‘Putting
together of the Heads’ 1%7 legalize cannabis classic.
‘Jesus’
Jumpsuit!’ Porrig had seen photos of these in an auction catalogue. How much
had they gone for?
‘Lots,’
said Porrig. ‘Lots and lots.’
And the
ones in the auction had been second-hand, and these were perfect. Perfect.
Porrig opened further drawers and revealed further wonders. Mike English
posters. The Hapshash and the Coloured Coat ones of Hendrix and the Floyd and
The Incredible String band. Porrig pushed in the bottom drawer and sat down on
the floor.
This
was it. The collector’s dream come true. The place that every collector
fantasizes about. The warehouse no-one has opened for a century. Great
granddaddy’s attic. Aunty Nora’s cellar.
Uncle
Apocalypso’s shop!
And
this was it. He’d found it. He, Porrig the no-mark. He’d hit the
jackpot. And why? Why him?
‘Because
I deserve it,’ said Porrig. ‘Because I am the only person in the whole wide
world who really truly deserves it. I have been sorely tried and cruelly tested
and I have been found not wanting. It is my destiny to be wealthy and
successful. It is my fate.’
And
satisfied with this load of old tosh, Porrig actually offered up a prayer of
thanks. A real one. ‘Thank you, God,’ prayed Porrig. ‘And thank you too, Uncle
Apocalypso The Miraculous, with the capital T.’
Porrig
wept a little tear for his defunct uncle and also for himself, because he was
now a man of possessions and a man of possessions can be a worried man. Porrig’s
first reaction upon seeing his treasure had been to slam and lock the door,
which had worried him at the time. The sheer instinctive-ness of the act.
Instant covetousness and instant paranoia. All of this was all too much. Half
of it would have done. A quarter. But all? What was he to do with it? How could
he sell it? Whom could he trust? One of the big auction houses? Anyone?
Porrig
now felt a wee bit wobbly. He climbed slowly to his feet and took another look
around. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t go to pieces.
Then he
spied the staircase. More upstairs? More stock? The stair light also worked and
Porrig peered up the narrow stairway. ‘Easy now,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t rush
it. One rotten stair and you’ll be joining your uncle.’ But the stairs looked
safe and Porrig took a step or two before he paused and looked back into the
shop.
Something
wasn’t right about that shop.
Something
that should be there, wasn’t.
And
Porrig now knew what that something was.
‘Dust,’
said Porrig. ‘There’s no dust.’
He examined
his hands.
They
were clean.
Porrig
returned to the shop. He ran his finger along the nearest shelf. Dust free. Not
a speck.
Now
that did not make any sense at all. A shop locked up for thirty years and not a
trace of dust?
‘Let’s
check upstairs.’
Porrig
checked upstairs He did tread with considerable care, but the stairs held. The
stairs, with their nicely well-swept carpet, held. On the first floor he was
met by another surprise. Another working light displayed a room full of
machinery. It was all most impressive. All buffed up brass and steel. It was…
‘A
printing press.’ Porrig whistled. ‘It’s a printing press.’
He
circled the machine, admiring all its polished bits and bobs. This was a real
deluxe jobbie. Ideal for…
‘Printing
comics.’ Porrig whistled once again. Why, with a rig-out like this I could
print my own comic books. No more rejection slips from publishers.’
This
was bliss. Oh perfect day. And Porrig engaged in another foolish jig.
Then he
explored a bit more. He came upon a small bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. They
were nothing special. But they were both impeccably clean.
‘Still
no dust.’ Porrig shook his head. So what about the front room with the broken
windows and the roosting pigeons? Porrig opened the door and switched on the light.
The
curtains were drawn. The room was pristine. A bed of burnished
together of the Heads’ 1%7 legalize cannabis classic.
‘Jesus’
Jumpsuit!’ Porrig had seen photos of these in an auction catalogue. How much
had they gone for?
‘Lots,’
said Porrig. ‘Lots and lots.’
And the
ones in the auction had been second-hand, and these were perfect. Perfect.
Porrig opened further drawers and revealed further wonders. Mike English
posters. The Hapshash and the Coloured Coat ones of Hendrix and the Floyd and
The Incredible String band. Porrig pushed in the bottom drawer and sat down on
the floor.
This
was it. The collector’s dream come true. The place that every collector
fantasizes about. The warehouse no-one has opened for a century. Great
granddaddy’s attic. Aunty Nora’s cellar.
Uncle
Apocalypso’s shop!
And
this was it. He’d found it. He, Porrig the no-mark. He’d hit the
jackpot. And why? Why him?
‘Because
I deserve it,’ said Porrig. ‘Because I am the only person in the whole wide
world who really truly deserves it. I have been sorely tried and cruelly tested
and I have been found not wanting. It is my destiny to be wealthy and
successful. It is my fate.’
And
satisfied with this load of old tosh, Porrig actually offered up a prayer of
thanks. A real one. ‘Thank you, God,’ prayed Porrig. ‘And thank you too, Uncle
Apocalypso The Miraculous, with the capital T.’
Porrig
wept a little tear for his defunct uncle and also for himself, because he was
now a man of possessions and a man of possessions can be a worried man. Porrig’s
first reaction upon seeing his treasure had been to slam and lock the door,
which had worried him at the time. The sheer instinctive-ness of the act.
Instant covetousness and instant paranoia. All of this was all too much. Half
of it would have done. A quarter. But all? What was he to do with it? How could
he sell it? Whom could he trust? One of the big auction houses? Anyone?
Porrig
now felt a wee bit wobbly. He climbed slowly to his feet and took another look
around. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t go to pieces.
Then he
spied the staircase. More upstairs? More stock? The stair light also worked and
Porrig peered up the narrow stairway. ‘Easy now,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t rush
it. One rotten stair and you’ll be joining your uncle.’ But the stairs looked
safe and Porrig took a step or two before he paused and looked back into the
shop.
Something
wasn’t right about that shop.
Something
that should be there, wasn’t.
And
Porrig now knew what that something was.
‘Dust,’
said Porrig. ‘There’s no dust.’
He examined
his hands.
They
were clean.
Porrig
returned to the shop. He ran his finger along the nearest shelf. Dust free. Not
a speck.
Now
that did not make any sense at all. A shop locked up for thirty years and not a
trace of dust?
‘Let’s
check upstairs.’
Porrig
checked upstairs He did tread with considerable care, but the stairs held. The
stairs, with their nicely well-swept carpet, held. On the first floor he was
met by another surprise. Another working light displayed a room full of
machinery. It was all most impressive. All buffed up brass and steel. It was…
‘A
printing press.’ Porrig whistled. ‘It’s a printing press.’
He
circled the machine, admiring all its polished bits and bobs. This was a real
deluxe jobbie. Ideal for…
‘Printing
comics.’ Porrig whistled once again. Why, with a rig-out like this I could
print my own comic books. No more rejection slips from publishers.’
This
was bliss. Oh perfect day. And Porrig engaged in another foolish jig.
Then he
explored a bit more. He came upon a small bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. They
were nothing special. But they were both impeccably clean.
‘Still
no dust.’ Porrig shook his head. So what about the front room with the broken
windows and the roosting pigeons? Porrig opened the door and switched on the light.
The
curtains were drawn. The room was pristine. A bed of burnished
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