It was the sort of day when nothing happened. Not that Garfield Popsicle minded days when nothing happened. No, what he really didn’t like were those days when, having not happened, nothing continued to happen. Because that meant it was a day when Garfield would be bored and, in all honesty he was a mite fed up with being bored. He knew it was one of those ‘be careful what you wish for’ scenarios about which his Christmas cracker had warned him. He was just moaning that being petted by aunts and chucked on his cheeks by grannies was the pits and he’d really rather be bored than that, when Crustacean his loyal retainer began drilling holes in him. Which he felt was a bit much because he’d avoided tattoos and piercings, so to end up finding himself regularly being perforated by his valet on wet Tuesdays and those third after epiphany days that seemed to sneak up and occupy the calendar without any warning wasn’t on. Not on at all. Very much off.
Yes, he mused, being bored sucked.
Garfield was a rather self important cove whose professional business as an equilibrium assessor he had inherited from his maternal grandfather Apostolic Popsicle. Being responsible for ensuring the maintenance of universal balance was, he felt, undervalued by society at large. He didn’t hold with the opinion being purveyed by the Free Spirits, one of the main Inaction Groups who had recently made their presence velvet, having decided that having a felt presence lacked the appropriate silky finish they were after. That opinion stated that, left to itself the universe would sort itself out and if there was, for instance an excess of seeing then the cosmos had shown itself to be perfectly capable of undertaking the necessary sawing to rectify such a situation. After all, they said wasn’t see-sawing merely a case of swings and roundabouts?
Into this life of being an under-appreciated line manager with over-tactile relatives and an over literal staff, came Persiflage Von Tibble, a scion of the House of Gods. Persiflage was an instinctual Upsetter. Inbreeding, a liking for cabbage sorbet and a distinct list to the left had rendered Persiflage incapable of avoiding wanton if unintended destruction. Every part of her wrought havoc wherever she went. Eyelashes jammed sensitive cog-based technologies, her sneezes shattered delicately negotiated peace treaties and caused localised pandemics and her knees crushed random bits of China and other significant Asian behemoths. After the damages reached such a significant sum that Persiflage’s accountant, Fleece feared she might not be able to pay his latest invoice, he had a dozen genetically modified trolls bury Persiflage under a newly built six lane bypass and sent for Garfield.
Garfield listened to the description of Persiflage’s afflictions with mild interest. It was only because it was wet and not Wednesday that he listened at all, very aware that Crustacean had just taken receipt of a hammer action two speed megamatic and any hint of a yawn would give the demented domestic an excuse to treat Garfield like an experimental Swiss cheese.
When Fleece finished with some small but beautifully choreographed handwringing Garfield sighed. ‘Leave her be. What can she do…?’
Garfield knew, in ways that were very old, that he had a lot to learn. This was one of those learning moments, much like understanding braking by beginning with a pile up. As he spoke the earth around them heaved and rippled. Sounds of splintering and crumbling filled the air. Garfield and Fleece hurried to the window. Outside destruction began to spread outward like ripples on a still pond, only with less tranquility and more masonry. Fleece pointed at the epicentre. Emerging from the ground came Persiflage, soil-stained, undamaged and more than a little bit peeved.
She looked around until he gaze alighted on Fleece. ‘You. Just you wait…’
In normal times, a Persiflage paddy was a recipe for a right old kerfuffle but, since all nearby structures and sub structures and under sub structures had been pulverised her trail of desolation uniquely preceded her.
Fleece held his head. ‘Bloody hell. What now?’
Garfield looked at the accountant and smiled. He felt energised. ‘Now, Mr Rapacious Bastard, we make a killing…’ Briefly his smile slipped before catching a corner of his moustache and righting itself. ‘Maybe that was badly phrased. What I mean is we will maximise you client’s potential.’
Fleece had begun to shrink. ‘How? And will it balance the books?’
‘We will balance everything.’
Garfield Popsicle had found his calling. He understood equilibrium so if Ms Von Tibble caused a major contrafabulation here, somewhere an equal and opposite confluence of unexpected fortuity had to be released. And if it hadn’t yet been freed then it was Garfield’s task to spot the potential for gratuitous joy and release it into the wild.
In next to no time, the opposites of Persiflage’s deconstrucive activities began to emerge: lottery wins, pregnancies after many futile years of trying, successful meetings between potential in-laws. Even unexpected political consensus occurred. All sorts arose after Garfield pointed out the potential.
Of course to have such unexplained wonderments required a certain amount of downsiding on Persiflage’s part, but even here Garfield’s experiences helped. He encouraged Persiflage to set up her own bespoke demolition business where she could get most of her clumsiness out of her system during office hours.
Everyone was happy. Except Crustacean who spent his days making bespoke colanders for a group of self watering brassicas.