Sentence The Onehundredandnineteenth
For yes, it was true – only too true – that Martin Elginbrod had a Doppelganger, identical to him, even to the crooked little toe on his left foot, even to the ever-so-slight cast in his right eye, which both men had had corrected for them by – oh the giddiness of chance in this world we live in – the self-same optician no less, although Martin was a Private Patient, while the other was NHS, with identical spectacles, in the right of which a special lens brought the cast to heel, so to speak; and also true that in certain places and at certain times, when their paths, in a sense, did cross, when the Doppelganger – whose given name was Lionel – found himself addressed as Martin, or Mr Elginbrod, depending on the setting and those whom he encountered; which was not every day; the Doppelganger, Lionel, had suffered during the Recession – his only business, a little toyshop, on the wrong side of The Meadows, did not flourish in a recession as Elginbrod's indubitably did, and the Boomlet, when it came, was really too late for him to profit by it; but the last straw – when it broke his small venture as surely as that which broke the camel's back – was when Martin Elginbrod, the paramount authority on Copyrights and the Ownership of Intellectual Property, succeeded in his bid to acquire the exclusive rights to the use of the word ''Toyshop within the jurisdiction of the Law in Scotland under one of the more obscure terms of the Act of Union of 1707 and began systematically petitioning for all retail businesses with that word in their trading name to pay him a royalty of one percent of their turnover since they were instituted; Elginbrod had been full of joy when, after each disputed claim was granted in his favour and the moneys due, together with damages and costs awarded against them, the shop owners' money began pouring into his coffers; Lionel's small business collapsed and the Revenue Accountant established that the entire proceeds of the business at the date of sequestration, were due to be paid over to Martin Elginbrod QC; Lionel wept – which
rather disconcerted the Revenue Accountant, Miss Traci MacGillivray, to the extent that – hitherto unheard of in her astute execution of her duties over the previous 12 years, she had given him a blow-job and he had shagged her on the floor of her office in the Old Revenue Building on York Place; fortuitously her office had a lock and the windows were not overlooked by any others; and now, five weeks later, as she again straddled him on the floor of that office, he confessed that he had been plotting against the man who had ruined him and cost him his business, his wife and children, but – always willing to look on the bright side, in this case the very, very bright side – it had brought him to Miss MacGillivray, “and you to me,” she said, followed by an involuntary “ooooh,” at what he had just that moment done; and he confessed that he had been attempting to stalk Elginbrod, both in person, in the light of day, and in his hours of loneliness when he sat at home with his computer, while Miss MacGillivray earned their daily bread; and she continued to rise and fall as he spoke, on what she called, in her rather smutty way, with her prim Mary Erskine's accent, his “Greasy Pole,” and he couldn't but admit that she was very adroit at it too; he had discovered where Elginbrod lived – a large detached house called 'Grub Court', no doubt an allusion to Grub Street and all the poor hacks who scribbled their lives away while Elginbrod filled his pockets with gold and silver – he said, with a jokey American Gangster voice that he'd 'cased the joint' and identified that there were four domestic staff: Housekeeper, Maid, Cook and Chauffeur, plus a kind of Nanny/Governess for his two boys, presumably supplementing their prep-school education; he'd worked out their daily routines and, while there were always people in the house from about 3pm till 10am, and always someone around at weekends, between 10am and say 2.30 pm there were about four hours on Monday. Wednesday and Friday when everyone was out; the Cook was out every day with the Chauffeur buying fresh food, the Housekeeper and the Maid were out on those three days doing other kinds of shopping; and the Nanny also went out on those same days to the Library and had her lunch out with a girlfriend who worked there; “do you think she's a Lesbian?” asked Traci, reaching behind herself and gently squeezing his balls, at which she'd swear he purred; “so what are you going to do, break in?” she asked, trying to picture him as a Cat Burglar, and he said what he really wanted to do was piss on Elginbrod's bed with a clear conscience, “you intend to micturate without compunction
on his duvet?” she stared wide eyed at him and added: “why not shit on his sheets – and he won't know till he gets in?” and they both started to laugh, till she clapped her hand over his mouth and squeezed her thighs tightly around him as they both came together!
For yes, it was true – only too true – that Martin Elginbrod had a Doppelganger, identical to him, even to the crooked little toe on his left foot, even to the ever-so-slight cast in his right eye, which both men had had corrected for them by – oh the giddiness of chance in this world we live in – the self-same optician no less, although Martin was a Private Patient, while the other was NHS, with identical spectacles, in the right of which a special lens brought the cast to heel, so to speak; and also true that in certain places and at certain times, when their paths, in a sense, did cross, when the Doppelganger – whose given name was Lionel – found himself addressed as Martin, or Mr Elginbrod, depending on the setting and those whom he encountered; which was not every day; the Doppelganger, Lionel, had suffered during the Recession – his only business, a little toyshop, on the wrong side of The Meadows, did not flourish in a recession as Elginbrod's indubitably did, and the Boomlet, when it came, was really too late for him to profit by it; but the last straw – when it broke his small venture as surely as that which broke the camel's back – was when Martin Elginbrod, the paramount authority on Copyrights and the Ownership of Intellectual Property, succeeded in his bid to acquire the exclusive rights to the use of the word ''Toyshop within the jurisdiction of the Law in Scotland under one of the more obscure terms of the Act of Union of 1707 and began systematically petitioning for all retail businesses with that word in their trading name to pay him a royalty of one percent of their turnover since they were instituted; Elginbrod had been full of joy when, after each disputed claim was granted in his favour and the moneys due, together with damages and costs awarded against them, the shop owners' money began pouring into his coffers; Lionel's small business collapsed and the Revenue Accountant established that the entire proceeds of the business at the date of sequestration, were due to be paid over to Martin Elginbrod QC; Lionel wept – which
rather disconcerted the Revenue Accountant, Miss Traci MacGillivray, to the extent that – hitherto unheard of in her astute execution of her duties over the previous 12 years, she had given him a blow-job and he had shagged her on the floor of her office in the Old Revenue Building on York Place; fortuitously her office had a lock and the windows were not overlooked by any others; and now, five weeks later, as she again straddled him on the floor of that office, he confessed that he had been plotting against the man who had ruined him and cost him his business, his wife and children, but – always willing to look on the bright side, in this case the very, very bright side – it had brought him to Miss MacGillivray, “and you to me,” she said, followed by an involuntary “ooooh,” at what he had just that moment done; and he confessed that he had been attempting to stalk Elginbrod, both in person, in the light of day, and in his hours of loneliness when he sat at home with his computer, while Miss MacGillivray earned their daily bread; and she continued to rise and fall as he spoke, on what she called, in her rather smutty way, with her prim Mary Erskine's accent, his “Greasy Pole,” and he couldn't but admit that she was very adroit at it too; he had discovered where Elginbrod lived – a large detached house called 'Grub Court', no doubt an allusion to Grub Street and all the poor hacks who scribbled their lives away while Elginbrod filled his pockets with gold and silver – he said, with a jokey American Gangster voice that he'd 'cased the joint' and identified that there were four domestic staff: Housekeeper, Maid, Cook and Chauffeur, plus a kind of Nanny/Governess for his two boys, presumably supplementing their prep-school education; he'd worked out their daily routines and, while there were always people in the house from about 3pm till 10am, and always someone around at weekends, between 10am and say 2.30 pm there were about four hours on Monday. Wednesday and Friday when everyone was out; the Cook was out every day with the Chauffeur buying fresh food, the Housekeeper and the Maid were out on those three days doing other kinds of shopping; and the Nanny also went out on those same days to the Library and had her lunch out with a girlfriend who worked there; “do you think she's a Lesbian?” asked Traci, reaching behind herself and gently squeezing his balls, at which she'd swear he purred; “so what are you going to do, break in?” she asked, trying to picture him as a Cat Burglar, and he said what he really wanted to do was piss on Elginbrod's bed with a clear conscience, “you intend to micturate without compunction
on his duvet?” she stared wide eyed at him and added: “why not shit on his sheets – and he won't know till he gets in?” and they both started to laugh, till she clapped her hand over his mouth and squeezed her thighs tightly around him as they both came together!
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