Charles picked-up his pace to a gallop as he wiped off the collection of sweat that had gathered at the top of his forehead. Clearing the final step at the end of the rugged, cobblestone pathway that leads to his porch, Charles�s jaw dropped to the ground as he gazed in disbelief.

An old man with a long, white, bristly beard came limping over from the street corner, "I trys ta stop it but it jus' wou'nt lissen," the man explained in a low raspy tone. His frail, thin frame leaned, with the utmost dependence and confidence, on a splintered oak branch that he used as a cane, "When sumptin� so stubb'n gives way all ya can do is watch."

"But my house!" Charles grabbed his hair with both his hands and started to pull out of frustration, "you�re supposed to make sure this doesn�t happen, that�s what you do, that�s why I pay you. IS THAT SO HARD?" He wearily sits down on the porch, the only standing structure on the pile of debris and crumbled dreams that was formerly known as his house.

"Well maybe if ya didn�t needs ta save on yer house insur'nce ya wou'nt be in dis mess," The old man spit on the ground near where Charles was sitting.

"You needed to pay your alimony and I needed to show those corporate slugs down at AllState that Charles Isocoftenheimer wouldn�t settle for their needlessly high rates, so you shouldn�t be complaining. It�s called job security." Charles shouts resting his head in his hands, "Now what should I do?"

"When dis sorta ting happ'ns ta me I�m always forced jus' ta gets meself someting new." The old man lifts his bony fingers to his chin, "Tink abou' dit."

A spark of energy spread throughout Charles�s body, "You�re right. My holy mission is to find a new house," Charles confidently states, springing to his feet, "this is my ultimate goal."

In just hours, Charles was equipped to seek his destiny. On his head he tied a dark blue bandanna with a small daisy floral pattern covering the border. Over his shoulder he hoisted a well sanded stick and at the end he wrapped a red handkerchief that was sprinkled with blue, green, and gold confetti shapes. Wrapped inside the scarf was food and water that would have to sustain him for possibly countless number of days in the city. With a glint of eagerness laced with nervousness he set off for the unknown.

It was only a short time thereafter when Isocoftenheimer�s travels brought him to a small, corner repair shop. At first glance, it was a far cry from the giant supermarkets and flashy casinos with their dazzling neon signs that were common in the neighborhood. But it contained a quaint innocence with its crudely patched windows and chipped, white paint.

"Be with you in just a sec," A broad man called from the back of the store. Charles looked around noticing there was only room for no more than four or five people at a time and for some reason he felt that probably had never been a problem in the past, "What can I do for ya?" The broad man said giving Charles a friendly smile, revealing that both the man�s upper front teeth were missing.

"I�ve got to be totally honest with you," Charles started, setting his stick down on the counter, "I�m on a quest to find a new house. My old one just tipped over causing quite a mess as you can probably imagine. Anywho, I need to find a new one. Do you know where I could find a decent house?"

"Did you try a broom?" The broad man inquired.
"A broom?? What do you mean?"
"To clean up the mess. You said it caused a mess."
"That it did," Charles answered, trying not to get side-tracked, �but that�s beside the point."
"I could sell ya one for twenty-five dollars." The broad man continued.
"Could you please show me some compassion, my house just fell down."
"So one broom it is, for the man who�s house just toppled over like a dead mule."
"You�re impossible, good day sir," Charles exclaims grabbing his stick and stomping out of the store.

Distraught, but none the worse for wear, Charles presses forth with the grand illusion of finding a new domicile to dwell in. He hears a voice from a great distance away. It rises above all the others and beckons him toward it, like a candle�s light beckons a moth. He moves toward it soon finding himself running as fast as he can travel, mustering all of his rapidly diminishing strength, so he can see what has caught his attention.

"Hello, friend," a man draped in a long, flowing red cape and a nicely pressed powder blue suit welcomes. A small crowd of thirty or thirty-five gather around the tall, thin man as he performs a magic show. "You. Come down to the front so I can get a better look at you. Lets all give him a hand."

Charles looks around at the crowd with a dazed look covering his face, making his way down to the front, "My name is Charles and I just lost my house. I see you�re a magician, can you help me?"

Twittering his winding handlebar mustache, the magician gives Charles a long and unsettling stare, "I can help you."
"GREAT. What should I do?"
"I can help you for a price." the magician took a glance at the crowd of what is now about fifty and then continued to gaze into Charles�s eyes.
"A price? I don�t have a lot of money, but I can work if you�d like."
"People, tell him my price," the magician calls to the audience.
"Crumpets and Tarts, Crumpets and tarts," they all chanted in unison.
"Crumpets and tarts? Why?" Charles pondered.
"A street magician like myself is just royalty in tatters. So, seeing how I am a king I must eat like a king."

Charles untied his handkerchief and showed the magician its contents, "As you can see I don�t have any crumpets or tarts. Is there anything else I could do?" Without a word the magician pushes Charles into the crowd. A few screams for help is all he can get out before he is carried away.

Hours pass before he awakes from unconsciousness. His blue bandanna was shredded and stuffed down his shirt. His stick lay at his side, broke from the many times the crowd used it to beat him over the back. Struggling to his feet, he looks around and gasps in terror. They threw him into a residential area. All of the mansions that encircled him seem to see inside his head and enflame his throbbing madness. Dropping everything to the ground, Charles started to run down the street trying not to look at the nicely trimmed grass or the white picket fences that dot the street of almost identical suburban houses. The sounds of sprinklers soaking row after row of healthy lawns and a blur of perfectly parked mini-vans pass his senses as he tries to forget his problem, his lost house - he fails.

Charles is forced back to the porch of his once solid house. It seemed as though everyone had left him, and despite his efforts nothing was going to help get it back. Disgusted by the whole ordeal he pitches a large, flat stone at his mailbox. Jolting the lid open, a white letter floats from inside the box. Snatching the letter from the air he reads the front, "Return To Sender." He hastily opens it only to find it was his cancellation letter to AllState, "It never made it," he whispers to himself, "They never got it! I'M STILL INSURED!"

It appeared that Charles had accidentally stuck a 32 cent postal stamp in the corner of the envelope instead of the new 33 cent stamp. This rather careless error didn�t only fail to notify AllState that he wanted to cancel his insurance, but it also lead to the restitution for his lost goods.