Not Doing Nothing

Sweezus's phone rings.

It's Vello.

Hey, boss, says Sweezus. What's up?

Nothing, says Vello, and that's why I'm calling. When may we expect Sartre's next blog post?

He's been heaps busy, says Sweezus. I'll ask him.

He's left our readers hanging, says Vello. 

Yeah? says Sweezus. What was the last thing he wrote?

But the unforeseen happened... says Vello.

It keeps on happening, says Sweezus.

But we need to know what it is, says Vello. 

Sure, no worries, says Sweezus. He's doing nothing right now.

Are you talking about me? asks Sartre. I'm not doing nothing.

He's wiping his fingers, says Simone. 

That was the boss, says Sweezus. Wants to know when you'll be posting.

I can't type with sticky fingers, says Sartre.

You could type one letter, says Terence.

No one takes any notice.

Then you'd have to stop, says Terence. Because your finger would be stuck to your phone.

Not necessarily, says Simone. The glue doesn't dry for twenty minutes.

How long has my glue been drying? asks Terence.

Ten minutes, says Simone. Are you pressing it down?

Yes, says Terence. 

I could dictate, says Sartre. 

What a sensible idea, says Simone. You dictate and I'll type.

Sartre hands Simone his phone.

Where was I? asks Sartre.

But the unforeseen happened, says Simone. That would be Terence's claw. Are you starting from there?

I planned to, says Sartre. 

Go on, says Simone.

But the unforeseen happened (dictates Sartre). The artificial finger came off. Our young colleague needed a replacement. Where might I find a replacement finger in Barcelona? 

Wait a second, says Simone. Why haven't you mentioned that the artificial finger was a claw? And the young colleague didn't want it glued back, which was the obvious solution, because he'd discovered in the meantime that the original claw owner, his blood brother, had died.

Is this about me? asks Terence.

Yes  says Terence.

Which one am I? asks Terence.

The young colleague, says Sweezus. 

Not the blood brother? asks Terence. 

The blood brother died, says Sweezus. 

But I'm HIS blood brother, says Terence.

Yeah, but you're still alive, says Sweezus. 

There, you see! says Sartre. I decided to leave out such complications.

I still think you should mention the reason....begins Simone.

Sartre thought this might happen, if Simone was involved.

He sighs. 

O Lee O Lor

Saint Elias loosens his grip on his sword.

Did you see that? asks Simone.

What? asks Sartre.

It moved its hand! says Simone.

Impossible! says Sartre.

Let me see, says Terence. 

He looks into the box at Saint Elias.

Which hand did he move? asks Terence.

The one holding the sword, says Simone.

Terence touches the sword.

It moves slightly.

It moves! says Terence. I can just slide it out.

Go on then, says Sweezus.

Terence slides the sword out of Saint Elias's right hand.

Yay! Now he has it.

He wields it. Whoosh! Slash!

Don't do that, says Sweezus.

It's not even sharp, says Terence. 

It still looks like a weapon. says Sweezus.

Saint Elias is regretting his hasty decision.

His sword represented the actual sharp weapon he had.

The one he slew 450 false prophets with.

O those were the days!

Now the kid plans to use it for a finger.

Should he curse it? 

No. One day he might get it back.

He lies still and listens.

Can I just carry it? asks Terence. And not have it glued on.

You'd lose it, says Sweezus. 

Boo! says Terence. That means I have to wait twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes will fly by, says Simone.

How? asks Terence.

Where's the glue? asks Simone.

Here, says Sweezus. Ready Terence? Hold out your left hand

Sweezus squeezes a blob of glue onto the sword's handle.

And a blob onto the spot where the claw of Baby B-B once was.

Is this where you want it? asks Sweezus.

Lower, says Terence. Or it's going to look stupid.

My sword could never look stupid, thinks Saint Elias.

Yeah I see what you mean, says Sweezus. Maybe we should break off the handle.

Bit late now, says Sartre.

Not if you do it, says Sweezus. Break the handle off, and give me the blade. Quick!

Sartre takes the sword from Sweezus, and breaks off the handle.

Now he realises why Sweezus was unwilliing to do it himself.

Sartre's fingers are sticky.

Sweezus squeezes a blob of glue onto the blade, and presses the blade into the spot where the claw was.

Done! says Sweezus. Keep it pressed down for twenty minutes.

Okay, says Terence. How do I make time fly by?

Make up a poem about the transition, says Sweezus.

What a good idea, says Simone.

Okay says Terence. What's a transition?

A change from claw finger to sword finger, says Simone.

What rhymes with claw? asks Terence.

Lots of things says Simone.

O lee O lor, says Terence.

I guess so, says Simone.

O le O lor, I once had  claw/ It got stuck to a hatpin/ and I had it no more, says Terence.

Nice, says Sweezus.

Terence continues:

O lee O lor, I got a new finger/ but it was too small/ so I got a sword finger/ the best one of all.

Everyone seems to like it.

Except Saint Elias.

How long now? asks Terence.

Fifteen minutes, says Sweezus. 

Huurrr.....

Blunt!

Sartre cycles back to the Sagrada Familia.

Locks up his bike, and looks for Sweezus, Simone and Terence.

Terence spots him and runs over.

Did you find me a finger? asks Terence.

I believe so, says Sartre. It's inside this box.

Yay! says Terence. Can I have it?

There is work to do first, says Sartre.

Let me carry the box, says Terence.

Here, says Sartre. Be careful.

Terence runs back to Sweezus with the box.

Open it, says Sweezus.

Terence slips off the string and starts ripping the paper.

Then he lifts up the lid.

Who's this weird guy? asks Terence.

Sweezus peers in.

Dunno, says Sweezus. He's got a small left pointer finger.

But a really big sword, says Terence.

It is true. In his right hand, Saint Elias carries a sword.

In fact it looks more like scimitar. 

And Terence loves it.

What do you think? asks Sartre.

How is Terence supposed to make use of this icon? asks Simone.

I thought he could break off the finger, says Sartre.

It's far too small, says Simone.

Sartre looks at Terence's right pointer finger.

He should have measured it before going off on his mission.

I suppose I could ask for a refund, says Sartre.

How much was it? asks Simone.

Twenty seven euros, says Sartre.

Do it, says Simone.

I want to keep it! says Terence. 

But it's kind of useless, says Sweezus. 

Saint Elias is offended. He is not kind of useless. He defends the oppressed. And offers multiple protections.

Let's break the sword off, says Terence. I'll have it for a finger!

Great idea, but not happening, says Sweezus.

Why? asks Terence.

You could do serious damage with a sword for a finger, says Sweezus.

Surely it's not very sharp, says Simone. It's only an icon.

She feels the tip of the sword.

It's not the least bit sharp, says Simone.

So I can have it! says Terence.

Saint Elias lies in his box thinking:

Blunt! The kid may as well have it.

Defender Of The Oppressed

Do you know where you're going? asks Simone.

I'll just cycle around Barcelona, says Sartre. There are bound to be shops that sell saints.

Can I come too? asks Terence.

No, says Sartre. You might fall off and break another finger.

Then I could use it for a pointer, says Terence.

You'd still be missing a finger, says Sweezus. 

But it wouldn't be as bad, says Terence.

I'm off, says Sartre. 

He heads for his bike, which is chained to a bike stand nearby.

Right next to Arthur's bike.

Sartre wonders where Arthur is. Surely he and Federico have finished their breakfasts by now.

Arthur would have been useful in a saint shop.

But too bad! How hard can it be?

He rides away from the Sagrada Familia, looking for a shop that sells religious icons.

He spots one on Carrer del Duc.

He leaves his bike outside and goes in.

There are rows of saints everywhere. Some are tiny, like dolls. Others are elongated and stern. Some point upwards.

May I help you? asks a saint shop assistant.

Perhaps, says Sartre. 

Are you seeking a particular saint? asks the saint shop assistant.

He must be pointing upwards, with his left pointer finger, says Sartre.

Saint Elias, says the saint shop assistant.

She picks up a Saint Elias.

How about him?

Saint Elias, who is he? asks Sartre.

Defender of the oppressed, says the saint shop assistant. 

Do you have any broken ones? asks Sartre.

We don't keep the broken ones, says the assistant.

Where do they go? asks Sartre. 

Into a skip out the back, says the assistant.

Is it possible for me to look through it? asks Sartre.

No, says the assistant. I'm not authorised to allow it.

What would happen if I accidentally dropped this Saint Elias? asks Sartre.

I would have to ask you to pay for it, says the assistant.

Sartre now realises that he has stuffed up his mission.

He may as well pay for the whole Saint Elias, and break the finger off later.

Perhaps Terence would like to do it. 

He pays the shop assistant for the icon. 

She places Saint Elias in a box, wraps the box in brown paper, and ties it with brown string.

May he bring many blessings upon you, says the assisant.

Thank you, says Sartre.

He does not believe Saint Elias will do any such thing.

Saint Elias, in his box, holds a similar opinion.

Sourcing A Finger

Should she go back?

She decides to.

Back so soon? says the pelican.

I forgot to ask you something, says Prong.

Ask away, says the pelican.

Terence has lost his blood brother's claw, says Prong.

Bad luck, says the pelican.

It's not actually lost, though, says Prong.

There you go, says the pelican. What's the question?

He doesn't want it back, says Prong. 

So where the problem? asks the pelican. 

I'm getting to it, says Prong.

The pelican waits for more information.

The claw was in place of his left pointer finger, says Prong.

I see, says the pelican. And now he can't point to anything.

Not with his left hand, says Prong.

Tell him to use his right hand, says the pelican.

There is wisdom in that, says Prong. But there may be another solution.

Keep using the claw, says the pelican.

No, says Prong. Source another finger.

You mean bite it off someone? asks the pelican.

Nothing as violent as that, says Prong. 

Would a cement finger do? asks the pelican.

Of course it would do! says Prong. Did you think Terence would want a real one?

A real one would be more flexible, says the pelican.

Terence has nine cement fingers, says Prong. And they seem to be flexible.

There must be something special about him, says the pelican.

There is something special about everyone, says Prong.

Nice of you to say so, says the pelican. Now let me think. Hmm.

The pelican thinks.

A left pointer finger. Where have I seen one?

I'm sure I've seen one, says the pelican. 

Was it attached to someone? asks Prong.

It was, says the pelican. A saint pointing upwards. Now who was it.....?

And where is he? asks Prong.

My suggestion is to go to a shop that sells saints and just ask, says the pelican.

What a great idea, says Prong. They might have a broken one.

That is one possibility, says the pelican.

What is he suggesting?

Prong will leave that to the others.

She thanks the pelican and flies down to where they are waiting.

Did you ask? asks Terence.

Yes, says Prong. He said we should go to a saint shop and look for a saint pointing upwards, and ask if they have a broken one.

And what if they haven't? asks Simone.

We could send Arthur, says Sweezus. If we knew where he was.

I'll go! says Sartre. I'll take my bicycle. It will look good in my blog.

Bravo, dear! To action! says Simone.  

Hard Things Like Hard Things

Sartre searches his pockets for the tin of sardines.

Finds it.

Hands it to Prong.

Who are the sardines for? asks Simone.

A pelican, says Prong.

Will you want the tin open? asks Simone.

I'm not flying with an open tin of sardines, says Prong.

No don't, says Terence. The sardines will fall out.

And in any case, the pelican might prefer the tin closed, says Prong,

And the sardines might, says Terence.

They'll be dead sardines, says Simone. 

I know that, says Terence. But dead sardines might.

There is no might about it, says Sartre. You can't prefer anything over another, once you're dead.

Wait and see, says Terence.

That's my point, says Sartre. I won't see.

He wonders how he might insert this philosophical sardine conversation into his blog, without making too much of the sardine purchase.

I'm going, says Prong.

Ask the pelican about a new finger! shouts Terence.

Prong intends to, in spite of the third angel's laughter.

She flies up with the tin.

Lands beside the pelican. 

Incoming fish! says Prong.

About time, says the pelican.

A thousand apologies, says Prong. Will sardines do?

In what condition? asks the pelican/

Tinned ones, says Prong.

Spanish? asks the pelican.

I think so, says Prong. You never really know nowadays. the tin may say product of Spain, but that may refer to the tin while the sardines are from elsewhere.

As long as they stay in the tin I suppose it won't matter, says the pelican.

So you'll swallow the tin? asks Prong.

Hard things like hard things, says the pelican.

That's what Terence thought, says Prong. And before you ask, Terence is the Virgn's old baby.

Does he eat sardines? asks the Pelican.

No, he can only have red drinks, says Prong. Anything else comes back up straight away.

Red drinks! says the pelican. Altar wine? That sort of thing?

No no, says Prong. Sports drinks . Ribena.

You don't say! says the pelican.

Here's the tin, says Prong. There are dead sardines in it. There was some debate down below as to whether they might still have opinions.

Of course they will, says the pelican. They are practically immortal.

Interesting you should think so, says Prong. Well, enjoy your forever snack! 

Thanks, says the pelican. 

Prong flies down to deliver the pelican's opinion on sardines' opinions to Sartre.

Half way, she remembers the finger.

Unhelpful Angels

Hello again, angels, says Prong.

Hello, parrot, says the first angel. We heard about the handbag.

Yes, says the second angel. We heard Little Fuzzball is happy.

Great, says Prong. But I'm not here about that.

You've brought the fish, says the third angel.

No I haven't! says Prong. I forgot all about it. 

The pelican is waiting, says the first angel.

Sartre went to buy it, says Prong.

On his bicycle? asks the second angel. We've been following his blog.

He only mentioned glue, says  the third angel. 

He left certain things out, says Prong.

But he bought fish? asks the first angel.

Oh yes, says Prong. A tin of sardines.

The angels laugh and bang their chalices together.

This gives Prong a chance to look at their fingers.

Yes, all too long.

What are you staring at? asks the first angel. Our fingers?

Just looking, says Prong. I don't suppose you have any short ones?

Short fingers? says the second angel. Does somebody need one?

Yes, says Prong. Terence. 

The angels look blank.

The Virgin's old baby, says Prong. 

Now they remember.

Has that little rascal lost a finger? asks the first angel. And now he wants ours!

The angels laugh at the very idea.

Thanks anyway, says Prong. I'll fetch that tin of sardines now.

You do that, says the first angel.

The pelican might tell you how to source a spare finger, says the second angel.

Hee-hee, laughs the third.

Who would have expected angels to be so unhelpful?

Prong flies back down.

Did you get me a finger? asks Terence.

Not exactly, says Prong. Who's got that tin of sardines for the pelican? 

They are in Sartre's pocket. But he is not listening.

He is writing his next blog post:

I cycled back to the site of the rescue, with the glue to mend the toy handbag. My colleagues were waiting. Our youngest member wished to do the mending himself. Why not? He had the smallest fingers. Unknown to me however, one of his fingers was artificial. Over the next twenty minutes his artificial finger became stuck to the handbag,. We tried nail polish remover, which one of us had. But the unforeseen happened...

Sardines! shouts Prong.

What? says Sartre.

Sardines, where are they? asks Prong.

Damn! thinks Sartre. A further complication!