Edgar Wrongfoot was the leading copyright lawyer in the whole of the United Kingdom and her territories. If you had copyright issues, a large bank account and a finite supply of your own creativity, you went to Edgar. If some punk on a computer had ripped off your multinational corporation, this was your man.
It was said that Edgar could actually smell copyright infringement before it even happened and you can bet your bottom dollar that come the second-coming Edgar would be suing on behalf of the first coming.
Right now, Edgar was just about to finish annihilating a sculptor.
The sculptor had tried everything, tried claiming that he had used all his own tools, purchased his own marble, contributed weeks of his own labour; but the law was the law. He had copied the statue of the apple tree. The sculptor had tried to point out that the original statue itself was a copy, of the apple tree, but Edgar had seen that coming and been sure to ascertain that his client had sculpted a tree that was in the public domain.

His prey was cornered, and soon Edgar would feast.
This was his second case today, having earlier managed to prosecute a man who claimed to have been psychologically damaged by a recent horror film.
The man was intending to sue the film makers, intending that was until Edgar had successfully claimed that the nightmares suffered by the man had constituted unauthorised copies.

It was in the wake of these successes that Edgar stepped outside during a short break, and stood on the rooftop of the courthouse, staring at the cityscape, it was in the wake of these successes that Edgar saw them land.

In a huge silver craft with a cavernous door, he saw them land, he saw them disembark and he recognised them, as one predator recognises another.

We cannot say what went through Edgar’s head in that final moment, before he threw himself from the top of the courthouse and splattered across the pavement below. Perhaps he had spared a thought for how derivative and unoriginal his final act of self-destruction was. Only Edgar would ever know.

Ordinarily people would have screamed and taken note of a high profile lawyer disgorging his insides all over a respectable London pavement, but today their eyes were elsewhere for they too had seen it land.

* * *

H. G. Wells was putting the final full stop into his manuscript when the air in front of him began to ripple and contort.
He tried to jump to his feet so erratically that he upended his chair and was sent sprawling across his study floor. He did not see them step through the shimmering gateway, nor could he see their faces as they stood over him. Their faces were blocked by the large black clip-boards.
“H. G. Wells, Planet earth?” said a voice
“Gaah.”
“We’re very big fans.”
“Yes… That’s me… what on earth is going on here?”
“Mr Wells, you’ve been served, please report to the twenty first century A.D. at your earliest convenience.”

And they were gone. Leaving H. G. Wells in his study, with the manuscript for The Time Machine and a writ of summons, written in strange otherworldly runes.
He stood up and walked falteringly to his liquor cabinet.

* * *

Lieutenant Cabwell had no sooner fired his missile at the DIFO (Differently Identified Flying Object, recent government directives had decided that UFO was potentially offensive to the object) than his comms radio burst into life.
“Be warned lifeform, anything that you launch at us can be used as evidence against you in a court of law.”
He then saw a large oily bubble appear from nowhere, holding the projectile suspended in mid-flight, even the flames and smoke were frozen behind it in the air like a photograph.
It’s not entirely possible to stand staring, mouth agape, whilst piloting a multi-million pound aircraft, fortunately however the large oily bubble that appeared around him soon aided the process.

* * *

Military blockades around Buckingham Palace stood at full alert, air patrols circled lazily around various government installations, beneath the oceans Trident submarines were being mobilised.
None of this was any comfort to Thomas Wilson of the British Library, as the alien armada surrounded his building and the small contingent of creatures approached the entrance trailing the large tube behind them.
One creature, armed with a clipboard came up to the desk:
“This is dual cyclone bagless Material Extractor” said the creature, “We are going to have to confiscate your entire stock… also, we need to know the location of this man.”
And he placed a large envelope on the desk with the name “James Dyson” written on the front surrounded by strange otherworldly runes.
Thomas had just began to say “Bwer?” when the extractor was activated and a deafening howl tore through the building, as books, periodicals and people were dragged into its gaping maw.

* * *

Prof Johan Von Fast was stood on the podium, just finishing his speech when they entered at the back of the auditorium.
“The solution to the problem of the finite resources of the planet earth cannot be reached by limiting consumption, because eating up something slowly or eating it quickly will still lead to the same conclusion… Our only option is to begin the exploration, and exploitation of, worlds in outer space!”
nobody applauded, people were looking nervously at the creatures that had assumed positions at every entrance and exit in the building.
On of them spoke, and his voice carried over the whole room, even unamplified as it was:
“Good heavens, your species is shameless.”
Johan prepared to respond to this intruder, when he felt the tentacles seizing him from behind.

* * *

Report to the Galactic High Court #120461
Filed by: Tethgaa!Rrick, Imperial Counsel
RE: Seizures in Sector H67, Planet C

Landing has been undertaken without hindrance, and we have commenced in the seizure of several trillion kilograms of contraband materials, and serving of approximately six billion Writs of Summons. Population has been placed under planetary arrest, and the ringleaders detained awaiting transportation.
Our Mathematicians are still trying to calculate the precise net-worth of the projected lost-earnings resulting from the planet’s multiple infringements, beginning several million years ago, and translating these costs into material terms. Conservative estimates suggest that enough raw materials and resources remain to sustain our own civilisation for another six hundred years, at least.
The criminal activity was able to continue undetected for so long, owing to the relative technological retardation of the species. It was not until the Golden Records, containing pirated material were discovered that we were able to act.
They should have known better, the notion that such a young civilisation could create an original idea is positively laughable.
It seems that many of the detainees wish to plead ignorance, but as you are aware, under Galactic Directive #0578, this is not an excuse.

So this dame lurches into my office…

I’d like to have said I wasn’t in, but I guess I’m a workaholic. Whatever the hell that means, I’ve never found anything I could drink that contained workahol… But I digress, it’s three in the AM, and in walks this dame.
“You Mouldy Frank?” her voice isn’t what you’d call alluring or seductive, unless you like rasping. “It’s Frank Mouldy,” I tell her, “and these ain’t business hours dollface.” I fumble on my desk for my bottle of embalming fluids, “Why don’t you come back in the morning?”
“I was told you weren’t a daylight detective.”
“Well why don’t you find yourself a daylight detective sweetheart.” But the girl don’t budge.
“I need a detective, and it says Private Detective on the door.”
“Yeah well it also says I’m resting in peace, and so I was till you barged in, so why don’t you beat it? A girl like you could get into trouble out by yourself at this time of night.”
“Worse trouble than this?” And as she speaks she flicks her hair to the side, and I see the gaping hole in the side of her pretty face, the one I missed when she came in…

Some detective huh?

* * *

I find a couple of glasses, cos I heard the dames like to drink from a glass, they’re opaque with the dirt, but I figure she’s got bigger problems than hygiene right now.
“You’ll be wanting a drink.” I tell her, that’s something she had better learn pretty fast, everyone in this district drinks, I drink to keep from falling apart, formaldehyde mostly, with ethanol, methanol and angostura bitters.
She ignores her glass, but she’ll change her tune when putrefaction sets in.
“So, you wanna tell me why you’ve decided to grace my office with the most part of your pretty face?”
“I’ve been… murdered.” She says; well go figure.
“You didn’t see the culprit?”
“I just woke up dead, I don’t know how long.”
“About a day,” I tell her “if your youthful good looks are anything to go by. Where did they dump your body?”
“Garbage dumpster.”
“Well I wouldn’t let it get you down honey, you still smell better than me… memory isn’t always reliable, the brain is all soft tissue, one of the first things to start decomposing, and you’ve already got a hole in yours; what’s the last thing you remember?”
“I was on my way to the docks, to meet somebody, I don’t know who.”
“Well let’s go to the docks and meet somebody then.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know, guess that’ll make them easier to find, since it could be anyone, right?”
The chick doesn’t smile, but who am I to judge? I’ve been smiling non-stop for the last twenty six years, ever since I accidentally burnt off most the flesh from around my mouth. You shouldn’t smoke when you drink as many flammable volatile fluids as I do.

* * *

The docks are still inhabited, even at this obscene hour of the morning, but no one will stop us here, a lot of our kind even get graveyard shifts at the docks, I don’t know what they need all the money for, human brains are free, after all.
“Am I going to be around forever now?” she asks out of the blue. I break the news to her, someone has to: “Ain’t like that kid, you’re not immortal, just differently mortal. Takes a long time, but we all fall apart eventually. Entropy. We can’t grow new bits y’see? Was this the place?”
“Yeah,” she says, “This was the place.”
I don’t really know what my plan is now that we’re here, but I’ve gotta play the part of the private dick, so I make like I’m snooping around for clues.
“Why didn’t I die properly?” damned gal isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to my performance.
“They reckon it’s an immigration issue, too many of the living passing away and stealing all the jobs in the underworld, they’ve got a new points-based system, if you don’t have any useful skills, you don’t get in.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” I say, and why not? It may even be true for all I know, “Was the garbage dumpster near here?”
“Jus’ round the corner.”
“Hmm, did you live near here?” I ask
“Couple of miles away.”
“Let’s go,” I say “I’ve got a hunch.”

* * *

The residential areas of town are less welcoming to the pedestrian dead, we move through backstreets and alleyways, avoiding the well-lit boulevards as much as possible. She stops us outside a large house; “Surely, we can’t just walk up and knock on the door… looking like we do?” Smart girl, of course we can’t, that was half my plan.
A young man opens the door, and he screams and screams and screams.

* * *

Back in the office, hidden away from the emergent sunrise in the cool dank of the earth.
“So,” she says, “You want to tell me what the purpose of that debacle was?”
“Didn’t you hear what he said?”
“Of course, the whole street heard, if he hadn’t fainted the whole country probably would have heard.”
“He said, ‘impossible, you’re dead’.”
“Well gee whiz, maybe he should be the detective.”
“Maybe he should kid, because he seems to know something that nobody else does.” That gets her attention,
“What?”
“There were no police at the docks dollface, no cordoned off crime scenes, and no chalk silhouettes of your pretty little body… nobody knows you’re dead, except me, you and the gentleman of our recent acquaintance… you’re his squeeze I take it?”
“I was his fiancé.”
“Well now you’re his victim, congratulations.”
She looks at me, guess I must of hurt her fragile sensibilities, never was much of a ladies man.
“What now?” She asks.
“I’m a detective lady, I work out what has happened, not what will happen.”
“But… why did he kill me? Why am I like this? For revenge?”
I rasp and croak with laughter, “Doll, some people spend their whole lives asking why they’re alive, you think they get an answer? You’re just dead, you became dead when he killed you. Maybe he did it for money, but why did he want the money? Maybe he wanted it for power, but why would he want power? You can spend eternity answering each question in turn, and maybe you’ll have got to the bottom of it all right before you crumble to dust. Hell maybe we’re both here owing to all infinity of unanswered questions we’ve amassed in our lifetimes, but frankly kid, if unsolved mysteries are the only thing keeping me here, I’m happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Tomorrow the moon will be full, and you’ve got your whole death ahead of you, so let me buy you a shot of embalming fluid and stop worrying.”

Dames, can’t live with ‘em and… well, you catch my drift.

Some folk from the now-defunct EDIT forums may recognise this one…
It’s been sitting in the dark gathering dust for some time, so here it is…

The Truth About Seedless Grapes

Seedless grapes have often bothered me.
Admittedly grapes with the seeds in bother me too but not in the same way. On the whole I quite like grapes, I’m certainly not what you could call a grape hater. I’m just extremely puzzled by the question of where new seedless grapes come from.
They are the eunuchs of the grape world, incapable of reproducing themselves. Some believe that the grapes (like eunuchs of old) have their seeds removed surgically, and this is an untruth that the grape industry quietly encourages. Indeed Prof. Arnold J. Constantine’s book ‘From Vine to Mouth – A History of the Grape ‘ claims that seedless grapes, like eunuchs were created to protect the more beautiful varieties of grapes that were to be used in wines. Naturally only seedless grapes could be used to prevent cross-pollination. When one phones the Grape Helpline this is the answer that they give, citing the old textbook. However, a cursory examination of any seedless grape will show absolutely no scars from surgery, and I could find no reference to “guard-grapes” in any other history books.
So I decided to once and for all discover the truth behind the seedless grape by contacting EuroGrape the largest grape distributor in the world.
I wrote explaining my position, and why the current explanation could not possibly be correct and expected a quick reply setting matters to rest. However I was wrong.
Two weeks later I received a short note in the mail that simply read
“Dear Sir, We are unable to help you in this matter. Good day.”
Naturally I was surprised by such a short and cold reply, and so tried telephoning the Grape Helpline again… only to hear a recorded message telling me that I had misdialled. I tried three times but each one was the same.
I got my Yellow Pages to make sure I had the right number, only to discover that the entire G section was missing, nothing but a few torn leafs of paper remaining.
As you can imagine I was quite shaken by this and wanted nothing more than to put the incident behind me, and think nothing more about it; but I was to receive no such luck.

For the next month, every time I went for a walk or to the shops I would spy a black helicopter, hovering overhead. I started to notice that someone had been opening my mail and that my water bill was unusually high. Furthermore, every night I would sight a very tall, slim man in an overcoat standing in my garden, but always, by the time I had rushed to the door or managed to switch on my porch lights, he was gone.
I started to consider moving house, changing my name. I had no idea what I had unleashed upon myself, and little did I know that this was just the tip of the iceberg.
I would be eating a bag of seedless grapes when my world was really turned upside down, for you see inside one of the grapes was a message. I don’t know how it got there, the grape had shown no signs of tampering, but there it was. It said:
Meet us outside the greengrocers at 5:17 am. Sharp.
A Friend.
Was this letter from the very same people that had been stalking both my waking life and my dreams? Was it some ally, here to release me from my torment at last… or a trap?
Would I go to the greengrocers that morning never to be seen again, like so many others who had the impunity to ask about seedless grapes? Who else but the grape industry could have secreted such a message to me?
All I knew was that I wanted the madness to end, and at 5:17 that morning, I would make an early trip to the greengrocers.

I woke to my alarm at 4 am, and prepared to leave for the day. Brushing my teeth I could swear I saw the Tall Man outside my window, but he was not there upon my leaving the house… Not at first anyway. Halfway there I heard footsteps behind me, and they were getting progressively faster, these were accompanied by a rhythmic thud, thud, thud. I didn’t stop to look back, and burst into a sprint. As I turned the corner to the greengrocers I saw to my horror a van bearing the EuroGrape logo, I wanted to stop and turn back, but quickly remembered my pursuer. Terror took hold of me, and I ran as fast as I could, hoping only to break through any potential attackers from the van, all I remember clearly is being grabbed from behind as I passed it.
I awoke some time later in the back of the van with two men, one I recognised as my greengrocer, the other, a stranger. He introduced himself as Simon, a deliveryman for EuroGrape. He said that he had something to show me. I tried to ask questions but was always hushed into silence.
It seemed like an hour had passed when the van finally came to a stop the doors were opened and I stepped out into a barren, concrete enclosure.
“This,” Said Simon “Is the Vine Yard”
“Don’t you mean vineyard?” I was silenced with a glare. You can imagine my confusion; there wasn’t a grape vine to be seen. “Follow me, I’ll show you the answer to your questions,” muttered Simon, walking off into the poor pre-dawn light.
Eventually we came to a massive basketball court, nothing else in any direction but concrete. In the corner of the court was a small mahogany table, on which was set a glass of water and a slice of orange.
I shall recount now what I saw:

At 6:10 a man in EuroGrape overalls arrived, ignoring us completely he changed into some basketball gear and proceeded to wait in the middle of the basketball court.
Then, a very tall, slim, black man in basketball gear arrived, from where I cannot say because I did not see him approach. He was bouncing a basketball. He then proceeded to play 10 hoops with the EuroGrape worker, who lost the game by two points. The other man then set the basketball down in the middle of the court, ate the orange, drank the water, and walked away. I must have blinked or had something in my eye, because one moment he was there, the next I had lost track of him.
The EuroGrape worker then put his overalls back on, and took a small scalpel out of his bag and cut open the basketball. And let me tell you it was chock full of seedless grapes.
The EuroGrape worker then took the opened ball and walked away.
Simon explained that the basketball court had appeared as if by magic in one of their vineyards a long time ago. And ever since, at exactly a quarter past six, the tall black man would appear with his basketball and play ten hoops with someone, upon leaving, his ball would be full of seedless grapes. He rarely spoke, and asked nothing in return except for a glass of water and a slice of orange. According to Simon they had once given him a glass of Pepsi and a flapjack instead, and the basketball had been full of human eyeballs. That was the same year that the entire board of directors for EuroGrape had disappeared. Since then they had protected the dark knowledge through a phalanx of lies and mistruths and I had been the first to see through their smokescreen. I asked Simon if the man had ever lost the game of basketball, and he told me that this had only happened once, and the next day the Tsunami had happened. Seedless Grape Engineers were now instructed to play well, but to make sure that the stranger always won.
He warned me that EuroGrape would never let this truth out and that if I wanted any chance of survival I would have to leave the country and…

bah

I’ll post rest of the story later; somebody is knocking at the door…