Unaware of the lion’s den he was tumbling into, Mr Hoobstank swung his case and whistled merrily. He had travelled far and was glad to be finally trotting this dusty road. Though the exertion made him pant, he continued his jaunty tune. He was heading towards the Ultimate Job and had dressed his best. He had an orange hat with lime plumage on his head and a tan briefcase in his hand. His green suit lined with purple velvet itched a bit, but he looked very professional. A wide grin threatened to break out on his on his round, red face. Pride, optimism and excitement charged through his body and found an outlet in his steps; they got more and more energized. The minute he had seen the tiny advertisement in the newspaper, he had known. It was just the job for him. The minuscule, black and white print, screaming the details, had been his ticket, his ticket to the future he had slaved for all his life. He finally reached the edge of the town, and wiped his forehead.

The town in question was the Chessboard Town. Like the checkers on the chessboard and all the pieces used in the game everything in this town was black and white. The houses were white with black roofs. The insides of these houses were papered in black and white strips. The kitchen windows had white flowers in black pots and black flowers in white ones. Old, wrinkly men sat in black rocking chairs, puffing their pipes, reminiscing the good old black and white days. In the market place, housewives argued whether black with white dots was more fashionable or white with black dots. Girls in black and white patterned dresses sucked on giant black and white lollipops, while boys in black and white plaid shorts played with black and white balls.

In this black and white town, Mr Hoobstank confidently strode down the aptly named Main Black Road. The hostile glares of the townspeople slid off him like water off a duck’s back. He maintained his grin, which was just short of being unnatural. The town needed him; it was clear as black and white. His modern ideas and schemes were just the thing for this lacklustre dump. With the image of the folks thanking him on bended knees and showering him with rose petals, Mr Hoobstank came to a stop outside the Chessboard Town Hall. Reaching for the black knob on the white door, he whispered to himself, “if I don’t make it through this interview, my life will be shattered.”

Mr Hoobstank was faced with a huge, black table. Sitting behind this monstrosity were five men, all in white suits with black ties, all with evenly trimmed moustaches and all looked equally stern. Hoobstank stepped forward swallowed a gulp and started speaking. He spoke long and hard. He spoke simply and he spoke eloquently. He used complicated words like renovating and recycling and revitalizing. He used foreign words like abstract and vibrant and magenta. Hoobstank spoke his heart out. Six minutes later, when he was done, the air of this imposing room was coloured with originality, aspiration and innovation. They silently battled with the black and white aura of tradition and austerity given off by the panelled wall. Hoobstank looked at the five men and the five men looked back at him. Finally, the Head of the Board, the black and whit gentlemen in the middle cleared his throat and said, “The Board is extremely sorry, Mr… Hoobstank. But, the Board put an advertisement for a town plumber not a town planner.”
With this crushing statement, the five members of the black and white board stood up and filed pass a stricken Mr Hoobstank. Colour drained from his face and his knees gave way. The odd little man stood in the room, whose very particle jeered and mocked him. Mr Hoobstank’s kaleidoscopic life was shattered.