Mad Mick bustled into the department and grabbed Ben.
“We have to get as many of those packets out today… I mean NOW Ben… oh hello, who are you?”
Mick had spotted Faffy.
That’s Faffy Mick. He’s my new leprec….. I mean personal assistant.”
“Hmmmm.” said Mad Mick. “Bit small isn’t he?” Is he Mr O’Crumpet? The agency said he’d be here.”
“That oi am sorr. Faffy O’Crumpet. One of the County Kildare O’Crumpets, not to be confused with the Dublin O’Crumpets.
Mad Mick shrugged and turned again to Ben.
“I’ve just checked out back and there’s three bald guys zooming about chucking our packets about. What’s that all about Ben? You need to stop them mucking about and get them working.”
“All in hand boss.” Murmured Ben.
Just then Robert (not Bob) lumbered into view.
Mad Mick did a double take.
“Excuse me squire are you lost? The old people’s home is just down the road.”
Ben interrupted quickly.
“This is Robert Mick. He is a errrr…. Troubleshooter. He is helping us out.”
“Wow he pongs a bit. And should he have fungus growing on him?”
Robert grumbled louder.
“OK old timer. Keep your hair on. If you do a good job I’m happy. Aren’t we Ben?
“Well Bob. It was nice meeting you.” Said Mad Mick as he turned away towards the office.
Robert (not Bob) growled, his arms rose to shoulder level and he started to shamble after Mad Mick.
“NOOOOO.” Cried Faffy as he jumped in front of Robert. “He doesn’t know and he’s de boss.
Robert stopped. Grudgingly.
“Whatthefeck?” said Ben.
“He called him Bob Mr Ben. Robert hates being called Bob. If oi hadn’t have stopped him den Mr Mick moit have been missing his brains boi now.”
Robert growled again.
“Aye. Damned right he would although by t’ sound of the lummox it wouldn’t have been much of a snack lad. We have a name for people like him in Yorkshire.”
“What is it?” Said Ben.
“Soft southern twats.” Replied Robert.
Robert seemed placated and moved off to continue hunting Fuck up faeries.
Ben started laughing.
“Is your name really O’Crumpet Faffy?”
“It is Mr Ben and I’ll hear no bad words about my name if youse please sorr. Tis a very ancient and honourable Leprechaun name.”
“OK Faffy. Ben suppressed a giggle. We better check on those DeVito’s. We need those packets out as soon as we can although I can’t see it happening for a few days at least. I have to arrange the delivery pick up times with UPS.”
It was Faffy’s turn to suppress a laugh as he puffed on his pipe.
Green cubic smoke rings appeared.
They entered the back of the warehouse together.
It was empty. No DeVito’s … and just empty trollies which had previously been full.
“Omigod.” Cried Ben. “What happened? Where’s all the work gone?”
“It’s out back sorr.” Chortled Faffy. The DeVito’s are just loading it up for delivery. Youse won’t be needing dose UPS fellas after all.”
“Eek.” Said Ben.
“Tis OK sorr we are using our own delivery….erm … company.”
Ben rushed out of the rear loading door just in time to see his packets flying off into the air.
If that wasn’t strange enough they were flying off in a very large sled pulled by what seemed like a team of … horses? … nope they were bloody reindeer. He could just make out a man in red driving and faint cries of “Hohoho.” As his packets disappeared into the distance.
“Well he is cheaper and faster than UPS sorr. Oi thought we’d give him a chance.”
Ronald Smith sat in his two bed-roomed house in Devon.
He enjoyed sitting in his old but very comfortable armchair.
He sat drinking his tea time cup of hot chocolate and he wondered where his delivery had got too. He worked from home now that he had semi-retired to the West Country. He checked documents for the Anglo-Irish Document Clearing Centre to bring in a few extra quid. He didn’t need a lot but the checking job paid for the little luxuries of life.
Mr Biggles, his ancient black tom cat looked up from his bed by the unlit fire and meowed as Ronald dunked a hob nob in his hot choccy.
There was a whooshing sound followed by a loud bang. Mr Biggles jumped up and raced out of the door as a large grey plastic package dropped into the fireplace followed by a small cloud of soot.
Ronald Smith sat open mouthed in astonishment as the soggy hob nob fell into his mug mid dunk.
The deliveries had begun.
© 2013 Stan M Rogers. All rights reserved.