure. I looked around. The dusty track was empty in both directions, and aside from the books drifting silently overhead and the now-robotic mimes, the only signs of life were corralled Jokes of Questionable Taste sitting silently in fenced-off areas a little way distant.
“Did you get a good look at that car that passed us?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I believe it was a 1949 Buick Roadmaster.”
“Men in Plaid?”
“So it would appear. Their capacity for causing us harm and annoyance seems not to be abating.”
I saw it simpler: They had just tried to kill us. The only question that remained was, Why? And more worryingly, How much longer before they succeeded?
Just then a rattly pickup stopped opposite us. The bearded driver was staring at us with an amused twinkle in his eye. He was a Funnster, one of a hardy breed of crusty old men and women who spent their days trapping gags and taking them to market.
“Have an accident?” he asked.
It was the height of bad manners in Comedy to decline a feed line when offered, so I had to think quickly.
“No thanks,” I replied, “I’ve already had one.”
The Funnster laughed, took off his hat and mopped the sweat from his brow. He looked awhile at the mimes, who had evolved their new robot idea into robots going downstairs, robots canoeing, robots getting stuck inside glass cubes and robots walking against the wind.
“Looks like you may have started something,” said the Funnster with a chuckle, climbing out of the cab and rummaging for a net and a baseball bat in the flatbed. “Wait here.”
A few moments later, we were bowling down the road towards the local railway station, sitting in the back of the flatbed. On one side of us there was a mime who was miming a robot being trapped inside a net while actually being trapped inside a net, and on the other side of us a mature Austrian gentleman with a beard, a small hat and the look of someone who was trying to figure out what we were thinking and why we were thinking it.
After considering us for a moment, he leaned forward and said, “How many Sigmund Freuds does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How many?”
“Penis,” said the Freud, then quickly corrected himself. “I mean father. No, wait! One. One Sigmund Freud. All it takes. Yes. Verflucht und zugenäht!” He added gloomily, “Wenn ich nur bei der Aalsektion geblieben wäre!”
16.
Commander Bradshaw
Perils for the Unwary #231: literalism. Usually a result of substandard wiring in the synonym-distribution box or a ripple in the contextual flux, the literalism can appear randomly, without warning. Example: One of the loan sharks inside Get Shorty turned out to be a three-ton great white with HERTZ SHARK RENTAL stamped on the side, and it was all the cast could do to keep a straight face and carry on as though nothing had happened. Peril Rating: medium-high. Action: walk away.
Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (5th edition)
We were dropped off at Cooper Central, thanked the Funnster and said farewell to Freud, who had become all wobbly and tearful. We bought some tickets and then gave them to the fez-wearing inspector who hailed us with the customary “Just like that” before directing us to our carriage. Within a few minutes, the train was steaming out of the station and towards Fantasy.
We weren’t the only people in the compartment eager to get out of Comedy. A small man who wore the off-duty