I wrote this short as an experiment. When I read it back, I hear a deep voiced man with a very proper British accent, like that of Stephen Fry as the narrator in the movie The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Listen to the CREATED.WAV file on this link for a sample.
I am not sure what, if anything, I will do with this, but I really like Buddingon as a character and could see any number of possibilities from children's books, to adult fiction to movies scripts. If you are an artist, I would love to see your artistic renderings of Buddington and some of the characters from this short. Meanwhile, please let me know what you thinl of this short story and where you think it could go next.
Buddington Aldridge
Buddington Hawthorne Alverston Aldridge was born on the second day of the second month of the second year of the marriage of his parents at 222 North Canterbury Court, second floor, second door on the left down from the lavatory at 2 pm. Buddington hated the number 2.
His parents were quite wealthy, coming from a long line of Aldridges. Through the ages, Buddington’s ancestors had hob-nobbed with kings, queens, princes and princesses. Why, Buddington’s own father carried the title of “Duke”, which, as we all know, means that he was a very important man prone to wearing tight pants and saying silly things like “Rather!” and “Good show, old boy!” Buddington hated the hob-nobbery of it all.
“I must say, Mother,” young Buddington would say as a boy, “that I am quite put out by the hob-nobbery of it all.”
“Well, then, young man,” his mother would say, rather scoldingly, yet with a touch of love, “Perhaps you better had find your own way in this world if you shan’t accept your calling as an Aldridge.”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps I better had,” Buddington would reply, giving much careful thought to just how he should pull off such a feat.
Through the ages, Aldridges were never schooled outside of the home. This ensured the elder Adridges would remain sharp in the area of academics well beyond the years that most of their contemporaries would stop learning altogether, or worse, begin to forget much of what they had learned so many years previous. As well, it ensured that the young Aldridges would be properly schooled in the important matters of science, math, language arts, history and philosophy. Superior intellect was something for which the Aldridges were well known. As a matter of pedigree, all Aldridges were exceptional orators, which was a very, very key ingredient to successful hob-nobbery.
Buddington hated the fact that he received all of his schooling at home. He longed desperately to have a chum, a pal, a mate. But there was none to be had, being an only child, as was the Aldridge tradition. Only Buddington, his studies, his nanny, the housekeeper, groundskeeper, and his parents, not to mention the occasional house filled with the most important hob-nobbers in the tri-county area.
Buddington’s parents did not do this to be cruel, for it was in fact the only way in which they knew to raise a fine, young Aldridge man who might himself very well one day be called upon to hob-nob with the King or the Queen. Desperate for a chum, and to avoid the hob-nobbery, Buddington soon took to befriending himself, as it were.
On each morn he would look upon his figure in the mirror and say “Good morning, young sir. You look as though you could use a chum today.”
“Why, yes indeed,” he would answer back to himself. “For a chum is an important ally in a world of hob-nobbery where one knows not whom to trust.”
“But a chum is a chum through and through,” Buddington would say to his own image in the mirror.
As time wore on, and Buddington grew from a small boy to a young lad, his conversations with himself became more and more bizarre to anyone who might otherwise be listening. But to Buddington, the more bizarre they became, the more it all made sense. In time, he surmised , because his best chum was indeed his mirror image, he would begin to employ reverse logic in his every day thinking, much like a mirror reflects the reverse image of oneself. If someone should say “up”, Buddington should think “down”, and so forth. Perfectly logical and understandable.
Eventually, as Buddington’s intellect grew, this rather two dimensional reverse model of think and speak became too simplistic in Buddington’s mind and so he developed a multi-dimensional way of think and speak. A sort of endlessly sided, multi-directional Rubic’s Cube way of think and speak. Once Buddington had evolved to this level, things really became very clear in his mind, and he developed a keen sense of deduction through its use.
Now, if someone should say “up,” Buddington might think “meat pie.” To a lesser evolved being, that might simply be poppycock, but to Buddington, it made perfect sense. And being so evolved meant it would be terribly doubtful that Buddington would ever be called upon for standard hob-nobbery, something he still despised all those years later. And this pleased Buddington to no end.
Upon his 22nd birthday, on the second day of the second month at 222 South Manchester at precisely 2 pm, Buddington’s parents met with a most untimely demise, having been murdered in broad daylight by a cloaked assassin as they strolled through the city, as per their usual practice, just prior to afternoon tea (two lumps, if you please). By this time, Buddington had mastered his unique brand of exceptionally evolved means of think and speak and his reaction to hearing the news of the murders of his beloved parents could be described by less evolved people as similar to that of a gaseous gazelle on Spring retreat. But anyone who understood Buddington knew that he was deeply saddened by the day’s events, as was evidenced by the only words he spoke in the two days directly following his parents’ untimely demise.
“Limburger shoes,” Buddington said, just above a whisper, as two total tears trickled down his contorted face.
In the weeks following the heinous murders of Buddington’s parents by the cloaked assassin, the Bobbies seemed to be no closer to solving the crime than they had in the minutes immediately thereafter. This frustrated Buddington to no end and so he took it upon himself to solve the mystery. Employing his unique method of think and speak, which enabled his keen sense of deduction, it took Buddington precisely three days to identify the murderer and prove his case. It would have taken two days had it not been for Buddington’s intense hatred of the number two.
When he realized that if he was not careful, he would in fact solve the case in two days, he reversed a quad-singular thought and went in to a sideways, diagonally leaning, twice roundabout thought process that would be certain to consume twelve additional hours of Buddington’s time, thus ensuring he would solve the case on day three and not on day two, which would have been disastrous, to say the least.
The Bobbies were exceptionally impressed with Buddington’s performance in solving the case of his murdered parents. So much so, in fact, that they invited him to join their forces where Buddington would be assigned as many cold cases as time could afford. Buddington soon became the Kingdom’s most celebrated detective.
“Buddington,” his chief would come to say, “What say you to a bit of hob-nobbery at the Prince’s palace this eve?”
“The figs are in bloom, and the foliage of socialism cannot be found on the breath of a chimpanzee,” Buddington would reply.
“Very well, then, old sport,” his chief would concede, with a twist of his handle-barred moustache. “I shall offer your regrets to the Prince.”
On Buddington’s 33rd birthday, in the third year of serving in his current post, at his office at 333 North Mayfield, 3rd floor, 3rd door down on the left, Buddington received a surprise visit. Laurel Anastasia Deward Worthington, herself having recently turned 33, walked through Buddington’s 3rd floor office door in a three piece woman’s suit wearing three inch stilleto’s. Buddington loved the number 3.
“You are Buddington Aldridge, the Kingdom’s most celebrated detective?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Buddington could do no more than nod from the upper right to the lower left, and then cock his head to one side.
“I have heard so much about you and believe there is no one that can help but you. You see, my Auntie has gone missing,” she explained.
“Are the eggs hardboiled or poached?” Buddington asked.
“Oh, no, this isn’t a cold case, and I know that is your specialty. But, no, no, she went missing 33 hours ago, and I fear the worst, but the Bobbies seem unwilling or unable to help me because, I am afraid, my Auntie has a rather well known reputation for going missing, sometimes for weeks at a time. ”
“And yet cricket can be played at night, can it not?” said Buddington.
“I know, I know,” Laurel agreed. “But it is different this time. I can’t tell you why it feels different, but it just does.”
Now even though Buddington appeared to be listening and asking very legitimate questions of Laurel (who, by the way seemed to be providing perfectly legitimate answers), Buddington was scarcely paying attention to the conversation, for Laurel struck him as an absolutely stunning woman. It stirred Buddington in ways he had never felt before and he was quite unsure of what to make of all of the hub-bub going round in his head. So he decided to wrap the thought round three times, send it toward the back, with sharp left and right zig-zag motions until it came to rest in a special place Buddington reserved for particularly troubling problems until such time as he could deduct a resolution. This allowed Buddington to focus on what it was Laurel was saying to him.
And so Buddington took the case.
In just 3 hours and 30 minutes, Buddington proved that indeed not only was Laurel’s Auntie not on one of her well known “disappearances”, she was rather indeed quite dead, and dead of foul play. Buddington found her body in the basement of Sir Walter Eaton Waldorf Manfred’s weekend getaway home. Sir Walter had, of course, been known as a former love interest to Laurel’s Auntie, was himself a hob-nobber of tremendous stature, and enjoyed the frequent glass of brandy. His admission came swiftly, his arrest without incident, the hob-nobbing community left in shatters.
“Brazil is particularly colorful reflected in the glaciers of the underside of a pig’s belly,” Buddington said, quite caringly, to Laurel.
“Oh, thank you, Buddington,” she replied. “It is very kind of you to be concerned, and I don’t mean to sound uncaring, but frankly, my Auntie was not a very kind sort. I don’t believe she deserved to be murdered, but I can’t say I shall miss her. She was, I am sorry to say, an unkind soul.”
Even so, Laurel cried. As she did, Buddington did something he had not done in years. He spoke in what many consider the King’s English.
“Laurel, I love you,” he said as he comforted her in his arms.
Four months, four days and 4 hours later, Buddington Hawthorne Alverston Aldridge and Laurel Anastasia Deward Worthington were married in the fourth church on the right, at 444 Center Street by Father Forrest Fortner. There were four maids of honor.
Directly following the ceremony, punch and cake was served in the church basement. Fearing hob-nobbery of unequalled proportions, Laurel, who shared Buddington’s hatred of hob-nobbery, suggested the she and Buddington head straight away to their new honeymoon flat. Buddington readily agreed.
Upon reaching the threshold, Buddington lifted Laurel up, prepared to carry her through the door and said, “A Howitzer in the town square is logical only to overlords of Portsmouth.”
Laurel blushed and replied, “Why Mr. Aldridge. You are a naughty boy.”
