Whispering Shadows

The suitcase was small, brown, and completely empty. Mr. Flynt liked to say that it contained a bomb, and while none dared to come close enough to check, the word of the old man was taken as fact. It was in consequence of this that Mr. Flynt was often inclined to request ridiculous things of people, and in consequence to the aforementioned consequence, the people previously mentioned would almost always comply with Mr. Flynt’s requests. After all, supposing one didn’t comply, they would very likely be dismembered and disassembled at a subatomic level, assuming, of course, that Mr. Flynt’s suitcase bomb was in fact of the nuclear variety, powered by fission or perhaps even fusion reactions. Seeing as Mr. Flynt’s suitcase bomb wasn’t real, it could indeed be powered by fusion reactions, or something else entirely. The fact of the matter was that no one would ever know, save Mr. Flynt, as no one ever dared to come close enough to check. Seeing as the bomb was imaginary, their fears were entirely unfounded.

In this case, the people we are talking about have thick English accents.

“Damn it, man!” asked Mr. Flynt. “Wait, that’s not quite right, is it? Excuse me, narrator, but you’re telling the story wrong.”

How so?

“Well, it’s a bit of a technical problem, you see. When I said, ‘Damn it, man!’ you told it as if I had asked a question, rather than shouted it, you see.”

Ah, I see. Terribly sorry, won’t happen again.

“Cheerio, then.”

“Mr. Flynt, who’re you talkin’ to?” asked Hank.

“When?” asked Mr. Flynt.

“Just now.”

“Oh, just the narrator. A minor technicality, you see. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well I should hope not,” said Hank.

“To business then?” said Mr. Flynt.

“To business,” said Hank.

“I suppose you’re here about the butter,” said Mr. Flynt.

“The butter?”

“The butter!”

“Oh, there must be some mistake-- I’m here about the shoe polish. Look, I gots me a coupon.”

Hank then pulled a small pistol from his hat and shot Mr. Flynt dead. You can imagine Mr. Flynt’s surprise. Hank neglected to check the suitcase for the bomb, as he enjoyed a bit of mystery and would have felt incredibly stupid if there had never been a bomb, as he had been flossing Mr. Flynt’s buttocks for years with no pay in fear of being dismembered and disassembled at the subatomic level by a bomb that was possibly powered by fusion reactions.

“Er, excuse me, Mister Narrator?” asked Hank.

Yes, Hank?

“Well, me an’ the lads was under the impression that this story was supposed to contain a line about butter with something about a leg off or some such?”

Yes, Hank, that’s true.

“Well, me an’ the lads also figured that you never included any such line, an’ that makes us feel a mite uncomfortable. Like we failed ya somehow.”

Oh, well, I seem to have forgotten. It’s my mistake, really.

“Well, I could get some of the lads together, and we could do a little something for you, if that would help at all.”

No, thanks though, Hank. I really don’t care anymore.

“Okay, well, then… I-- I was happy to be of assistance, for that one bit, anyway…Nice to have worked with you.”

Same here, Hank.

“Cheerio.”