Crowseeker’s Allowance

“Please take a seat, mister…”

“Stormcrow.”

“Oh. On the file I see you are listed as Mister E Sturmkrantz.”

“Yes. Stormcrow. As I said.”

“Ah. One of those funny ones is it? Like yacht?”

“There is nothing funny about a yacht.”

“No. I suppose not. I just meant. Well, anyway let’s get started. The E. Edward perhaps? Eric?”

“Ethel.”

“Haha! Brilliant. I do love a laugh with our clients, builds up a rapport and…”

“You find my name amusing?”

“I…er…I’m so sorry I thought you were…your name really is Ethel Sturmkrantz?”

“My father was a complicated man. He died…exotically.”

“Oh. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Overseas travel was it? Dengue fever or the like?”

“It involved pineapples. A lot of pineapples.”

“Ah. That’s…goodness I’m so sorry I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Wayne Kerr. I’ve taken over all of Mr Fayce’s…Richard’s…clients since he so tragically passed.”

“He also liked to laugh. Right until the end.”

“Yes. Yes he did. We all miss him terribly. I just keep asking myself why?”

“You question why you no longer have Dick in your life?”

“Yes. No. Not like…look let’s just continue shall we? What efforts have you made this week? Have you telephoned anyone?”

“Yes. I have had many conversations. All ended. Some less well than others.”

“Good! Very good! I know you agreed to three a week but any more can only increase your prospects. And the website?”

“This web of which you speak is tedious and dull.”

“Look. I agree the site isn’t the best but it really is the best chance you’ve got. The magazines and newspapers are out of date by the time they are printed these days. OK…so I see in your file you are prepared to accept a maximum commute of forty-three minutes, is there any chance you could extend this slightly? Maybe round it off at the hour?”

“My valiant steed will tolerate forty-three minutes. Any more and she gets…tetchy. Things happen.”

“Ah. I see. Old car is it? Dropping oil? You should put her in for a service. New plugs and decent brake shoes can make all the difference.”

“It is unnecessary. I re-shod her recently.”

“Mister Sturmkr…Stormcrow. Ethel. I truly want to help you but you aren’t making things easy for me. They will stop your benefits if you don’t take this seriously.”

“Do I strike you as one who lacks a serious manner?”

“No, not exa…”

“Your predecessor also questioned my commitment. He did this but once before he so…tragically passed.”

“Wait! Do you know…were you involved in Richard’s…”

“Your questions buzz like flies around the feet of hobbits. I grow weary of you.”

“Now just you hold on, I’ve…”

“Enough! Ensure the gold is paid over as agreed. I have no wish to harm more of you.”

Wayne Kerr reached under his desk to push the security button. His eyes left Stormcrow for a solitary moment, but in the smallest passages of time legends are born and so as his gaze returned all that was left on the chair was a single black feather. He picked it up between trembling thumb and incongruously steady forefinger and watched, transfixed as it fluttered in the grip of an unexplained and quite frankly, staged-for-effect, breeze. The stirring of the quill loosened the unmistakable twin scents of death and Issey Miyake. Wayne began to scream.

In the queue at Gregg’s Bakery, the breaker of worlds born to this one as Ethel Sturmkrantz smiled as he awaited the arrival of his corned beef pastie.

…so ends another tale in the accumulated histories of Stormcrow. Tune in next time for more great adventures with your favourite hobbit-hater. There might be zombies. Oh and I’ve got a couple of really great jokes about monks that are looking for a home (the jokes, not the monks. They’ve got a council house just outside Splott.) so I’ll probably work those in somewhere, and there’s also that thing with the thing that I was going to…