Ah he'll be fine: his prison cell is similar to his office, with the iron
bars, the bucket in the corner and the poorly disguised escape tunnel that
simply has to be a cry for help; he'll feel right at home. I understand he's
not coping too well with the rape and other brutality, but that's to be
expected with his delicate sensibilities, so easily offended. He's only got
himself to blame, and everyone who never pointed out his mistake to him, or
left an anonymously underlined dictionary on his desk. Oh, and the people
who carried out the bloody brutality, and their boss who authorised it for
the vast amount of money it'd bring him. Give him (dum first him, not evil
second him) some credit: he stood up to be counted like a man. That he later
sat down crying like a baby shouldn't be counted against him; it was late,
he was tired.
Day one of pumice-selling school should consist of two slides and captions.
Slide one: pumice. Slide two: prepuce. Slide one. Slide two. Slide one.
Slide two. Test them on it. Make it multiple choice if you will: What are
you selling? a) Prepuces. b) Pumices. c) Dreams. It should never have been
allowed to happen; I'm gonna put the whole goddamn system on trial, as soon
as the system grants me a subpoena. Even the shareholders were revelling in
their communal hatejoy when he registered the company's name as Preputial
Solutions, not Pumiceous Solutions. You can hear the sniggers now, can't
you? All he needed was one girlfriend with whom he'd talk about this sort of
stuff, who'd think he wasn't being quaint in bringing his work home, and sex
to work, who wasn't laughing about him behind his back. Poor guy.
You can get far in this world if you're incredibly stupid and people make
allowances for you (think of a name. Yep, that's the one I was thinking of
too). It'll all come crashing down when you go toe to toe with the
unquestionable face of progress. (The trick is to go boot to face with
progress). After a long career being laughed at whilst selling 'prepuce'
stones to the dead-skinned of the world, his geological wholesalers sold off
their pumice division to the highest bidder. Things would continue just as
they were before, surely? Maybe a nip up in prices. He rang to find out.
"How much for 40,000 prepuces?" he asked after plenty of moist schmoozing.
"We don't sell prepuces, we sell pumices," was the reply. And then the fatal
joke. "If you want prepuces it'll cost you a fair bit extra."
"I've always sold prepuces," he replied to the reply. I'm guessing - I can't
be expected to know everything - he didn't think a pumice was a prepuce.
Poor guy; so many things could have saved him. "And I pride myself on the
quality of my goods. I don't sell cheap junk. How much is this 'fair bit
extra'? Oh, and send over a couple of samples of those pumices and I'll take
a look at them."
It's always money. And then he was quoted the price for 40,000 prepuces to
be delivered a week later. Contractually I'm not allowed to reveal details
(meaning this is all lies, and I wouldn't know how much a prepuce cost if it
came along and bit me on the arse).
Knock knock. "Are you allergic to chloroform [Tintin rocks], the steel used
in medical instruments or plasters?"
"No, b..." Chloroform, yank, slice, plaster.
...
"Slowly... slowly... no, just rip it off... NO... slowly... umm... just...
ARGGGGGGHHHHHH." Poor gals. All in one night. No-one knew what hit them.
Brutal, man. Bloody. Horrible.
He saw the news the next day, about the women chloroformed and deprepuced.
Bang. It hit him; all his mistakes hit him, his whole life he'd said prepuce
instead of pumice and now it'd come back to haunt him. The embarrassment was
one thing, but all those poor women scabbing as he shook, scared in his
bathroom... it was enough to make him empathise. The pumice samples were
delivered to his house, as well as a couple of prepuce samples just to show
him what'd be delivered in a week's time. Ooh all sorts of emotions again;
you can imagine. And then he called the police and explained as best he
could. Off he went to prison, off the highest bidder and his brutal minions
went. The prepuces had been kept on ice and could be reattached, but no-one
could identify theirs, and didn't want anyone else's - well, if you won't
even use someone else's pumice... Poor gals. You can say what you like about
the guilty, but it's the innocent who really suffer.
Ignorance is no defence, but charm does your case no harm. The judge was
reasonably lenient towards him. He's since found God. He has confused plans
for the future: he might manage a Labia Exchange, or a own a Vulva
Dealership. Be careful out there, eh? Some of those puns could have your eye
out.