Today is the last day of a special sale of short stories and short story collections over at Based Book Sale, and yours portly’s collection of absurdist detective stories is in the sale. Normally I’d link directly to The One-Minute Mysteries of Inspector Gerard: The Ultimate Flatfoot, but I’d recommend purchasing it through the sale’s link so they can track sales figures accurately. Regardless, the eBook/Kindle version is just $0.99 from now through midnight PST on tonight (Wednesday, 25 March 2026). —TPP
The English writer Sudo Nonym, a regular over at Free Speech Backlash, sent yours portly a treasure-trove of fiction stories for readers here to enjoy. Many of these stories have already run at FSB, but Tom, the proprietor over there, is cool about cross-posting and republishing, and I’m never one to say no to intriguing content—especially when someone else has done 90% of the work for me!
Also, he has two eBooks on Amazon (that’s an Amazon Affiliate link; I receive a portion of any purchases made through that link at no additional cost to you—TPP)!
But I digress. Today’s story is the final chapter of a longer piece, The Man from Historical Accuracy. The premise is simple: a bureaucratic agency, Historical Accuracy, tweaks history to keep things trucking along as they should.
If you’ve missed previous chapters, you can find them here:
With that, here’s the riveting conclusion to The Man from Historical Accuracy:
Chapter 6
MHA at the end of the world.
Story written at the time of George W Bush’s presidency.
A massive asteroid is hurtling towards Earth. Huge escape spaceships have been prepared. Interviews for the most suitable selection of representative Earth people are held.
England. Soon.
‘Oi carnt spell fur toffee me!’ says the fifteen year old lad with tattoos, piercings and a Burberry baseball cap.
‘Well, you’d better have a toffee anyway, because you are not allowed on the escape ship. Next!’
‘That’s not fair!’
‘Having an asteroid wipe out your home planet is not fair either. Guards! Take him away…!
The guards are slow to respond. They mutter between each other, sneaking dark glances at the selector. They elect a spokesman.
‘We can’t spell either. Or do maths! That’s why we are in security! We’re on it though aren’t we? To stop fights, keep order an’ that. So why not the kid here? Plenty of time in space to learn stuff you said…’
‘Not all can go, be reasonable!’
‘No, but that bloke in the wheelchair with the robot voice – the clever geezer. He’s goin’ an’ ‘e won’t survive the trip now will he?’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘A contest, a competition, a quiz or something…’
‘What? General knowledge, a test of strength, endurance under harsh conditions…?’
‘Nah! Most people would lose that. We was thinking, maybe a test to see who got on together in a cramped space best. Store all the clever stuff on hard drives – save space like. Just need a few nerds to print it off now an’ again…well, not print it cos the paper would run out but you know…’
‘But what about the clever people? Surely we need them?’
‘Not if they don’t get on we don’t. I mean that Peter Mandelson, Simon Cowell and who’s that other bastard who used to edit The Mirror? Piers, Piers…anyway, they’d be out the airlock before we went past the moon…’
***
A few weeks later, the President of the United States watched the ships drift up on their Ion jets and, one by one, as they reached orbit, the beautiful whirlpool effect as the stellar drives engaged. One by one, they disappeared. On board were test tubes of frozen sperm and ovae from reasonable people who’d only ever had the odd slight loss of temper and self-doubt. Humans on board were; grandparents and their small grandchildren, submariners, life sentenced murderers, stamp collectors and other groups comfortable in each other’s company.
He switched screens. They could see the asteroid with the naked eye now. It seemed to stand still in the sky. Everyone who had a clear sky at the right time of day got a chance to see it. Everyone thought it was coming straight for them personally. That’s the effect of living on a spinning planet.
He sighed. For some reason the Major from the Air Force was still with him; the Major who went everywhere with him with the briefcase chained to his wrist; the briefcase with the doomsday codes. Nobody had told him to stop.
‘Major!’
‘Sir!’
‘Got any ICBMs left?’
‘Enough warheads to destroy civilisation twice over, sir!’
They’d fired dozens already at the asteroid. It was like firing a peashooter at an angry charging elephant.
The President came to a decision. Never liked those Russian bastards! Nor the Chinese! And those French never liked us either!
‘Major!’
‘Sir?’
‘Let’s just open that briefcase and have some fun eh?’
***
The President turned away, chuckling to himself. The Major was dumbstruck. A hand plucked at his sleeve. He turned.
‘What the…?’
‘Shhh! Now, listen. If you shoot that man between the eyes I can make that asteroid disappear…’
The Major pulled out his personal weapon. MHA decided it was time to make himself scarce.
*****
Sudo Nonym to protect the innocent in a dubious world, he has 3 grandkids and lives with his wife of 40 years in a secret location with a cat and untidy workshops where he finds it easier writing about his inventions than actually making them work.
Writing themes include time travel, spies, speculation over other worlds and, not to chase or challenge the climate change theories, to complain bitterly were something to go wrong we’re not going the right way to prepare for it. Houses that float on water or tall pilings at least, boats to move about and inexpensive flying machines rather than the preserve of the rich or those with the application to fly them. Money where mouth is, he is a licensed private pilot.