The larson

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 (Stranger things have happened, I swear!) 
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“Hello” said the Larson

“Hello” I replied

“That’s nice.”

“What’s nice?”


“Larson, what are you?”

“The Larson.”

“Yes, but what is the Larson?”

“What does it look like I am?”

“A cylindrical object”

“Precisely, that’s what I am.”

“What!?” I replied quite bemused and startled “I don’t even know what colour you are!”

“What colour does it look like I am?”

“I do not know. You do not seem to be any colour, are you transparent?”

“No. You just said what colour I am.”

“What!?” I replied quite bemused and startled “I didn’t say any colour!”

“Precisely.” I was about to protest but then the Larson continued “I am very complex and if you like I can explain what I am”

“Please, explain” I requested (if you are too stupid to understand I was requesting an explanation.)

“I am the Larson.”

“What!?” I replied quite bemused and startled. “You haven’t even-“

“Enough!” Interrupted the Larson “I am sending you on a mission.”

“What!?” I replied quite bemused and startled.

“As my employee you will do as I say!”

“YOU DON’T EMPLOY ME!” I roared (I was furious but even now I don’t understand why.)

“Ahh… But I do.” The Larson contradicted.

“No, Larson, you don’t employ me” I countered. (I was much calmer now but I don’t understand why)


I would have replied but I didn’t seem to be the small box twenty miles from Luton that we had been having our conversation in, and the Larson was nowhere to be seen. I seemed to be in France. The south of France judging by their accents. Suddenly my watch rang and I looked down at it in surprise because my watch doesn’t ring- it just beeps.

“Hello” said the Larson, peering out of the watch at me, regardless of the fact that he might not have eyes.

“What have you done to my watch?” I politely enquired.


“How come you’re talking to me through it then?”

“I’m not.”

“But you quite clearly are!”

“Ahh, but that’s what you think.”


“But you are wrong.”

“What!?” I replied quite bemused and startled.

“Enough of this, you say ‘what!?’ far too much. There is a small town not far from here called Ushuaia. Well actually it’s in Argentina. Off you go now, find it!”

So I stumbled around France for a few days asking locals about Ushuaia.

“Excuse me kind sir, do you know where Ushuaia is?” I politely asked in French (a language I have been fluent in since July 12th 1827).

“No,” replied the Frenchman, “There is no place called Ushuaia in this country.”

“How do you know?”

“I know this country better than a map of France.”

“Oh.” Then I remembered that the Larson had said it was in Argentina. In light of this I made my way to Argentina, post haste, by way of a flying gooseberry.

When in Argentina my watch rang yet again:

“Hello” said the Larson.

“Alright, Larson, I’m in Ushuaia. What do I need to do?”

“Turn around.”

I turned around to find myself in a Brothel, but instead of a regular prozzy in front of me there was the Larson.

“For your mission you need to get to Stevenage.”

“What!? You sent me to France, then told me to get to bloody Argentina just to tell me to go to Stevenage. I hate you!” But the only people who heard me were pimps and hoes.

“You lookin’ for a good time?”

“If you say that again I will gouge your eyes and feed the rest of your filthy body to a capitalist, a greedy one!” And saying that I ran up the coast of Argentina, into Brazil, across the Atlantic, up Africa (via the Sahara desert), leapt the strait of Gibraltar, strolled through Spain and France, levitated across the English channel and then finally rode a spider to Stevenage.

“Hello.” said the spider.

“Hello.” I replied.

“What business do you have in Stevenage?”

“A nondescript cylindrical object called The Larson sent me here.”

“What, you mean that cylindrical object?” the spider gestured towards a nondescript cylindrical object which I had previously assumed was a pillar box but now realized was in fact a pillar-Larson.

“Get to a small box 20 miles from Luton. Take the train.”Ordered the pillar-Larson before spontaneously combusting.

So I made my way to the nearest rail station where I fed pennies into the machine to try and get a ticket to Larson station- Luton. For some reason I didn’t seem to be getting any tickets. Then the penny dropped- I had no pennies. In light of this fact I sent a telegram to the Larson informing him of my difficult situation.

Within a fortnight I received a reply from the Larson. It read:

What about the penny that dropped?

On receiving this telegram I instinctively bent down to retrieve said penny, only to discover it had transformed into the Larson.

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