Them Things That Go On Top Of Each Other
by Jedi Amara
Author's Note: Inspiration? One name. Lazlo Woodbine. Never heard of him? Look up the author Robert Rankin and read his books. - Also the Diamond Brothers - look up Anthony Horowitz. Apart from that, I'm just fairly crazy Riiiiiiight? - I suppose you could call this an exercise in voice, if that helps explain away my craziness -. This was going to be called "Juxtaposition", and then I recalled reading a book named that, so I renamed it to "Juxtaposition, or, Them Things That Go On Top Of Each Other", with grammar after the style of "The Hobbit, or, There And Back Again" :). I'm not entirely happy with the title, and I'll almost certainly rename the fic at some stage.
Oh, and this first chapter is fairly short - the others will probably be longer, though I'm not sure how long I can keep writing in Harry's voice XD. I'm not particu-lar-ly good at it. :)
Disclaimers: I don't own Pokémon or any related names/indicia. I own my OCs.
Spelling/Language: Australian spelling ('-our', '-tre'). Grammatical errors are intentional.
Vexations and Pum'kin Pies
They calls me the Tex.
Not 'cause that's my name, right? 'Cause I de-tects stuff. Course, I in-vest-i-gates stuff too, right? But then they'd call me Vex, and that's not a good name for a man in my line of work. The missus, she says I vexes her alright, but a man in my line of work's gotta do what he's gotta do, an' if the missus don't like it, well, that's the way it's gotta be. See? Now, everything makes sense when you looks at it the right way, in'nit? An' course, that's my job, in'nit? Lookin' at stuff. Lookin' at it right. So this is where we begins.
I'm sittin' at my desk with my feet up, just relaxing kinda, and I'm just about to light my cigar. Now, a man needs a cigar once in a while, and I needs one more than most, for I've a lot of stress, right? Or so that's what the world's gotta believe about me, see? Shows I'm doin' my job right. So I'm lightin' my cigar, and the missus calls in to me, she does.
"Harry Weatherall," she says, for that's my name, "Harry, there's a phone call for you." So I puts down my cigar and I goes into the kitchen and I means to take the call, I does, but what's sittin' on the table, a fine smell risin' off of it? It's a pie, a pum'kin pie. Now, Elsie, that's the missus, she knows I can't resist a fine pum'kin pie, and Elsie, she makes the finest pum'kin pie this side of the equator. So she's just temptin' me, isn't she, knowin' I won't be able to let it go. O' course I've just gotta sit down and snaffle up that fine-lookin' pie while she's out at the line, and when I picks up the phone, well, whatta you know? Fellow who's called, well, he's hung up, hasn't he? So I sighs, I walks back into my office, and my desk's on fire.
Turns out it's been my cigar set it off, and doesn't the missus crow.
"I've told you time and again to stop smoking," she tells me again, but a man in my line of work's gotta have a cigar once in a while. An' I tells her that, and I knows it's her fault anyway, for if she hadn't left that fine pum'kin pie (which, by the by, was fair the best I've had in many a long year) out then I'd have answered that call, in'nit? An' then I'd-a not seen my desk burn, for I'd have been back at it afore it could catch. But no, she doesn't agree.
"It's your own fault, Harry Weatherall," she insists.
Later that night, I goes to sit at the table, for it's dinner-time, and I calls for Elsie to bring me my dinner, and I eats my hat if she doesn't slap down a slab of bread and a pat of butter in front of me.
"Where's my dinner?" I asks her, for of course a man in my line of work can't survive on a mere bit o' bread an' a spread of butter, and I tells her that.
"I baked you a pumpkin pie for your dinner, Harry Weatherall, and you ate it up this afternoon while I was not watching, so you've only yourself to blame," she says, though of course it's the job of the missus to put a fine meal on the table for her man when he comes in from a hard day's work.
"Now eat your bread and butter, and maybe next time you will not eat your pie when I'm not watching," she tells me. So I eats my bread and butter.
So it comes after dinner, an' afore I forgets I flicks on the tel-lee-vision ready for my fav'rite show, an' I sees the news. Now the lass who reads the news, Lindsey her name is, is a fair fine figure of a girl, so I settles in an' I watches the tail-end of the news.
"Now to world news, and in the Johto region we have reports of a small riot," she says, and I finds it passing strange that I doesn't recognise that name, for a man in my line of work's gotta know his geography, see? So I goes back to my office, and I looks at my map on the wall, and I finds the Johto region, though I'm sure I haven't seen it there before. An' I'm afeared that somethin' is up, for I can't for the life of me recall what was written there, though I knows it wasn't "Johto".