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 sarcastic - just another day

- Now look, this here Sarcastic …surely it's only make believe, right, or is this really how things work?! PLEASE!? We were asked this question the other day by a man who nervously pulled our sleeves. His worn-out and appealing eyes implied him not being entirely sober.

Deeply moved by his commitment, we clasped the man's hand in astonishment and hastened away, in fright. Up in the office, where we went to wash our hands, we realised that nothing was the same. There was a letter on the floor. -What's this?! we shrieked upset, and thumped each other's backs in surprise. We picked up the letter and read it. It said: Help! Rolf.

-W…what is this? we thought. Rolf? Who the deuce is that? And whatever was his aim? (Us, it turned out later). We immediately started to investigate this, analysing the letter. A sleepless fortnight later we at last reached an answer, which was exactly what we thought: there wasn't anything remarkable at all about this letter. It was written upon an ordinary writing paper, with a just as ordinary lead-pencil.

We then scrutinized it even more thoroughly, and gathered that he had stressed the word "Help" more than the word "Rolf". Whatever did he want now? Did he have to make things this complicated, the idiot? We're enough busy already, aren't we?   Suddenly it dawned upon us, like a gong in the face - maybe he in fact was in trouble. But if he really needed help why did he come to us, of all people? But we decided after all to help Rolf.   There's only one man who could succeed in this. Well, probably there are lots of them, but since he is the single one we ever knew, it had to be him. Sab El Affad! We called him up in Amsterdam and told him to get here at once. At first he didn't want to. But we threatened to bring up the suspected paternal suit incident in Swansea, where the police gave up due to lack of evidence.

-We have that evidence, we told the petrified Affad. We hung up and looked at each other guilefully. -Maybe we ought to show the police those papers anyway? -NO!!! No, by the Holy Prophet's dates, shouted Affad, bursting in through the office door panting, and desperately fumbling for some incense and myrrh. -Are you trying to bribe us? we wondered, while flossing very laid back. -When the fool rakes the desert, the wise gets sand all over him, Affad stuttered as he whiningly rolled into his prayer rug. -Turn me against Mecca, will you guys, he said, and commenced his fasting-month.   After 24 hours of marathon belly-dancing by three moonlighting baby-minders from Epping Forest, we managed to break the deadlock. Excited and date-pulpy he peeped out again, his beard all dishevelled. -Okay, let's go then…

sarcastic