It was a Stark and Dormy Night (OT?)

From: R Supward (r_supward_at_hotmail.com)
Date: 12/22/04 

Date: 22 Dec 2004 12:24:24 -0800

<bogart.lloy@uwlax.edu> wrote in message news:1103562407.298465.309610@f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com...
This morning I found the following prose in my
mailbox. Naturally I will honor the request that
the remainder of the message be kept confidential.
-
I revised the format very slightly, as the email
copy I received was a bit difficult to read. I am,
of course, unworthy to be included in the company
of such as are mentioned in the introduction.
-
Lloyd
*****

I thank the author for a good effort and for the Christmas greetings.
The same to you and everyone else here.
 
Lots of copies of my "Raiders of the Lost Archive" are still
available to anyone who requests one either here or by
private e-mail, address R_Supward <at> hotmail.com.
 

Here's what satisfied readers have said:
 
Funny fantasy tale. Always good to know you haven't lost
your sense of humor. IEJ
 
Bull***. What the *** has [this] to do with medieval
history or archaeology for that matter? SIR
 
Astounding!! Astonishing! Absolutely admirable in every
aspect! It is absolutely brilliant! And easier to read in
pdf as well! MO
 
A notable read. Well done. The story in itself is a work of
art and will be on my page at some stage. G
 
It's so elegant I may even print it out on nice vellum-style
paper! DB
 
Splendid stuff. I particularly liked Ivar Hardon and Paul
Kuntson. MR
 
Now, I like that. ES
 
Thank you for this wonderful story of the triumph of the
will. TM
 
"The da Vinci Code" really pales in comparison with this. KH
 
Sheer genius. Brava! DN
 
Beautiful typography, and quite funny. PK
 
Very infotaining. GB
 
The saga of Britta and Pukko will be be required reading in
all Nordic Studies programs by 2019. DH
 
This isn't fun anymore. IEJ
 

R Supward

**************************************
(Forwarded, from an anonymous donor.)
-
................Christmas Carolsinger.................
-
This story is my Christmas present to you all, and especially
a token of my gratitude to R. Supward, Martin Reboul and
Lloyd Bogart for their estimable work. The story requires a
little effort of the reader. To avoid any trouble with libel
laws, the name of a certain person has to be disguised. The
letters in the surname are replaced by plus signs. The five
letters of the Christian name are replaced by asterisks, not
just in that name but also in other contexts. So, the ordinary
word for a digit is spelled f***** and Fred Astaire's dancing
partner becomes G*****. Sometimes the five characters are
interrupted by a space or other intervening letters (or
interven*** lett**s). You can work it out.
-
____________________________________________
-
Monday
-
My last week as a private detective. Five working days until
retirement. I didn't exactly expect a lot of business, what with
it being the week before Christmas, but I went to the office as
usual, thinking I might start clearing out my stuff.
-
I had only just sat down behind the desk when there was a
knock on the door. In walked a dame in her mid-fifties. She
produced her calling card. It said
-
"***** E. +++++++++. Forskare och författare."
-
"Is that ** ***man?" I asked.
-
"No, more like Geme*****manisch.
Actually, I'm Swedish," she said.
-
Now I must admit to be*** **otically attracted to Swedish women,
so I was prepared to give this doll the benefit of the doubt, but in
this case there was a lot of doubt. She wasn't what you would call
good-looking but she did have an authoritative, self-assured
presence. And at my age I can't be choosy.
-
Maybe she was a sw*****? I tried to imagine her in sexy l*****ie.
I fantasized about a dolphin tattooed on her shoulder. I tried
everyth*** **ogenous my lurid mind was capable of, but still without
feel*** **ective tissue stirring. This was not exactly ***rid B**gman
sitting across from me. I figured I'd better put such thoughts out of
my mind.
-
"How can I help you, ma'am?"
-
"I've come to you because the police won't help me.
There's someone stalking me," she said.
-
"Tell me what he looks like."
-
"I don't know what he looks like, I've never seen him."
-
"So how do you know he's stalking you?"
-
"He does it via the Internet."
-
"Sorry, lady, I can't help you there. I'm pre-Internet."
-
"But I heard you were very good."
-
"I'm the detective who put the *** in dictionary," I said.
"I'm the best - at good old-fashioned Sam Spadework.
None of this high-tech stuff. Sorry."
-
She must hav e been really disappointed, judging by the
time it took for the message to sink in. After a while she
got up slowly and went to the door, where she l*****ed for
a while, as if hop*** desp**ately I would change my mind.
-
I didn't.
-
-
Tuesday
-
I had just sat down, think*** of r**eading Sal*****'s
Catcher in the Rye in the morning, and maybe spending
the afternoon runn*** **rands, when an ominously familiar
knock came. The woman who entered was a dead r*****
for the broad the day before. In fact, it was her again.
-
"Someone is send*** **otic mail to me anonymously.
My mailbox is full of such pornographic abuse every day,"
she said.
-
"I might be able to help you there," I said. "Have you kept
the envelopes? Where's the stuff postmarked?"
-
"N o, not that kind of mail, I mean e-mail."
-
What's with this dame, I thought. Is she deaf or is she just
hear*** **ratically? But I restrained myself. "Sorry, lady. Like
I think I told you yesterday, I know nothing about computers."

"But I heard you wer e very good."
-
"I'm a real humd***** at some things, sure, but not that."
-
This time she took even longer leaving, but I figured she'd
got the message at last.
-
-
Wednesday
-
I started the day by tidying my desk, sort*** **asers and paper
clips. I hadn't got far when the dreaded knock came and in she
strode again. This broad sure was a cl*****.
-
I felt I was gett*** all**gic to her.
-
"You must help me," she pleaded. "Someone is forging my
messages. They tamper with my lines and move my posts,
distort my meaning and infr**** *ules of copyright. They quote
lines from my private mails to that charm*** Spenc** Hines.
They add mistakes to my messages before they are archived
on Google."
-
I asked, rather g*****ly, "Is this on the Internet again?" When
she nodded I said, "Lady, look around you. I got an ancient
manual typewriter over there, looks more like a S***** sewing
machine. My phone is the old-fashioned kind where you stick
your f***** in a dial and rotate it. The most new-fangled thin g
I have is a fax machine, and even that is the prototype. I don't
own a computer and I know nothing about the Internet.
How ** ***onimo's name do you think I can help you?"
-
"But I heard you were very good."
-
"Well, I heard that Henry Kiss***** was s ecretary of state, and
that no longer applies either. You're wasting your time and mine.
I'm sorry."
-
By the time she left, I felt I needed a couple of f*****s of whiskey.
Any more clients like that and I would turn into a b*****.
-
-
Thursday
-
I was reluctant about going to the office, but I've never been a
mal*****er. My sense of duty called me. I started the day by
polishing my derr*****. I knew that the knock on the door was the
br***** of bad news.
-
When she came in this time, she made me thi nk not so much of
***rid B**gman, more of ****ma* +++++++++. I really wanted to
punch her.
-
"You've got to help me," she said. "There's a man called
R. Supward. He's been writing stories about me. He's been
contact*** **stwhile friends of mine, sprea d*** **roneous
details about my past, writ*** **udite satires about my
theories, teas*** **ic and me, unit*** **ilar and all the
other naysayers in a plot against me."
-
"Let me guess," I said, "He does this on the Internet?"
-
"Yes," she said, "And it really pains me to see my invention
being abused for such purposes. You see, the Internet used to
be called after me, the *****net. Can't you trace his postings?
Contact his ISP and have him disconnected."
-
This was the last straw. I was sick of tell*** h**.
-
"What's the matter, lady? I yelled, more ** an*** than in sorrow.
"Are you stupid? Are you deaf? Did you get your tit caught in the
wr*****? Are you so demented you should be ** ***iatric care?
What have I been telling you for the past four days? I know f-ck
all about the Internet! I can't help you! Get out of my office!"
-
"But I heard you were very good!"
-
I lifted the derr***** and started f*****ing it as if I was
contemplating shoot*** h**. She left, rather quickly this time.
-
-
Friday
-
My last day at work, the harb***** of a happy retirement.
I started packing my few belongings into a box. When she
knocked I was waiting. I forced her into the chair, and before
she could say anything I gagged her and tied her firmly.
-
I had a syr**** *eady if she got hysterical.
-
"Now you are going to listen, lady, and you are going to listen
properly," I said. "You heard that I was very good. You're damn
right I was good, but I was good at old-fashioned mysteries,
the things of history, not this modern stuff. If you'd asked me
to find the Templars' gold I could have done it for you. I could
have interpreted the Nasca lines or deciphered the Phaistos Disc.
I could have tracked down the crew of the Marie Celeste or King
Hakon's knarr if yo u'd asked me. I could have taken up Sir
Thomas Browne's challenge to find out what name Achilles
assumed when he hid himself among the women, or what it was
that Billie Joe and the girl were throwing off the Tallahatchie
Bridge in that famous Ode. I co uld have worked out who faked
the Turin Shroud or the Kensington Runestone if you'd only given
me the assignment. I could have found the Norwegian Falcon
and his stupid map for you. But you're like Perceval, you could
have learned the whole truth about the Holy Grail if you'd asked
the right question at once, but you've been wast*** ev**ybody's
time by asking the wrong questions. Now it's too late for you.
-
I'm quitting."
-
I then cut the ropes and removed her gag. Her crestfallen look
gave me a quiet sense of satisfaction. I went back to my packing
as ***** E. +++++++++ left my office for the last time ever.
-
The smell of her perfume l*****ed in the air, but after a good cigar
not a t**** *emained.