Drive-By-Baggings

Adam Dalgliesh gazed feverishly at the vending machine. "Basic needs are there" he muttered as he glared at the selections. His hair radiated in all directions and his eyes gleamed maniacally. "Strong coffee" he said to himself as he laboriously inserted the required number of coins into the slot. Dalgliesh had simple needs. A hot cup of coffee was enough to please him. He took a sip and screwed up his face and said "Blechh!" This was not coffee. He sniffed the steaming liquid carefully, his nose twitching. Then his face broke into a delighted grin "Chicken soup!" he cried aloud. Happily he took big swallows. Then he felt a hand on his shoulders "Hey!" he yelled startled and whirled around to face a big burly figure in overalls and red beard. "Sorry mate!" said the red beard, "this machine is not dispensing." Dalgliesh sucked into the cup drawing in the nourishing soup. "Whaddyamean?" he mumbled. Red beard looked at Dalgliesh indifferently as he sucked his soup noisily and said, "It’s being cleaned. I am rinsing the whole thing out with detergent." Dalgliesh blanched just as he drained the last of the detergent. "Yikes!" he yelled, feeling his stomach turn. Soon he was rolling on the floor clutching his stomach. Red beard whistled happily as he opened the machine and drained out a copious quantity of coffee, mocha java, and chocolate mixed with detergent. "There you are friend!" he said briskly and quite oblivious to the twitching foetus, "it's ready to go again!"
Dalgliesh had wanted strong black coffee. He thought he had got chicken soup but actually wound up with industrial grade detergent in his stomach. Calvinists would say "Serves him right! He obviously deserved what he got!" Hindus, such as the noted philosopher Shankara, would sigh and say, "such is life!" Dalgliesh Hallucinated. "My friend," Shankara said with sorrowful bulging eyes suggesting hyper-thyroidism, "in life we start off by paddling up shit creek on a leaking canoe, and continue to paddle up the very same creek thinking we know what we want, are happy and pleased that we get something else. But what we really get..." and here Shankara's eyes glowed with compassion, "... is a lot of shit slowly leaking into the canoe." Shankara sighed lugubriously, "return my friend! You have learned your lesson! Proceed with the calculations on perturbations of rotating black holes. But it does not matter. Black holes will be black holes, whether you perturb them theoretically or not."
Dalgliesh glared at the computer screen. His hair radiated in all directions and his eyes gleamed maniacally as was always the case. "Axisymmetry... shymmetry..." he muttered to himself. The black hole was spewing x-rays, but he hated James Joyce. He hated Finnegans Wake in particular. "Psychotic ramblings" he muttered to himself deliriously. Then he had an idea. He left the computer running and went to bed, tossing all night as the idea took firm shape.
The next morning, tired and disoriented, Dalgliesh fell out of bed, and without brushing his teeth, walked out to a warm summer's day and eased himself into his car. The battered Volkswagen Beetle roared into life and backfired violently, spewing clouds of black smoke as it rocked its way unsteadily down University Street. "Bastards!" he muttered half asleep. "Incoherent, rambling bastards!" His targets were James Joyce, Gibbon, and Winston Churchill. He loathed them with a passion. He decided it was time to pay a visit to the bookstores.
University bookstores that summer witnessed an unprecedented rise in sales of three authors: Joyce (Ulysses and Finnegans Wake), Gibbon (The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in three volumes) and Churchill (The History of the English Speaking People, in four volumes). In all, 720 volumes were sold, a total of 160 titles by Joyce and 80 each by Gibbon and Churchill. Booksellers were delighted. Never were Joyce, Gibbon or Churchill so popular with the campus populace.
Six PM, Friday evening, Crowded campus pubs. Academics, students, town-folk were all sitting out on the sidewalks, supping warm beer. The matronly librarian of the English Department was comfortably seated with a pint in front of her when a battered Volkswagen Beetle screeched to a halt, feet away from her. She ignored the beetle but looked up as the car backfired violently and spewed oily black smoke. She saw a wild face peering out the window, hair radiating in all directions. Gleaming eyes were noticeable. Dalgliesh was overjoyed, "the English librarian!" he chortled. As the unsuspecting librarian looked on, she saw the figure reach for something, and the next instant "Thwack!" a large bag hit her squarely on the head and she pitched to the ground, beer untouched. She moaned feebly and people rushed up, looking at the disappearing Beetle. One of the beer drinkers helped her back to her chair while another picked up the bag and gingerly opened it and peered inside. Puzzled, he pulled out two copies of Joyce, and the three and four volumes of Gibbon and Churchill, respectively, and passed it around. People looked and shrugged as they thumbed through the copies. "Batty" said someone.
All through that dreadful summer, people relaxing over their beer were dropping to the ground as bags of Joyce, Gibbon and Churchill smote them on the heads. "Notorious Drive-by-baggings Continue!" shrieked the excitable campus rag, "Constabulary Clueless!". Librarians, Deans, Dons, Masters, Council Members, the list totalled 67. They all went down scarce a groan. It was the day after midsummer that Dalgliesh, burping aloud after a heavy dinner of Korean packaged noodles, half-pound of Belgian chocolate and a pint of Coke, eased himself into his battered Beetle and rubbed his hands in expectant glee. He checked his bags. Yes, all nine books were in place in each bag. He drove slowly to the campus pubs. There were fewer people about now, terrorized by the notorious bagger. Suddenly Dalgliesh spied him and his eyes gleamed a little more brightly. "Constable Biggins! That lout!" he cried with joy as he sighted the portly figure wobbling along on his bicycle. The sound of the bag hitting the local authority on the head was the most satisfying thing Dalgliesh had heard. But, Dalgliesh had under estimated the doughty Biggins. In a flash Biggins was after him careening on his bicycle, in hot pursuit. Then the Beetle stalled, backfired and would not move again. "Got you!" said PC Biggins with satisfaction. Dalgliesh was bagged.
They threw the book at him. The judge eyed him grimly over his glasses "You, Sir! Are a menace to civilized society! Socially maladjusted, overly bookish, and ...", he looked at his notes, "... given to perturbing black holes". "Off with his head!" muttered the prosecutor. Defense pleaded "Milord!" he whined unctuously, "Milord! defendant is a tired, over-worked research scholar, given to, given to..." he looked desperately at an unrepentant Dalgliesh sitting there glaring, hair radiating in all directions, "... given to the occasional practical joke". The judge was unmoved, irritated with practical jokes. "68 practical jokes is too many practical jokes, Counsel!" He slammed his gavel, "One term of English tutoring!" and he looked mildly amused, "I believe they are offering Finnegans Wake next term,” he said with satisfaction. Dalgliesh was finished, he held his head in his hands and groaned.
Shankara appeared once more and looked at him sorrowfully, eyes bulging. "Friend, Oh! Clueless One!" he said. "In shit creek there is no rest. It is here that you must find the way to the union of the inner with the outer. There is no respite. Recognize that shit happens, and it happens all the time with leaky boats paddling along this glorious cosmic creek." He shrugged as he disappeared. "Stick to Black holes, Oh! Ignorant One! Joyce, Gibbon, Churchill are all here, at the bottom of the creek. There is no escape".