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THE Penultimate Chapter
Looking into crystal balls often ends with the looker eating ground glass.
But this was not the case with Fred’s BDM.
He proved to be prophetic.
The Office of Health and Safety did indeed apply for Fred’s LIT-TISSUE to be temporarily banned from sale.
The court did indeed uphold the application.
Supermarkets and shops ran out of supply.
Fred called a stop to his Japanese partners producing the product for the British market, not that they were overly concerned as the majority of their profits came from Asian sales which continued to boom despite the fact that in the more deprived communities open sewers overflowed with the discarded LIT-TISSUE sheets.
UKsales stagnated.
Income dried up.
Public outcry grew.
The competition designed to find an inventor who could come up with shoes that would enable him to walk across the Thames went ahead, but one heavy contender got only a few dozen metres from the north bank before he crashed through the paper covered surface and disappeared from sight. Fortunately he managed to claw his way up and tread water for the half hour it took rescuers to reach him and pluck him to safety.
When he was interviewed later by television and radio reporters, far from being disgruntled, he had only praise for Fred and his LIT-TISSUE.
“If it wasn’t for LIT-TISSUE I would have drowned,” he said earnestly. “I can’t swim and it was the paper than helped me keep my head above the water. I never thought I’d say it but if it wasn’t for so many people having to crap I wouldn’t be alive. Shit scared but shit saved too.”
The interviews were live so his crude comment could not be bleeped out, though in later news programmes they were edited.
All of this happened very quickly.
The government demanded speed and speed they got.
In a matter of weeks nobody was able to buy LIT-TISSUE anywhere.
Fred’s income came to an end.
The early groans from the public became silent.
Normalcy returned to the household toilets of people up and down the country.
But not everywhere.
Not in Shellow Bowels.
The Outhouse was still an issue.
Its design was an outrage, shouted the local residents.
It brought shame on the village.
Now that the owner’s business empire had been brought crumbling down so should The Outhouse.
LIT-TISSUE had been shown to be a fly by night chase for a fast buck.
Millions of fast bucks actually, Fred would have been able to correct them had he been asked.
While many people all over the United Kingdom had enjoyed the idea initially countless more were now being made to suffer the consequences.
Including Shellow Bowels.
The entire village had been subjected to a violently obnoxious odour for weeks.
Many of the homes had composting toilets which the experts claimed, and which history prior to LIT-TISSUE had supported, did not smell.
That was before LIT-TISSUE came to town though.
The experts had maintained, in technical jargon, that exit pipes could be between one and two centimetres in diameter for every thirty centimetres of pipe. The pipe they cautioned should not be too steep or the liquids would go faster than the solids which would then clog the pipe.
But who takes that much notice of such experts? Many of the Shellow Bowels residents apparently went for steep pipes.
Which led to LIT-TISSUE clogging them.
Which led to an awful smell that drifted across the village.
Like a proverbially bad smell.
For those householders who had flush toilets the problem was much the same.
Their toilets got clogged with LIT-TISSUE as it backed up and dispersed the unpleasant aroma throughout the house.
All in all Shellow Bowels had taken on the aroma of a latrine.
“They want my head,” Fred said to his BDM.
“Before they go for that they want something else,” said the marketeer.
“What’s that?”
“They want The Outhouse.”
“What for? What do they want to do with it?”
“Not with it. To it.”
“To it? You mean they want to damage it?”
“Not just damage it?”
“What?”
“They want to tear the place down.”
“Bloody hell,” said Fred.
It was just a few days after this fateful conversation that once again the marketeer’s comments were proved to be predictive.
Fred went into London early one morning to see various of his business people. The purpose of the meeting was to decide the best way to wind up LIT-TISSUE without undue hassle. There were a number of interested parties and he wanted to make sure that everyone received what was due them.
The last thing he wanted was for anyone involved to feel poorly done by or for decisions reached to lead to angry arguments, or worse, later on.
The meeting went well and by the end of the day all arrangements had been agreed. The professionals were confident that there would be no sticking points and that within a few weeks at the most LIT-TISSUE would in effect be no more. Everyone could move on without burdens and make new lives for themselves. They shook hands and patted one another on the back as they left the meeting room and went their separate ways.
Fred had no thoughts about joining any for drinks or further talk. He wanted to be alone for a time to get used to the fact that LIT-TISSUE was out of his life. The highs and lows of the past months were going to be history and he would have to sooner or later make up his mind what he intended to do.
Money would be no problem. But just what he would do he had no immediate ideas. For now he would escape and simply relax and clear his thoughts. Then he would plan again.
He checked into a Mayfair hotel and spent the night quietly visiting a few pubs in the area. Then before retiring to his room he dropped into the hotel lounge and had a nightcap. It was while he was in the bathroom getting ready for bed that his mobile rang.
It was his public relations adviser.
“Fred,” he said straight away. “We have a problem.”
“It can’t be a big one,” Fred answered, “because we sorted everything out today. Everyone’s happy. At least that was my take of how the meeting went.”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s The Outhouse.”
“What about it? I haven’t decided what to do with it yet. I probably won’t stay there though.”
“You won’t be able to,” said the PR man. “It’s on fire.”
“What!”
“It’s on fire. The Fire Brigade are there but it’s just one or two engines they say so there’s no way they can save it.”
Fred did not say anything.
“The police are there too,” the PR man added. “There’s talk that it might be arson. That someone who had a gripe against LIT-TISSUE, or you, set fire to it.”
Still Fred remained silent. In a way it would not surprise him if it was arson. The campaign against The Outhouse had not died down and the local residents had been trying everything they could to get rid of it. If someone had decided to take the law into his own hands there would be no tears shed by any of his neighbours.
Fred went to sleep that night in two minds.
On the one hand the burning down of The Outhouse drew the final line under LIT-TISSUE. It was a full stop to the story of TheGoodReadWipe. It was a burning signpost pointing to the final destination in the brief, exhilarating, hugely rewarding journey.
On the other hand Fred thought it was the most senseless thing he had ever encountered. And when he read the headline in the paper thrust under his bedroom door in the morning he had no reason to change his mind.
BOG ROLL KING’S OUTHOUSE GOES UP IN SMOKE
Tossing the newspaper on the dressing table by the bed, Fred gathered his wallet from the safe, checked his mobile still had charge, looked around to make sure he had left nothing in the room and headed for the door.
“What a shitty thing to do,” he muttered to himself.