(approximate length, 3 pages)

Not that many years ago, in a street not so very far away, there lived a man. In fact, there were quite a number of men in this street, Moorcroft Road, but there was one in particular who answered to the name of Alan. Just as this in itself is not an amazing revelation, Alan was not the sort of subject to interest the daily papers; not until one day, that is. He did not have long green hair, for example. It was dark brown and just covered his ears. He was not 107 years old due to eating plenty of fresh fruit. He was 26 and only consumed the occasional apple or orange. He wasn't particularly unusual in any way, or so it was thought. No, on the contrary, he was an average sort of 26 year old, well-spoken, compassionate, upstanding bachelor. Admittedly, his regular attendance of the local church placed him amongst a 10% minority of the British population, but most people wouldn't bat an eyelid at such nonconformism, and it certainly is not the sort of distinguishment to justify a biography.

However, one facet of his life would appear peculiar to his personal acquaintances at St Andrews Church, as well as to those who laboured alongside him at the office. It was his hobby. He killed people. That may sound wasteful, taking lives away from their possessors, but it wasn't as simple as that. He didn't just choose victims and liquidate them. To place his interest into its correct perspective, he was a collector. When he created a new corpse, it wasn't left as a hostelry for passing bacteria and rats, though that in itself would have been an altruistic action towards microbe and animal welfare. Rather, being a humanitarian, he used his victims for the good of society. As I've said, he was a collector. He would dissect his specimens and mount the various elements on boards. He had boards for left feet and boards for right feet. He had head boards, intestine boards and so on. He worked to create a unique record of human existence for the enlightenment of future generations; a work for posterity you might say. He even had posterior boards.

It was only when his hobby was publicized, that the unremarkable Alan became widely known, across the world as well as in Moorcroft Road. The cause of this unsearched for fame was the annual Saint Andrews Church Christmas Fair. The congregation had been asked to provide prizes for the raffle, "especially of an educational nature," the vicar had stressed, "as there will be children present, with exams to sit." Seeing this as an opportunity to put his hobby to practical use, Alan decided to donate his star exhibit. However, in deference to the sensibilities of the many ladies who would be present, he reconsidered the matter, and concluded upon his unique set of spleens instead; an encouragement for the young to delve, as well as being stimulating and tasteful decorations for any living room.

He set to the task of ensuring that the organs were displayed as well as his means would allow. He stuck typewritten slips of paper to the blood red mounting boards, which contained revealing information corresponding to each example. He included the age and gender of each donor, statistics in regard to relative sizes of spleen to person, as well as a brief account of how and when they were obtained.

His careful system of book-keeping showed that there should have been 155 examples. Upon this necessitated stock check, he established that three were missing. It caused him much consternation, and despite extensive searching through the array of deepfreezes which his wages supported, the fugitives remained at large. As they hadn't been located by the eve of the fair, he decided to make the best of an incomplete job, and readjusted all relevant records; a complex task due to his habitual double-entering and cross-referencing; his double-referencing and cross-entering. He finally retired at 2:08 am on the Saturday morning, only to discover on of the renegades lurking in the pocket of his recently washed, blue and white pyjama jacket. Being too tired to cater for its inclusion then, Alan drifted into sleep dreaming of opening a special library, dedicated to the mysteries of life.

He awoke at 8:34 and decided to include the located spleen after all. It looked so sad and alone, lodging amongst the right kidneys in his bedroom. (As I've said, he was not short of compassion.) Such were the complexities of his filing system, that this task took over an hour. Resultantly, and with breakfast taken into account, it was past 11 o'clock when his Ford Granada was travelling down Gainsborough Drive, and coming to a stop outside the church hall. This made our subject feel slightly uneasy, seeing as he had promised to arrive at ten in order to assist with selling second hand toys. However, due to his sense of priorities, he'd felt it more important to properly prepare the prize. Of course, he would apologize for this uncharacteristic unpunctuality, but feel no great remorse.

For those who are unsure of their local geography, Gainsborough Drive is the road was serves the rear entrance of Saint Andrews. It was not without thought that Alan had employed this route. It enabled him to locate his donation within the hall unobserved, so as to stimulate an air of surprise for the raffle. Consequently, it was alone that he made the six return trips from car to back door, stealthfully placing his boards behind the wing curtains of the stage. With this task complete, he made his way to the hall proper, apologized for his unavoidable lateness, and was delegated to relieve Mr MacDonald a Father Christmas. Mr MacDonald had grown to hate children ever since his own son had joined the Labour Party. Due to his somewhat introverted nature, Alan found it hard to be a genial Santa. Nevertheless, time passed reasonably quickly, as he was able to noted down several potential donors for his hobby. For example, one small boy, who told Santa that he wouldn't believe in him unless he receive two presents, had a particularly interesting left earlobe. Without entering into pointless elaboration, at 3:45 pm the vicar announced 'last orders' for the raffle. Alan closed the grotto, informed the reverend of the new first prize, and left Greenland in the care of his plastic gnome helpers.

"And I'm very pleased to say," the balding Reverend Hughes announced, "that the winner of our special prize is the holder of ticket number 267." Eager eyes glanced at bands of paper tickets, all in unfulfilled hope. Then, the ecstatically waving hand of Miss Angela Leamington-Smythe, (a particularly fine specimen, thought Alan), the well known local celebrity and art critic of the Parish Magazine, signalled her victory. She trotted up to receive her award. It has to be said, she fully entered into the spirit of the occasion and looked most delighted, as Alan began to produce the exhibit from behind the curtains.

"Oh, how marvellous, Mr Johnson." (Astute readers may have guessed this to have been Alan's surname. It isn't. Quite why he should have been confused with an American airman of World War Two is left to the imagination, with a view to injecting an element of mystery into the proceedings.) "Pray instruct us as to its imagery."
"It's my collection of spleens," instructed Alan.

The reception of his explanation went through various phases of response. Firstly, many of those present felt insulted by such a sick joke. Secondly, they were mystified by the assurances that it was not an off-track sense of humour at work, but a truthful humanitarian. Thirdly, there were screams and faints as his explanation became accepted, following the medically qualified opinion offered by the local doctor. Fourthly there was uproar, as a small fox terrier trotted up the steps to the stage and yelped excitedly, in the hope of obtaining a tit-bit. Fifthly came sympathy, as a small boy with a fine left earlobe, demanded that Santa bring him a spleen. Sixthly, Alan was escorted to the police station, to help with their enquiries. Finally, psychologists diagnosed him as an average sort of 26 year old, well-spoken, compassionate, upstanding bachelor, who was partial neither to green hair nor an excessive consumption of fruit, although they rated his hobby as abnormal.