The Accidentally International Incident of Mr. Flumple
What happens if you overhear something that was not meant for you?
By Leu Seyer, August 16th, 2025.
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This story is told the way memories truly work — not in neat, chronological order, but through sudden jumps between the present, the past, and the “possibly imagined.”
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The Man Who Blended into the Background.
Reuben P. Flumple was, in every conceivable way, the human equivalent of a three- to seven-year-old beige and black Basset Hound. His presence was so remarkably unnoticeable that if you searched for the “most neutral person alive,” you might find him—or miss him entirely, lost in a bad posture blending into the background. Luckily, Reuben had worked for the past fifteen years as a Claims Assessor at a small insurance company in a forgotten brick building in downtown Buffalo, New York. This company survived a significant population decline thanks to its connections with one of the oldest and most important law firms in the city, which operates statewide.
At the start of the ember months in 1999, Buffalo's downtown streets were lined with weathered brick buildings; some displayed advertisements that seemed to take you back to decades past. The sidewalks were uneven and cracked, with weeds pushing through. Pedestrians passed unhurried, some already in light jackets, others with hats, as their visible breath smoked in the unseasonably cool early autumn air. That morning, low gray clouds hung in the sky, casting gloom. But forecasters promised the sun later. That gloomy morning was only a reminder of summer’s end, but locals still hurried to enjoy the last of the mild weather before winter arrived, leading to last-minute festivals.
At fifty-nine, the never-married Reuben’s hobbies still reflected his unremarkable demeanor. He loved crime stories and the quiet satisfaction of a spy novel with a bowl of low-sodium chicken noodle soup. Despite his vivid imagination, his real life was a beige canvas of monotony that had become somewhat satisfying. It was all about subtle shades, as if his life were defined by an endless cycle of sameness, with a touch of contentment.
Howbeit, the years don’t forgive, a proverb says, and Reuben's partially gray hairline was slowly receding like a shy hedgehog. Yet, his most remarkable trait was that Reuben had spent his adult life guided by principles: "avoid chaos, eye contact, and talking about oneself." Talking about others was another matter altogether. He had been successful following these rules… until 7:37 AM on the first Friday of September 1999, when fate slammed into him with chaos like a shopping trolley without brakes.
Trevor, The Headlines, and Unwanted Attention
In 1999, the Buffalo Irish Festival and Parade deviated from tradition. Instead of the usual first weekend in August at the Outer Harbor, the revelers gathered on the first Saturday of September at Buffalo River Park in the Old First Ward. The organizers, eager for a better location within a more manageable budget, had been testing different dates and venues. Their search eventually ended, as the Old First Ward would later become the festival's permanent home.
By Sunday evening, Reuben got home from work to find a pigeon waiting — or rather, following him home. Some pigeons form bonds with human caregivers and shadow them. Reuben, after recent misfortunes, welcomed his company. He named the pigeon "Trevor" as he came from the city (a symbolic big village). Also, Reuben warmed his silent presence. That night, Trevor had supper with him, bouncing around and eating crumbs Reuben offered while sharing his supper.
Almost two days have passed since the incident from the previous Friday, and the news shows no signs of slowing down, both in newspapers and on TV. Large letters read: "Confused Man Thwarts Imaginary Plot – The Iris Parade ended in Ruins." The words seem to jump off the page and from the corners of the TV screen as they convey the chaos and disbelief that have unfolded. Still, they truly capture the details of the disrupted celebration seen through the stunned eyes of the spectators.
Trevor stayed with Reuben that Sunday evening. His calm presence steadied Reuben after the disaster at the Irish Parade. Yet Reuben couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. In fact, photos were taken from afar to update news stories. Some outlets were starting to speculate about the mental health of the man who disrupted an international parade.
The prevailing comment: “Acts of either a particularly insane person or a vigilante trying to expose a nonexistent plot.” Reuben felt guilt tighten in his stomach as he listened to the nonsense on the radio and read those comments written in online articles. He even wondered if he had caused the disaster, or if poor police intervention had been the cause of the flop.
These events reignited Reuben’s memories of visiting the Police Department last Friday. Ongoing reports on radio, TV, and newspapers — and the then-growing Internet — brought back these recollections. He vividly remembered his hurried visit to the Buffalo Police Department at 12:12 PM. From his perspective, the radio was blaring dishonest and false bulletins, not reflecting the truth. These distorted messages seemed to imply that he is mentally ill—what nerve for a man as proper as him with almost 20,000 accident claims processed correctly in 15 years of hard work.
The Urgent Visit to the Police Station
The television news replays flickered on his dusty lamp's screen. The vivid, intense colors sharply contrasted with the faded, sepia-toned room. The Sunday morning newspapers displayed bold 36-point headlines with an alarming story demanding Reuben's immediate detention. At that moment, his mind drifted back to the police station, where the scene remained fresh in his memory.
He stepped through the station doors, the terrible smell of stale coffee mixed with the sharp scent of disinfectant, striking him hard like a brutal physical assault that overwhelmed his senses. The air inside was thick, a palpable mixture of exhaustion and sterility that clung to the walls on that Friday noon. A couple of officers looked up from distant desks, raising eyebrows of puzzled curiosity as they observed the disheveled man who stood his ground before them.
Reuben was back to being thoroughly soaked, his clothes wrinkled and dirty from drying on him and becoming moist again. Not to mention the rancid smell of sweat on damp clothes. Plus, his spiked hair was wild, hardly what he usually looked like. The fluorescent lights overhead shone with an unbearable brightness, illuminating the pockmarked Terrazzo floors and the pseudo-wood desks arranged haphazardly throughout the large room. These were his recollections; he was far better at assessing accident claims than sorting out his personal experiences. Still, he did remain steady, shrugging off their piercing stares.
The front desk sergeant—a heavily tanned, somewhat disheveled veteran missing a front tooth—sat with a greasy sausage roll halfway to his mouth. He looked distracted, glancing diagonally toward the counter at the new female police officer, who had just joined the force that week. Not disrespecting the uniform, he was curious and hungry, as it was lunchtime, and he was stuck on this shift without complaints. Still, his navy-blue uniform's top button was undone, and he seemed indifferent to the world beyond the front counter, which only distracted him from his existential worries.
Crumbs from the tasty roll clung to his thick mustache when Reuben burst through the glass double doors, his frantic entrance echoing through the otherwise quiet room. Drenched in sweat from the quick walk from his office to the police station, he was a soggy mess, with hair stuck to his forehead and his collar wet. More sweat was raining down his neck. His eyes were wide with anxiety, and a faint smell of spilled oat milk hung on him, a remnant of his midday snack.
Reuben: “I have intelligence about an imminent Red Deer-related attack!”
Sergeant: “…what?”
Reuben: “There’s a huge Red Deer. A code phrase. Spirit Bombs. Possibly Luxembourg.”
Sergeant: “Have you been drinking?”
Reuben: “Only coffee! And one, eggnog. But that was last night!”
Reuben produced a napkin like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. The sergeant read it, sighed, and dropped it into a drawer labeled ‘Weird Stuff – Probably Nothing’ between a knitted balaclava and a suspiciously heavy garden gnome.
Sergeant: “We’ll look into it.”
Reuben: “You’re not taking this seriously! Maybe the life of the City Mayor is at risk!”
Sergeant: “Sir, you just accused a big Red Deer of conspiracy and terrorism… Go home!”
The Coffee Shop Revelation and the Pigeon
Before his noon visit to the Police Department, Reuben had stopped first at his usual coffee shop before heading to work on that same Friday. The morning mist was thick and biblical on that day, like the one described in Genesis 2:5-6 (NIV), with “steams [coming] up from the earth and watered the whole surface of the ground." As a result, Reuben was soaked when he ducked into the Nickel Coffee shop, resembling a typical Soda Fountain with a chalkboard menu full of drink names that sounded more like spells than beverages. Once there, he ordered his usual Toast and eggs, and his lukewarm latte with oat milk with three sugars, stirred exactly twelve times clockwise—as he always requested.
He sat in the far corner with Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine from his briefcase. He was on his feet, slightly resting his elbows on the tall table to keep the chair parch and to help dry his clothes before heading to the office. His plan: finish reading the magazine, avoid talking to anyone, and maybe treat himself to a pastry like a scone if he was feeling adventurous. Unfortunately, the far corner was right next to “Them” – two men in trench coats, one tall and bony with a mustache like a taxidermy accident, the other round and shiny, wearing sunglasses indoors.
They were whispering, but it felt more like they were talking directly into Reuben’s ears because of the echo coming from the corner of the establishment. The tall guy said, “At the precise time when the Red Deer is in position.” Then, the round shiny one added, “Good. And remember—the phrase that triggers the plan is: ‘We need more Spirit, like Bomb’s detonations.’ We can’t afford another Luxembourg.” Reuben froze mid-step. Red Deer? Spirit Bombs? Luxembourg? Then the tall guy replied, “When you hear the phrase, ‘activate the device.’ The outcomes will be irreversible.”
Then they laughed. In Reuben's eyes, not in a happy “we’ve just seen a funny cat video” way, but in a “we are international criminals and will definitely try to sink a small country” way. They left a generous tip, the remains of their sandwiches, and some napkins on the table and walked out. Reuben picked up one of the napkins because it had something written on it. In messy scrawl, it read: "DO NOT TELL REUBEN." His name. His actual name. The latte slid from his hand.
Outside, he took deep breaths to calm himself. The red-brick wall was peeling, decorated with graffiti like 1980s NYC subway cars. Reuben’s paranoia grew; sweat poured down his back. He paced on the uneven sidewalk until his panic solidified into a harsh truth: they were foreign spies — identical haircuts, and those ominous sunglasses.
In his mind, the “red deer” was a fuse burning toward the neighborhood's powder keg in downtown. “Spirit Bombs” wasn't just a request for condiments or special effects— it was a fatal switch waiting to be activated. Luxembourg, poor and unfortunate, is a testament to its history, having been almost destroyed several times before the end of WWII, when it was finally reduced to a black hole on the map of Europe. There was nothing left but to call the police or the FBI. The Police Station was about ten blocks away, and the blue patrol lights felt like a beacon of hope.
Then, a slate-gray pigeon, like something out of a spy novel, with an iridescent purple-green neck, mysteriously appeared. Its shimmering feathers, like oil on water, swooped down from a rusted fire escape and landed with deliberate precision on his moth-eaten tweed shoulder. The bird's piercing amber eyes, circled with ghostly white half-rings like tiny cataracts, bore into his soul with an unyielding stare that seemed to penetrate his every thought.
The pigeon let out a strange cooing noise—eerily similar to a broken Soviet-era clockwork toy—before viciously pecking at Reuben’s left earlobe with its razor-sharp coral beak, to eat a crumb (surely got there when he shook his ears while eating his breakfast). The peck drew a tiny drop of warm blood, which trickled down Reuben’s neck. Then the bird launched itself into the ominous pewter sky now streaked with veins of charcoal clouds. (But the sun would definitely come out in the afternoon as the weather forecasters predicted). Still, the clouds in Reuben's mind were already swirling with distrust from earlier, like a washing machine with a broken spin cycle. Now the pigeon added more panic and suspicion to the already existing doubts about those foreigners. The pigeon was, without a doubt, working with the spies—that was final.
The pigeon was clearly a messenger from those two shady characters in wrinkled trench coats, hanging over their steaming espressos at the coffeeshop. He imagined them secretly releasing him from the damp, musty folds of their coats, whispering sinister coordinates into his feathered ear through yellowed teeth. Still, the bird had made a mistake, landing on him instead of delivering its deadly message about the upcoming attack to the City Mayor on his appearance at –whatever—festival, which he might be attending soon. Against whom else could they be plotting? Plus, no matter how much he thought about it, the conclusion was that the attack had to include him.
Panic gripped Reuben's heart again, pounding fiercely against his fragile ribs as he dashed down three blocks of cracked sidewalk, littered with cigarette butts and flattened gums. His lungs burned with pain, like hot pokers being pushed into his chest—a cruel reminder of his childhood asthma. He slowed to a determined shuffle, wheezing desperately through his constricted windpipe. But the half-finished accident assessment on his cluttered desk at the Insurance Agency was still a priority because of the legal deadlines that the lawyers kept reminding him of. So, he needed to hurry to finish it before going to the police. He had to report—as soon as possible—the massive terrorist conspiracy he had uncovered almost single-handedly through divine intervention.
Gathering Evidence and the March Toward Disaster
Having arrived at his office, Reuben immediately began working on the pending case. His experience was evident, which added to his skills and helped speed up the process. Moreover, he had already completed half of the work, including the field investigation needed to verify the insured's claim. As a result, in less than two and a half hours, he finished tasks that could have taken four hours—finishing the calculations for the amounts owed and reviewing the previously negotiated agreements with the insurer. He also ensured that all evidence and records related to the case were organized in accordance with legal standards.
Then, as soon as the case was concluded to his satisfaction, and without further delay, he began examining the local newspapers in the agency's reception area. He was quickly flipping through the pages with urgency, searching for events, fairs, festivals, or anything involving the City Mayor—the Democrat Anthony M. Masiello. The receptionist immediately recognized his seriousness when she saw him searching through the papers. She approached him with curiosity, her voice gentle but inquisitive as she asked, "Reuben, is there something specific you're looking for in the newspapers?"
He responded without hesitation, "Do you know about any event or festival happening in the city these days or even today?" She immediately replied, "Of course, it might be the last of the season... the Parade of Flags today and tomorrow starts the Irish Festival." Reuben interrupted her and asked, "Precisely near town hall?" She confirmed instantly, “Yes, the parade starts near Niagara Square.”
"Ah! One last question, Lucia," he said. "Do you know when it will take place?"
“Well, the Parade is at 2:00 PM today, and the Irish Festival this year, besides being delayed, will also be at a different location. Give me a minute; I wrote all down because my niece wants me to go to the festival with her.” How lucky Reuben felt—he’d gathered all the information faster than expected. He found it just in time to get to the City of Buffalo Police Department during his lunch hour. So, he ran out of the office without wasting any more time.
For the Parade of Flags and the Iris festival that year, the organizers had invited the Consul of Ireland residing in New York City. However, the Irish Consul decided to send an official envoy due to his busy schedule. Curiously, he agreed to send an official delegate in that year's parade at the request of Buffalo’s City Mayor. The connection between these two figures was a well-known Irish poet visiting the Buffalo area to give lectures at the SUNY University at Buffalo. Mr. Paul a renowned Irish poet (loosely connected to the celebrated Mr. Heaney). He was also scheduled for a poetry reading at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery the following Saturday.
Due to this series of small, somewhat accidental coincidences, this modest event with its local nuances had already blossomed into an international affair. It had attracted increased police attention, with uniformed officers keeping a watchful eye, as well as a flock of eager news reporters broadcasting the happenings to a broader audience. The event was a vivid representation of the international cooperation and fraternity that Irish immigrants developed after World War II. As a result, local politicians in the city of Buffalo, as well as those representing the State of New York, took a more substantial interest in the event.
Additionally, due to its new significance from its international status, the Irish Embassy quickly arranged to bring one of its most prized symbols — a remarkable, sturdy “Red Deer” loaned from the New York City Zoo for the event. Also, two special agents from the state government accompanied the deer to ensure its safety and well-being. This animal, called “Fia Rua” for “Red Deer” in Gaelic, came directly from the town of Killarney and is deeply connected to Ireland, both as a native species with strong ecological roots and as a cultural symbol.
Thus, every precaution was taken to ensure everything went smoothly, and these two guards were assigned to oversee the process. The guards were two men in trench coats: one tall and bony, who always insisted that wearing sunglasses makes him look more appealing, elegant, and sexier. The other round and shiny, sporting a mustache that looked as if it had been the result of a taxidermy accident.
By 1:58 PM, Reuben was in the vicinity of Niagara Square. He would not let the foreign spies bring any harm to his town. He was alert to every movement and every word spoken in an unusual tone. There, close to everything that moved, he sought to prevent the calamities that those two strangers had planned, but they did not count on him having the courage to stop them with his strength. There was no other way, given the police's negligence. He couldn’t believe, with all the evidence presented, that the police officer completely ignored his report and warning alert. Now it was time to act and save the mayor's life, preventing the explosion that would bring the city to its knees.
Spirit Bomb, Waffles, and the Red Deer
On patrol, Reuben saw the two suspicious foreigners entering a canopy and immediately moved closer without making any noise. He didn't want to be detected, but he also didn't want to lose the crucial intel needed to stop the sinister plan of these two criminals.
Inside the canopy, a middle-aged woman was asking for help from one of the volunteers.
Woman: “Excuse me, could you check? I think the “Spirit Bomb” is in the lower drawer.
Reuben’s brain went nuclear. THIS WAS IT – he thought.
The doors to the canopy rattled like someone had heard bad news. Then —BANG! —It opened so forcefully that the hinges protested in retaliation. A wild-haired Reuben emerged, his eyes lit with an inquisitive gleam, as if expecting to find the devil incarnated, perhaps.
Then, he shouted: “STOP THE RED DEER!”
He vaulted the counter and collided with the volunteer (Craig, who screamed for help) at the time he was yanking open the drawer. And just like that, he hurled the Spirit Bomb CD out the window like it was a grenade. It hit a cyclist, who swerved into a small parade float, startling the actual “Red Deer” in the parade.
The Red Deer bolted. Children screamed. Someone yelled:
“THERE IS A BOMB!”
The crowd scattered. Reuben chase one of the special agents, slipping on confetti and knocking over a man in a hotdog costume. The pigeon Trevor barreled straight into the Consul’s envoys and their missteps into a waffle stand, coating the City Mayor in syrup.
An Envoy (in Gaelic): “Bolíonn tú cosúil le mar mhadra fliuch.” (“You smell like a wet dog!”).
Reuben, who spoke no Gaelic, assumed this was a declaration of war.
Before he could do anything, the Irish security escorts surrounded him. Soon, the Buffalo Police members at the parade also joined in.
One of the Buffalo Police Officers recognized Reuben, not only for his appearance but also for the smell.
Officer: “DO NOT TELL REUBEN, AH? You are Reuben, No? Therefore, you are the target!”
Reuben: “Or I’m the warning!”
Officer: “No, you are the Spirit Bomb phantom!”
The other officers and the security members immobilized Reuben and dragged him into an interrogation room. They thought the hard work was over, but calming Reuben down required the assistance of paramedics who were called in on an emergency.
The room smelled faintly of waffles. A woman with steel-gray hair and a clipboard sat opposite him.
Interrogator: “Explain your ties to ‘Deer destabilization’ operations.”
Reuben: “I don’t have any! I work in an Insurance Company!”
Interrogator: “A convenient cover.”
Reuben: “I’m not even interesting enough to destabilize a fly, let alone a Deer.”
They grilled him for hours on things like “The Emerald Accord,” “Operation Harp Veil,” and “The Atlantic Conspiracy.”
This continued for a couple of hours until they finally realized that Reuben was nothing more than an accident assessor (mainly for car crashes).
During the interrogation, Reuben wept into his hands. His fingers were tapping against his thigh like a trapped moth. His sweat reflected the light. He twitched—continually—while clenching the arms of his chair. His gaze never settled, never longer than a few seconds, searching the corners of the room for whatever danger lay waiting in the corners. He licked his lips. He swallowed his sweat. He repeated whatever was asked. When he finally did find his voice, it wavered enough to announce the panic that was otherwise hidden beneath his concealed bravado.
The truth eventually came out, as the police connected the dots after conducting investigations at the Coffee shop and his office. The two trench coat men at the coffee shop were amateur actors rehearsing for a play graciously called “The Red Deer Legacy,” which was about to premiere at the Irish Classic Theater Co., which opened its doors in January of 1999, in Buffalo, NY. The other two trench men at the Parade were the special agents protecting the deer loaned from the New York City Zoo. Guest what: one tall and bony, and the other round and shiny.
According to the FBI report, there is a statistical principle stating that the probability of observing more than one tall individual along with at least one chubby person approaches nearly 100% as the number of people observed exceeds one hundred (Feller, 1968). This directly relates to the concept known as the union bound in probability theory (Boole, 1854). It provides the theoretical basis that as the number of independent opportunities (people encountered) increases, the greater the chance of observing rare traits on them, like similar mustaches and the coincidental wearing of sunglasses.
Furthermore, the “Spirit Bomb” was the CD with the specific songs with which the “Fia Rua” had been trained for Parades. The “device” was a miniature receptor, allowing the Red Deer to hear the music instead of the loud voices of those attending the event. But for the play, the device referred to the electronic unit called “Drape’s Device” which would lower curtains automatically with different landscapes of Ireland. Luxembourg was an inside joke from the director of the theatrical group after an actor’s flop. The napkin? A running prank from the coffee shop staff. The barista was friends with the actors and advised them to be alert, because Reuben had a history of overhearing gossip and blurting them to the wrong people.
Ultimately, the Buffalo Police Department released him from the precinct's holding cell—a cramped ten-by-ten cube reeking of disinfectant and stale coffee—after making him sign a declaration with its yellow carbon-copy contract promising to stay at least 100 meters from all subsequent Parades in Buffalo. Reuben swore to keep his head down, fingers crossed behind his back, even as he nodded solemnly at the desk sergeant's warning glare. However, that vow lasted exactly three weeks—until he overheard two strangers in the Suds 'n Duds laundromat, hunched between rumbling industrial dryers, whispering about "The Italian Protocol."
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REFERENCES
Boole, G. (1854). An investigation of the laws of thought, on which are founded the
mathematical theories of logic and probabilities. Walton and Maberly.
Boole, G. (2003). An investigation of the laws of thought, on which are founded the mathematical theories of logic and probabilities (Reprint of the 1854 ed.). Dover Publications.
Feller, W. (1968). An introduction to probability theory and its applications (Vol. 1, 3rd ed.). Wiley.
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