I did wait a day for anyone to suggest placing the origins of this strange group in the time-travelling
and alien-fighting Ice Cream van was a poor idea and I agree we're moving away from a single 'short'
story.
But since BIAD is a selfish-sod and enjoys swimming in the word-pool, here's Vance's account of how
he came to be.
Vance.
This account is about a well-to-do successful business man that lived in a world of hard financial facts and solid
down-to-earth no-nonsense acumen. Vance resided with his wife in a five-bedroom house in the 'better' part of
town and enjoyed a round of golf, travelling and the odd pub-quiz.
Vance is a fairly-fit chap and was perceived by his peers as somebody that was focused on building a business
empire and looking after his health. Although never a member of any local fitness-centre, Vance prided himself
on his nightly exercises of press-ups and hopping on the spot.
Recently -and because he wished to keep himself dexterous, he had secretly taken up the hobby of sewing.
When Vance was a small-boy, his Mother would mend his clothes and sing to him behind the needle and thread
as he waited by the pantry in his underpants.
Those memories would cause the efficient and accomplished businessman to smile to himself and if one peered
closer, they may see a small tear touch his cheek. Due to the feminine perception of the practice, he would hide
his pastime away from his wife and only participate when she left on her twice-weekly Spiritualist Meetings.
On the evening before one of these assembles -the meeting that required Vance's wife to take a ouija-board and
to be accompanied by her sister -and recent lodger, Cissy, Vance had been informed by his better-half that she
would be attending a school-reunion at the weekend and it had been decided that the get-together would be
themed. It was to be a fancy-dress reunion.
It must be noted that term 'lodger' in the case of Cissy's mention is because the plain-looking sister-in-law had
recently moved out of their little home in the cul-de-sac -after leaving her husband and sought comfort in the
large-gardened abode of her kin.
Something about piss and Hydrangeas -the frowning male had been told.
Vance had decided on a surprise for his wife and taking to his garage, he began to create a costume that would be the
pride of the parade. The garment of Bo-Peep from the famous nursery-rhyme.
The project took him back to world of his youth and if one pressed an ear to one of the automated doors of his garage,
an old melody would be heard from the broad-shouldered man spinning his pinking shears on his forefinger in happiness.
With his business running fine and still feeling the euphoria from the previous evening, Vance had elected to stay home
the next day and use his skills on finishing the pretty lace-adorned apparel. The crook, or staff of the female shepherd
would be the long-ago purchase that waited in the corner of his two-car garage, the stick he'd bought at a County Fair
where he'd first met his wife.
As implied in the above words, Vance is a pragmatic man and does not suffer fools lightly. It would have taken very-little
of his time to merely hire a costume for his wife's celebration and the cost of the leasing the clothes would certainly not
be part of the equation.
But it was the principle that galled him, the idea that he had taken on a talent to create such clothes and then when
needed, he would resort to money to answer the situation. And so with a steeled determination that his Mother would
be proud of, Vance went about the business of making the costume himself.
It could be said that a word used in Bruce's account would be applicable here too.
The events leading up to Vance's arrest would seem unconnected and therefore, that word -'fate' could be used as a
reason for Sergeant Pensbury's presence at Vance's home that night. The Police Officer had swapped the shift that would
take him for a shorter walk than his usual beat of the town's high street and the Constable that usually patrols the affluent
area had agreed without complaint.
Gout is a terrible disease and when a person's occupation involves a lot of walking and beating miscreants over the head
with a hardwood truncheon, night-stick or 'correctional staff', gout is the Devil's payment for such caring diligence.
But back to Vance.
The material looked fine and the neat stitching smacked of a skilled seamstress from one of the fashionable boutiques of Paris.
The Bo-Peep costume and laced head-dress lay on the kitchen table and to Vance, it looked like a job well-done.
Vance's wife and her sullen sister had left for an urgent meeting at the Spiritualists as an earlier telephone call had informed
the two women that Harry Houdini was on-line and open for questions.
The house was empty and here he was, standing alone and gazing at his work with a critical-eye. The hem was calf-length
and the frills on the sleeves showed a symmetry. The starling-egg blue wasn't too gaudy and the short white socks implied
a nice turn of an ankle.
All seemed well.
But to the smiling man nibbling his thimbled-finger and humming one of the tunes his Mother used to sing, he knew
he hadn't covered all the bases. The dress was the correct size, the hat whispered of a young lady keeping out of the
sun in a meadow and the hooked-stave would do fine in rescuing a lost lamb from a dangerous ravine.
But would the stitching hold? What if an armpit tore or a seam frayed in front of his wife's long-ago pals?
What credibility would he have if it was seen that he couldn't even manufacture a simple fancy-dress costume?
How would his business rivals see him, when they discover that his life-partner could only manage rags to wear
at a friendly soiree?
This is how a practical person thinks, it's about seeing the variables and judging positive outcomes. This is Vance.
He concluded that the only way to resolve the uncertainty was to try the dress on and test his needlwork-skills.
The main reason Vance fell through the small window-section in the hallway and out onto the lawn was because of
the crook, the life-saver stick that shepherds swear by. The clothes were a little tight on his muscular frame, but even
under the stress he urged the fabric to endure, Vance the hard-boiled businessman knew that good quality required a
higher evaluation.
Swinging the staff above his head, he cavorted from the kitchen, ducked ninja-style in the dining-room and keeping
his knees together, he did a nice forward-roll on the lounge carpet from the Harris Berber-collection.
With the dawning of optimism emerging in his brain, Vance ran full-throttle into the hallway and that was when the
smooth-surfaced stick went between his lower-legs and the vigour of his actions caused him to crash through the
frosted-glass section next to the front door and land on the damp-grass of his neatly-clipped lawn.
Dignity lost and his bare-ass showing.
And with Cissy and Sergeant Pensbury looking on.
Maybe it was the filigree garb and the English prudish viewpoint on males wearing female clothes that took the incident
further. Or possibly the Officer believed that the grunting-man laid on the grass had submitted to some-sort of mental
breakdown and was now a danger to the public with the sturdy stick and remiss of a pair of under-crackers?
I can't attest.
Whichever it was, Sergeant Pensbury grabbed Vance by the delicate -but well-styled collar and marched him off towards
the Police Station. Cissy, the scorned-woman lost to a gallon of personal secretion and the extermination of aliens, merely
hissed the words "Not you as well!" and fled back to the hall of whispers from the dead and snake-oil assurances with her
'ghost-board' jammed firmly under her arm.
Why Vance's wife did not witness the odd incident and why Pensbury was in the vicinity at that exact time, I never uncovered.
So the destination of where two different lifestyles would meet, where destiny would place a finger onto the woven line and
create a tidy bow, the place where it all began was that Police Station Charge Room. That little room with the eternal recruitment
poster on it's wall.
That was how Vance was 'chosen' to be a passenger in a vehicle that would blow his level-headed mind and take him into a
world that would change him forever.
After being warned for their respective behaviors, both men -Vance and Bruce, were released from custody and by some
strange means of symbiotic connection, they rode the No.26 bus together towards their respective areas of the town they
both lived in.
But it was the last bus of the evening and after disembarking at the out-of-town terminus, they walked together in the night.
The journey home, or the journey of Bruce and Vance from the Police Station was where they came across the next of the
'selected' people to ride that time-travelling Ice Cream vehicle. A young man nicknamed 'Newt'
But that's another tale for another time.
and alien-fighting Ice Cream van was a poor idea and I agree we're moving away from a single 'short'
story.
But since BIAD is a selfish-sod and enjoys swimming in the word-pool, here's Vance's account of how
he came to be.
Vance.
This account is about a well-to-do successful business man that lived in a world of hard financial facts and solid
down-to-earth no-nonsense acumen. Vance resided with his wife in a five-bedroom house in the 'better' part of
town and enjoyed a round of golf, travelling and the odd pub-quiz.
Vance is a fairly-fit chap and was perceived by his peers as somebody that was focused on building a business
empire and looking after his health. Although never a member of any local fitness-centre, Vance prided himself
on his nightly exercises of press-ups and hopping on the spot.
Recently -and because he wished to keep himself dexterous, he had secretly taken up the hobby of sewing.
When Vance was a small-boy, his Mother would mend his clothes and sing to him behind the needle and thread
as he waited by the pantry in his underpants.
Those memories would cause the efficient and accomplished businessman to smile to himself and if one peered
closer, they may see a small tear touch his cheek. Due to the feminine perception of the practice, he would hide
his pastime away from his wife and only participate when she left on her twice-weekly Spiritualist Meetings.
On the evening before one of these assembles -the meeting that required Vance's wife to take a ouija-board and
to be accompanied by her sister -and recent lodger, Cissy, Vance had been informed by his better-half that she
would be attending a school-reunion at the weekend and it had been decided that the get-together would be
themed. It was to be a fancy-dress reunion.
It must be noted that term 'lodger' in the case of Cissy's mention is because the plain-looking sister-in-law had
recently moved out of their little home in the cul-de-sac -after leaving her husband and sought comfort in the
large-gardened abode of her kin.
Something about piss and Hydrangeas -the frowning male had been told.
Vance had decided on a surprise for his wife and taking to his garage, he began to create a costume that would be the
pride of the parade. The garment of Bo-Peep from the famous nursery-rhyme.
The project took him back to world of his youth and if one pressed an ear to one of the automated doors of his garage,
an old melody would be heard from the broad-shouldered man spinning his pinking shears on his forefinger in happiness.
With his business running fine and still feeling the euphoria from the previous evening, Vance had elected to stay home
the next day and use his skills on finishing the pretty lace-adorned apparel. The crook, or staff of the female shepherd
would be the long-ago purchase that waited in the corner of his two-car garage, the stick he'd bought at a County Fair
where he'd first met his wife.
As implied in the above words, Vance is a pragmatic man and does not suffer fools lightly. It would have taken very-little
of his time to merely hire a costume for his wife's celebration and the cost of the leasing the clothes would certainly not
be part of the equation.
But it was the principle that galled him, the idea that he had taken on a talent to create such clothes and then when
needed, he would resort to money to answer the situation. And so with a steeled determination that his Mother would
be proud of, Vance went about the business of making the costume himself.
It could be said that a word used in Bruce's account would be applicable here too.
The events leading up to Vance's arrest would seem unconnected and therefore, that word -'fate' could be used as a
reason for Sergeant Pensbury's presence at Vance's home that night. The Police Officer had swapped the shift that would
take him for a shorter walk than his usual beat of the town's high street and the Constable that usually patrols the affluent
area had agreed without complaint.
Gout is a terrible disease and when a person's occupation involves a lot of walking and beating miscreants over the head
with a hardwood truncheon, night-stick or 'correctional staff', gout is the Devil's payment for such caring diligence.
But back to Vance.
The material looked fine and the neat stitching smacked of a skilled seamstress from one of the fashionable boutiques of Paris.
The Bo-Peep costume and laced head-dress lay on the kitchen table and to Vance, it looked like a job well-done.
Vance's wife and her sullen sister had left for an urgent meeting at the Spiritualists as an earlier telephone call had informed
the two women that Harry Houdini was on-line and open for questions.
The house was empty and here he was, standing alone and gazing at his work with a critical-eye. The hem was calf-length
and the frills on the sleeves showed a symmetry. The starling-egg blue wasn't too gaudy and the short white socks implied
a nice turn of an ankle.
All seemed well.
But to the smiling man nibbling his thimbled-finger and humming one of the tunes his Mother used to sing, he knew
he hadn't covered all the bases. The dress was the correct size, the hat whispered of a young lady keeping out of the
sun in a meadow and the hooked-stave would do fine in rescuing a lost lamb from a dangerous ravine.
But would the stitching hold? What if an armpit tore or a seam frayed in front of his wife's long-ago pals?
What credibility would he have if it was seen that he couldn't even manufacture a simple fancy-dress costume?
How would his business rivals see him, when they discover that his life-partner could only manage rags to wear
at a friendly soiree?
This is how a practical person thinks, it's about seeing the variables and judging positive outcomes. This is Vance.
He concluded that the only way to resolve the uncertainty was to try the dress on and test his needlwork-skills.
The main reason Vance fell through the small window-section in the hallway and out onto the lawn was because of
the crook, the life-saver stick that shepherds swear by. The clothes were a little tight on his muscular frame, but even
under the stress he urged the fabric to endure, Vance the hard-boiled businessman knew that good quality required a
higher evaluation.
Swinging the staff above his head, he cavorted from the kitchen, ducked ninja-style in the dining-room and keeping
his knees together, he did a nice forward-roll on the lounge carpet from the Harris Berber-collection.
With the dawning of optimism emerging in his brain, Vance ran full-throttle into the hallway and that was when the
smooth-surfaced stick went between his lower-legs and the vigour of his actions caused him to crash through the
frosted-glass section next to the front door and land on the damp-grass of his neatly-clipped lawn.
Dignity lost and his bare-ass showing.
And with Cissy and Sergeant Pensbury looking on.
Maybe it was the filigree garb and the English prudish viewpoint on males wearing female clothes that took the incident
further. Or possibly the Officer believed that the grunting-man laid on the grass had submitted to some-sort of mental
breakdown and was now a danger to the public with the sturdy stick and remiss of a pair of under-crackers?
I can't attest.
Whichever it was, Sergeant Pensbury grabbed Vance by the delicate -but well-styled collar and marched him off towards
the Police Station. Cissy, the scorned-woman lost to a gallon of personal secretion and the extermination of aliens, merely
hissed the words "Not you as well!" and fled back to the hall of whispers from the dead and snake-oil assurances with her
'ghost-board' jammed firmly under her arm.
Why Vance's wife did not witness the odd incident and why Pensbury was in the vicinity at that exact time, I never uncovered.
So the destination of where two different lifestyles would meet, where destiny would place a finger onto the woven line and
create a tidy bow, the place where it all began was that Police Station Charge Room. That little room with the eternal recruitment
poster on it's wall.
That was how Vance was 'chosen' to be a passenger in a vehicle that would blow his level-headed mind and take him into a
world that would change him forever.
After being warned for their respective behaviors, both men -Vance and Bruce, were released from custody and by some
strange means of symbiotic connection, they rode the No.26 bus together towards their respective areas of the town they
both lived in.
But it was the last bus of the evening and after disembarking at the out-of-town terminus, they walked together in the night.
The journey home, or the journey of Bruce and Vance from the Police Station was where they came across the next of the
'selected' people to ride that time-travelling Ice Cream vehicle. A young man nicknamed 'Newt'
But that's another tale for another time.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.