The Flippist

Arthur Rampkin hurled his suitcase into the empty carriage before jumping aboard the moving freight train. Sweaty and dishevelled, he crumpled into a corner. He closed his eyes and invited sleep.

He awoke to the sound of conversational gulls atop his stationary carriage. The morning light sliced through the gaps in the door. He had arrived in a new town, probably near the coast. Time to start a new chapter. His first order of business was to find a busy street to set up shop. If this town had a market, even better.

Arthur was a travelling flippist. He had inherited this way of life from his father. It was a simple life. Flippists rarely finished their lives happy, though. His father had died playing Russian roulette; suicide depending on how you looked at it. Arthur felt he would likely finish the same way but he hadn’t decided yet.

The town turned out to have a market. A particularly busy one at that. Arthur struck up a conversation with one of the stall owners who was kind enough to lend him three wooden crates. Arthur dumped his suitcase next to the stall and proceeded to stack two of the crates on top of each other to form a rudimentary table. He would sit on the third. From his suitcase, he retrieved a well-worn blanket and draped it over the two crates. He placed a silver coin on the table and sat.

His first customer was a young mother asking for familial advice. A little girl with a mop of bouncy ringlets clung to her mother's floral dress. Once Arthur had distilled the mother's question into a single question that could be answered in a binary fashion, he flipped his coin. He revealed the answer to the young mother and she seemed pleased. She walked away with a smile. Always good for business.

Another customer came along shortly. His hair was thick with pomade and a pencil moustache clung to his upper lip. His manner was as greasy as his hair. He asked a question, purportedly on behalf of a friend. Arthur weighed his coin in his palm, then ceremonially flipped it into the air. The answer that landed was negative. It was clear by the flatness of his moustache that the man had hoped for a different answer.

With a scowl on his face, he reached into his pocket. He brought out a black spherical object. Arthur exhaled with relief. At least it wasn't a gun.

‘Should I trust this man?’ the moustache whispered to the sphere. He gave it a shake and turned it over with a flick of the wrist. A moment's pause.

‘Hmm. Seems my eight ball doesn’t like you,’ he said with a hint of disdain.

‘Oh. So what is that thing?’ asked Arthur.

‘My magic eight ball, friend. You haven’t seen one before? Here, take a look. Give it a shake and ask a question. Then look at the little window on the bottom.’

Arthur took the little black sphere with caution. He performed the ritual in silence.

‘You’re meant to ask a question, friend.’

‘Yes. I did. I mean, in my head,’ stammered Arthur.

‘May I have it back?’

‘Hmm?’

‘May I have my eight ball back please?’

Arthur's faith had been shaken. His thoughts were spiralling, the visage of his father percolating through his mind.

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. Here. I, um... think I should be going. I need to... I... do you know if there is a gun shop nearby?’