Pim Comic Strip

How I came to write Pim
People often ask how I came to write Pim. It seems like a thousand years since I discovered Pim, or that Pim discovered me. Thankfully I kept detailed notes and saved photos from that time. While I can’t swear to the absolute accuracy of what you are about to read, I have done my best to capture the essence of how Pim entered my life.

On arriving in Osaka, Ukifune organized her cookie boxes into an orderly pyramid and surveyed the new territory from a great height (still unaware that Meg and Peg had her under surveillance.)

Still seeking vengeance on Joaxín Slim saw fit to enlist the help of Mr. Love, or failing that the help of Mr. Love’s odious nieces. Intuitively Slim knew they’d be in the district that most retained some semblance of a vanished industrial age.

Yes, Clive had slipped through an aperture in space time and was teaching at a dodgy boy’s school in the England of a pre-digital age. Mr. Love, who was all places in all times, stood at the window, concerned about the power Clive had yet to know he had.

Waking up hungry, cold, and on the street, Clive deduced that he needed to make some money. So he got a job at a nearby public school teaching ten-year-olds the rudiments of math, logic and reasoning. It might not have been the best fit for Clive.

As the Well-Dressed Albatross reluctantly stalked Ukifune, Meg and Peg monitored him on a CCTV system made out of gear they’d salvaged from a mysterious warehouse fire in Effingham, Illinois.

Mr. Love had blackmailed the Well-Dressed Albatross into kidnaping Ukifune for experiments by his nieces, Meg and Peg. While contemplating the horror of what he must do, the WDA caught sight of Ukifune on a path between this chapter of her life and the next.

The task Mr. Love had assigned the Well-Dressed Albatross was one of unspeakable vileness. By the time Mr. Love departed, the WDA was miraculously cured. They discharged him from the hospital into a palpable darkness.

The Well-Dressed Albatross had undergone a stroke, leaving him without the power of speech. Alone in a windowless room with only the most cursory of glances from the hall—by a wizzened octogenarian neurologist and no oftener than daily—he was visited by an old acquaintance.

They held the Well-Dressed Albatross for days, which turned into weeks, which turned into months. Until, during a supervised nature walk that the best behaved inmates were granted on Christmas Day, the WDA collapsed in freshly fallen snow.

Clive’s mathematical postulates lead him not forward into a world of colour but rather decades backward through time. Clive found Camden Town 1977 a drab place indeed.