Disclaimer: OK, so this is newlyrevised!Arreh Sculptor, up and running again! As usual, based on all the stuff owned by that cool Scottish blonde lady JKR.

Arreh Sculptor and the Philosopher’s Phone

Chapter 1: Perfectly Normal

Mr and Mrs Parsley of 421487562435284323218323, Private Eye Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal thank you so very much, you’re very welcome, mind your head, look both ways before crossing the road, etc etc etc. Perfectly normal depended a little on what your view of perfectly normal was, of course.

Mr Verruca Parsley was a pimp. He had a huge collection of diamond encrusted sticks and waved them around a lot. He wore so much bling that his wife had to wear sunglasses all the time to avoid being blinded. He starred in countless 50Cent videos (despite the fact that this is the early 80’s but stuff that). He sumo-wrestled in the weekends.

Mrs Perspiration Parsley was a total idiot. She was the butt of all the ‘Yo mama’ jokes in history. She owned a factory that manufactured gun parts, and one of her hobbies was dismantling rifles and putting them back together again. She was a bulimorexic who had tried every diet in the book, including the Atkins diet, the South Beach Diet, the All-Salmon diet, the –700 calories diet and the Eat-Nothing-And-Die-In-A-Week diet but she still hadn’t gotten rid of the one millimeter of flesh around her pelvic bones.

The Parsleys had a baby boy called Dunny Parsley who looked like a giant rotten cantaloupe and smelt like -er- a dunny. Needless to say, they loved him to bits.

Mrs Parsley’s one bane in life was her sister Lolita. Lolita had been a total hippy so it was to no one’s surprise when she’d run off, married a guy with fuzzly hair called Flames Sculptor and went to live in an artist’s loft in Greenwich Village, Manhattan. They sat around all day throwing blobs on canvas, making abstract sculptures, writing surreal novels and drinking coffee and smoking pot.

Lolita had a baby boy, like Perspiration had a baby cantaloupe. The baby’s name was Harry Pablo Jackson Vincent Salvador Edvard Ernest William Frida Virginia Georgia James Sculptor, but everyone called him Arreh (The Sculptors were Cockneys at heart). Not that Perspiration cared. She spent half her life trying to pretend Lolita didn’t exist. They didn’t want Dunny mixing with a mini-anarchist like Arreh.

It was the usual miserable manic Monday morning. Mr Parsley was picking out his glitziest cane from his gallery. Mrs Parsley sang a hunting song as she wrestled baby “Lungs-Like-Jordan’s-Boobs” Dunny into his high chair.

They didn’t notice a giant tampon with wings fly past their window.

Dunny started making phallic shapes out of plasticine and chucking them at the walls. “AWW!” chorused Mr and Mrs Parsley gooily. At half eight, Mr Parsley left for work.

Upon leaving the house, Mr Parsley was shocked to see…

A cat

In a hat.

(Hah, just playing. Well no, not really.)

The cat was reading a map.

Mr Parsley ignored it. He’d probably swallowed one of Perspiration’s diet pills and they were making him hallucinate. No need to panic, he reasoned.

He got stuck in a traffic jam.

He opened a pot of traffic jam and started spreading it over his sandwiches. (TRAFFIC JAM- MADE ONLY FROM THE FINEST CAR EXHAUST).

Out of the corner of the eye, he could see a straggly line of people talking excitedly about something. They were wearing brightly coloured t-shirts, woolly cardigans, fancy berets and rubber ducks on their feet. Many of them were holding long cigarettes. Or what looked like long cigarettes with sparks coming out of them.

“Oh well, they’re probably collecting money for something,” thought Mr Parsley tolerantly, and continued eating.

He had a wonderful morning at work, surrounded by scantily clad girls and expensive, tacky jewellery. Best of all, there were no flying tampons to be seen! (Except when Cookie chucked a box of them at Candy for calling her fat.)

He got a bit peckish by midday, so he strolled down to Burger King to buy a Whopper. There was a queue of the strangely dressed people queuing to buy milkshakes. He paid for his money and ran out, but not before he heard the following words…

“The Sculptors, that’s right, that’s what I heard!”

“Yes, their son, Arreh!”

“Do you care for tuna salad?”

Mr Parsley froze. He had a mortal fear of tuna salad. And that name, Arreh, sounded horribly familiar.

He ran out.

He ran back to the whorehouse and took several deep breaths. He thought of lingerie. He looked at Cookie and Candy standing in the corner of the street.

He calmed down.

Sculptor wasn’t a rare name. He could think of plenty of people called Sculptor! There was…ahm… and there was…err… well he couldn’t think of anyone at the moment. But there had to be!

And he wasn’t sure his nephew was called Arreh. He wasn’t sure if the child was a boy or a girl. It could be Aretha, or Poodle, or Mahogany. There was really no point in worrying Mrs Parsley.

But all the same…those weird clothes…he’d only met Lolita and Flames twice and during both times, Lolita had been high and Flames completely stoned. But they sure hadn’t been wearing nice cocktail dresses over riding breeches, like his beloved Perspiration, or white velour suits with phat gold jewellery, like him.

He found it very hard to concentrate on naked girls that afternoon.

He felt happier that afternoon when he knocked a little man down. “Sorry,” said Verruca, in a surprisingly polite way.

“Dude, say it, don’t spray it!” snarled the tiny man, in a t-shirt that said “Sex Kitten” in pink and a long furry cardigan. Then he smiled. “I CAN’T BE GROUCHY, NOT TODAY! YOU-KNOW-WHO HAS GONE AWAY! EVEN HUGGLES LIKE YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY!” He hugged Mr Parsley.

Mr Parsley was shocked. A man in peculiar attire had hugged him and called him a Huggle. Those people at Burger King. That cat in the hat. It was all terribly strange.

When he got home he glared at the cat. It glared back.

He was very unnerved.

He sidled up warily to Perspiration, who was beaming. “Darling, Dunny said his first word! Say it, honey!”

“Fuck!”

“Gooooood boy Dun-dun. Now don’t say it again or I’ll slap you.” She let out a couple of shots in warning.

“Marvellous. Perse, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure hon.”

“Honey…have you heard from…ah…err… the Sculptors recently?”

Perspiration drew her breath in sharply. That corset was tight, dammit.

“No. Why – do- you - ask?” she said, trying to muster a sentence using her ruptured lungs.

“Oh nothing darling. Just eleventy million people have seen flying tampons flying by. And on the weather report…well, darling, there was a downpour of HB2 ½ pencils somewhere near Kent.”

“What-does-this-have-to-do-with-Lolita?” said Perspiration sharply. Her face was mauve.

“Nothing, nothing. Oh by the way, what’s their son’s name? Was it Noodle or Granite or Fairy?”

“It’s Arreh. Nasty common name.”

“Oh.” (Verruca’s heart sank.)

“Fuck!”

“Dunny, shut up or I’ll slap you! There’s my clever little darling!

Verruca tried to sleep but couldn’t. So he settled on counting sheep. The sheep turned into leering people wearing lurid t-shirts who tried to stuff him into a huge vat of tuna salad.

It was a tough night.

A/N: Hope u liked! Now to the tune of Busted’s AIR HOSTESS….:

Reviewers!
I like the way you comment!
You know I’m slow to type
But I feel much better
I can type in my mind
And you will make me write better
I messed my chaps
When I skipped 300 kbas
Will I see you soon
In my ficlet ooh
For a short and sweet comment?
Reviewers!

PS: Oh yeah, and Dunny, to the best of my knowledge, is Australian slang for “toilet”. And the Greenwich Village loft thingy was inspired from Meg Cabot's Princess Diaries series. Now stop reading these stupid author notes and review. PLEEEASE?