Bloody BritRail

THIS IS FICTIONALIZED. DO NOT SUE ME.

I was researching British transportation on a snowy March morning in preparation for my trip to Europe. Perfectly safe activity, you'd think. Picture, if you will: a second-floor bedroom with a dormer window overlooking a begardened backyard covered in snow, behind which looms a spectacular mountain view. The light behind the clouds hasn't passed over the top of the house yet, and weak winter rays hit the two bookshelves on the left wall.

Facing in at a table in the middle of the room, looking at a laptop, is the author. He's Googling cheap transport options for Britain, and any second now he's going to discover BritRail's Flexipass options. How I wish I could go back in time and strike him on the head with the hardcover edition of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell that rested in the C section of the bookshelves, well within reach. He's going to sustain heavy brain damage anyway if he goes through with the BritRail thing, and at least this way he won't spend any money for it.

But alas.

He has a few questions for the company, so he rings up their American office
.
"Hello!" he chirps. "I'd like to buy the BritRail Flexipass, worth eight days of travel over a month, usable on any National Rail train."

"Okay!" says the BritRail representative. "That will be nine thousand dollars and two cents."

"N-Nine thousand dollars?!" he splutters.

"And two cents."

The only thing the author would willingly pay $9,000.02 for is a suitcase containing ten thousand dollars. In this case, $9,000.02 would buy him eight days of sore bum and mild nausea. He bargains them down to the still-enormous $261.80. They promise to deliver it via FedEx; he promises them his firstborn child, as this was also part of the deal.

Cut to: a FedEx office. A first-person camera shot at eye level, walking through the door, going past the usual FedEx things (envelopes, indentured slaves, the sigil of Baphomet, etcetera), into the shipping center. A supervisor stops a worker about to mail the BritRail pass.

"Hold on," says the supervisor. "Don't send it out now. If you send it out now, it won't get there while he's at work."

"Ah, right," says the worker, who has horns and cloven hooves, and is working on the goatee. "How d'you know that?"

The supervisor gestures at the Baphomet poster. "The big boss told me."

The worker nods, grabs a Sharpie, and writes in the secret glyphs of the Ancient Dark Priesthood of Fedegz: "Do NOT Deliver If Any Chance Of Anyone Getting Package."

"Why are we doing this, boss?" asks the worker as the two of them watch the envelope spin down the tubes, towards its final destiny as a pain in the arse.

The supervisor shrugs. "It's Tuesday. Nothing exciting happens on Tuesdays."

Fade out.

Two weeks later, I check the tracking info and discover that FedEx attempted to deliver the package, but there was no one to sign for it. I'd been at work, trying to ameliorate some of the massive debt I'd accrued through this purchase. The package had been returned to the sender.

But here's the thing: it hadn't. They were lying. In fact, the envelope containing the ticket that, if I may remind you, was worth TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-ONE DOLLARS AND A CHILD had been sent to the "lost items" warehouse in Mississippi. This scared me, because as everyone knows, nothing and no one that goes to Mississippi ever returns. I gave BritRail another ring.

Self: "Hel--"

BritRail: *talking to a colleague as they pick up the phone* "...and that's when I said 'well, you should've thought of that before you directly disobeyed Eight of the Ten Commandments, I said, and...yes, hello, BritRail, how can I help you?"

S: "Er, hi, um, I ordered a BritRail Flexipass--"

BR: "Bully for you."

S: "Yes, possibly. Erm, it's been sent to a warehouse in Mississippi, and I looked it up on Google Maps, and in the spot where the warehouse should've been, it just said 'Screw Off And Die' in block letters."

BR: "Correct."

S: "Right, well, seeing as I leave very soon, is there any chance you could void the lost ticket and send me a new one before it's too late?"

"NO!" BritRail roared, and struck me on the arm with a crowbar. With broken spirits and a broken humerus, I hung up with a quick "thanks, bye!" and set about booking individual tickets for everything, typing with one hand. All the tickets put together cost $160. Every time I board a train, my arm hurts.

Yesterday I got an email invoice from BritRail, Inc. They want $120, cash or credit card, to cover "crowbar vibration injuries" sustained by one of their employees. Apparently the reverberations were pretty sharp.

***

I hiked around the Old Man of Storr today. The unpopular spots were the best. The attraction is private property, so there are some sheep wandering around. I also saw a few sparrows, and (at first I thought it was a trick of the light on the snow) a mountain hare.

There were piles of branches and brush from when the farmers cut down the invasive conifers. The piles had been there for a while: lichen and moss grew on the lower layers. I'm going to write a story about the people who live in them.