"I'd like your advice," explained the man with grey hairs as he took three
dice and four matches from a clear plastic bag and laid them on the table to
signify '2 + 2 = 5'. "Apart from minor forensic evidence - blood, hair,
signed confession, security camera footage of the crime, eyewitnesses, lack
of anyone else to pin the crime on - this is the only clue in a rather nasty
pickstitchpocketing. It was sewn on the fadefree square where once a pocket
hung. What does it mean?"
"Let me clarify this in my head," I said, using my mouth, tongue, throat,
and all those lowerhead bits, then clarifying in my lowerhead rather than
the implied silent upperhead. "You all but caught someone in the act of
stealing someone's pocket and sewing dice and matches on in its stead, and
yet you don't know why the dice and matches were used in the way they were
used, so you've decided to ask me in case I know? Why me? Are you arresting
me as an accomplice? I didn't do anything. Anyway, this must be some sort of
illegal entry: you didn't identify yourself as a policeman." I remained
remarkably calm because I was fucked to my eyeballs on zoloft and other
partygoodtimedrugs.
"Oh, no no no no no, no. No, no. No; no, no no: no, no. No. I'm not a
policeman, I'm sorry if I gave you that idea, no, no no: no, no, no; no, I'm
not a policeman, I'm a policewoman, but I'm off duty, here solely in my
capacity as a woman. It was my pocket that was stolen and replaced with dice
and matches. By venturing within fourteen inches of a woman's bottom, the
perpetrator violated the terms of his parole for a previous unrelated
treason charge and was whisked off and executed before I was able to find
any sort of explanation why my bottom was subjected to faulty maths. Word on
the street is SLOW, but written longly so it foreshortens, or compensates
for foreshortening, or momma's little baby loves shortening, shortening,
momma's little baby loves shortening bread. Something short and fatty so
people don't crash their cars. Gossip amongst the mathematically aware
chemists is that you once claimed that 2+2=5, and that you could prove it.
One of them slipped me a many times photocopied copy of coypu copying of a
thesis you submitted to Jane's Fighting Theories, where you proved 2+2=5,
using nothing but logic, but were soundly laughed out of the envelope. Word
amongst the wise is that you were just testing the water to see if the world
was ready for your actual proof that 2+2=5 using a new form of mathematics
that makes Grand Unified Theory look like a damp tampon in cling film. Here
I am asking you. Can you help me?"
"True, all true. Every word of it is true. 2+2 does = 5, and I can show you
the proof if you want, but it's likely to take many many months for you to
travel along the path of learning until you understand it, provided you're
coming from a position of postgraduate mathematics." The woman with grey
hairs indicated she wasn't a postgraduate in mathematics. "Knowing why 2+2=5
isn't going to explain why someone stole your pocket and sewed dice and
matches on. I'm as confused as you are, but I care far less. Sorry I can't
have been of more help. I wouldn't worry about it, he's dead now." She left,
bawling.
It was true, all true. Every word of it was true, apart from the bit when I
lied: knowing why 2+2=5 would have explained why someone stole her pocket
and sewed dice and matches on. I wasn't confused as she was, however I
really did care less. I wasn't sorry, I would worry, he was dead...
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. Fuck all that, ignore it. I fucked up my whole
fucking proof. That fucking pisses me off. FUCK. Eight fucking years and
I've fucking fucked it up. I see what I did: 2+2 doesn't =5, it =4. FUCK. I
fucking fucked up. Ah fuck. Fuck.
I'm now remarkably calm because I've fucked to my eyeballs on zoloft and
other partygoodtimedrugs. Ah well, I guess it wasn't true, all true, but
bits were. Knowing why 2+2=5 might explain why someone stole her pocket and
sewed dice on to it, but 2+2=4, so I can't be sure. I'm as confused as she
was, but still true is that I care far less. Am I sorry? Dunno really. I'm
not going to worry, and let us not forget that he is dead. If I show my
working does that get me anything?