Switchback Fair

‘Mr Fip! Mr Fip!’

Charlie Fip ignored the calls and tried to up his pace through the main line of stalls. But his attempts only increased the inertia of the crowds, and at last he gave up and turned round.

‘What do you want, Digsby?’

Digsby Troutwhistle shoved a dictaphone in Fip’s face.

‘Can I ask you your opinion on the Caracas rumours?’

Fip had perfected the art of looking unflappable many years ago, and Troutwhistle’s words passed through him like particularly meek neutrinos.

‘What opinion would you like me to have, Digsby?’

‘Have you authorised a £1m approach from Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid?’

‘Jack Caracas is not for sale,’ said Fip. ‘He’s still under contract and I think we’re all looking forward to enjoying his unique brand of performance comedy for many years to come.’

‘So it’s not true that you think he’s a talentless moron?’

Fip sighed.

‘Digsby, if Jack Caracas isn’t talented, why would Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid offer £1m for him?’

‘According to my source in the senate, you suspect it’s because they’re shameless megalomaniacs with all the entertainment taste of a flock of lobotomised seagulls.’

‘Is your source Brother Greenbeard?’

‘I never reveal my sources, Mr Fip.’

‘Because if it is, I’ll be sending him on a one-way mission to our outpost fair in Ulan Bator.’

The summer residence of Jack Caracas was guarded by a pack of hounds with severe anger management issues. So vicious were they that Switchback’s village postman had been forced into early retirement, his replacement had suffered a nervous breakdown, and the latest had asked to return to his original position at the British Forces post office in Helmand province, Afghanistan.

Alarmed at the attrition rate, the Royal Mail sent in one of their elite: Frank Ashizukai, the ninja postman.

A slight rustle in the leylandii was all that indicated the presence of the new arrival and his payload of 6,128 pieces of undelivered mail. Frank balanced himself on a twig and prepared to exploit the psychological weaknesses of the hounds.

‘Fetch!’ he shouted, throwing a star shuriken over to the other side of the grounds, then disappeared back into the shadows. Thirty seconds later he was on the balcony of the master bedroom, with the hounds barking ineffectually below.

It was the work of a moment to blow up the balcony doors. As the smoke cleared, Frank saw half a dozen scantily-clad women scattering from the bedroom while a bodyguard rushed in to the aid of Caracas.

‘Who are you?’ said Jack, from the bed. ‘Paparazzi?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Frank. ‘I’m your new postman.’

‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘I do have a letterbox, you know.’

The sack of undelivered mail was thrown down on his bed.

‘Wouldn’t have fit,’ said Frank. ‘Didn’t you wonder why you hadn’t received any mail for the past year?’

‘I was a little concerned about the lack of fanmail, I suppose,’ said Jack.

‘It’s up to you,’ said Frank. ‘Either keep your dogs under control, or get your balcony doors blown up once a day. Before 9am for special deliveries.’

From an early age, Jack Caracas had committed to a career as a prankster. He started small, burying his parents’ front door keys in the garden one day and watching with glee as they searched the house from top to bottom. Extended spells on the naughty step did not deter him and by his teenage years he was engaging in borderline criminal activity. On one memorable occasion he broke into his school at night and redecorated the hall with quotations from Lord of the Flies, for which he was awarded an A for English and expelled.

Jack’s life could have spiralled out of control, but like so many pranksters before him he was saved by the power of the entertainment industry. Three years ago he started presenting a stage show (Jack Caracas Attacks) in the big top. The biggest show each year is held on April Fool’s Day. In his first year Jack announced to the audience that they were glued to their seats, a feat which cost the fair £20,000 in clothing repairs. In his second year he bribed a pilot friend to strafe the big top with chocolate-covered peanuts. Although the high velocity confectionery caused no injuries, one audience member suffered an allergic reaction and successfully sued the fair for £50,000.

It was inevitable, then, that a crack team of lawyers and accountants would be on hand this year to make sure that no more damage was done to the audience, and, more importantly, the fair’s finances. Nevertheless, a brave crowd travelled from around the country in the hope of being victimised, after signing a disclaimer that they could not expect damages.

Half-way through the show, Jack announced that the money saved from his legal indemnity would be released from the roof of the tent. The audience gasped; the accountants panicked. One of them stood up to cancel the show, but the notes were already raining down. Jack looked on with pride. For as long as he made more money over the year than he lost today, he knew they wouldn’t sack him. He had found the secret of sustainable pranking.

Plus he made the banknotes on his computer.