Sean the Blade
Member
Fat Les sat fidgeting in the Fat-Cave, anxiously waiting for the Fat-Phone to ring… he’d ordered the pizza over forty minutes ago, it should be here by now!
Suddenly, the telephone buzzed into life, flashing red and casting a shadow of Les over the Fat-Cave… all over the Fat-Cave. He snatched the phone from the cradle “You’re here thank god, leave the pizza in the dumb waiter, the money’s in the purse and don’t forget the change”
“Hello? Hello? Is that you Fat Man?”
“Yes, is that you Commissioner Wilkinson, what are you doing? I’ve told you not to call me on this number, this is the Dominoes Hotline. Why didn’t you use the Les-er Beam?”
“Sorry Fat Man, there’s no cloud cover to beam the message on to AND they’ve cut off the electric, I’ve sent Sergeant Irvine out to siphon some diesel for the generator”
As Commissioner Wilkinson spoke there was a knock at the Fat-Cave door “PIZZA DELIVERY, PIZZA DELIVERY, COME ON I DON’T HAVE ALL NIGHT”
“Listen Fat man, we have a real problem here…” Fat Les edged towards the door “we just can’t seem to sell any season tickets…” the telephone cables and Les’ hand stretched to their limit but he was unable to reach the handle “the public just don’t seem excited about division three football…”
“ALRIGHT, I’M LEAVING AND TAKING YOUR PIZZA TOO, YOUR ADDRESS WILL BE BLACKLISTED, WE’LL NEVER DELIVER AGAIN!” Fat Les made one last desperate swipe for the door handle, missed and collapsed on the floor to the sound of the departing moped engine “Commissioner Wilkinson, I’m on my way, order me a pizza, I’ll be there with best speed… a family meat feast please”
Fat Les leaped into his wardrobe and changed into his secret alter-ego Fat Man, the black, web patterned, lycra strained against his considerable frame which it barely contained as he sprinted out of the Fat-Cave, to the tram stop. “How long till the next tram sir?” he asked the elderly gent “baht five minutes lad” Fat Man tapped his foot with impatience, it was almost an hour since he’d last eaten, he pined for the pizza he’d been cheated out of, his stomach growled aggressively “That’s some outfit lad” commented the gent.
“ta”
“I think I know who you are”
“Really” replied Fat Man, he loved this bit.
“I’ve seen thee on’t telly”
“Yes” Fat Man swelled (further)
“and ‘eard thee on’t wireless”
“Many times”
“You’re that Noel Edmunds aren’t tha, tha’s doin one of thi pranks”
Fat Man found a quiet corner on the tram and checked the adjustment and contents of the utility strap-on: rope, check, hand-cuffs, check, cagoule, check, mega-rider ticket, check, emergency sausage roll, che… Wait where was it? It was gone, then he remembered, he’d eaten it when he got peckish after breakfast… ‘keeps hunger locked up till lunchtime’ MY ARSE! He thought. He pondered whether he had time to stop off and replenish at Greggs as the tram laboured uphill.
The Greggs bags weighed heavily in his hands as he waddled through the Hillsborough stadium car park, in his mind’s eye he pictured the scenes of massed Wednesday throngs, heard the roar of the crowd… the smell of the burger vans, those were the glory days indelibly printed in his memory, and on his betamax. The not so distant rumble of thunder woke him from his day dream “OH NO, A STORM!” within seconds he was caught in a raging torrent of water. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the current swept him from his feet and pulled him inexorably toward the whirling vortex formed by the water being drained into an open sewer “NOOOO!” yelled Fat Man. A slurping thud signalled that Fat Man had been dragged into the open drain and now soundly plugged Hillsborough’s only drain.
Commissioner Wilkinson turned on the TV in the stand high above the flood water, just as Harry Gration closed his piece to camera “… as rescue workers work tirelessly to lever this hapless superhero from the drain, Hillsborough remains underwater” the camera pans away from Harry and focuses on Fat Man holding two carriers in the air yelling “SAVE THE PIES, FORGET ME, SAVE THE PASTRY!”
Suddenly, the telephone buzzed into life, flashing red and casting a shadow of Les over the Fat-Cave… all over the Fat-Cave. He snatched the phone from the cradle “You’re here thank god, leave the pizza in the dumb waiter, the money’s in the purse and don’t forget the change”
“Hello? Hello? Is that you Fat Man?”
“Yes, is that you Commissioner Wilkinson, what are you doing? I’ve told you not to call me on this number, this is the Dominoes Hotline. Why didn’t you use the Les-er Beam?”
“Sorry Fat Man, there’s no cloud cover to beam the message on to AND they’ve cut off the electric, I’ve sent Sergeant Irvine out to siphon some diesel for the generator”
As Commissioner Wilkinson spoke there was a knock at the Fat-Cave door “PIZZA DELIVERY, PIZZA DELIVERY, COME ON I DON’T HAVE ALL NIGHT”
“Listen Fat man, we have a real problem here…” Fat Les edged towards the door “we just can’t seem to sell any season tickets…” the telephone cables and Les’ hand stretched to their limit but he was unable to reach the handle “the public just don’t seem excited about division three football…”
“ALRIGHT, I’M LEAVING AND TAKING YOUR PIZZA TOO, YOUR ADDRESS WILL BE BLACKLISTED, WE’LL NEVER DELIVER AGAIN!” Fat Les made one last desperate swipe for the door handle, missed and collapsed on the floor to the sound of the departing moped engine “Commissioner Wilkinson, I’m on my way, order me a pizza, I’ll be there with best speed… a family meat feast please”
Fat Les leaped into his wardrobe and changed into his secret alter-ego Fat Man, the black, web patterned, lycra strained against his considerable frame which it barely contained as he sprinted out of the Fat-Cave, to the tram stop. “How long till the next tram sir?” he asked the elderly gent “baht five minutes lad” Fat Man tapped his foot with impatience, it was almost an hour since he’d last eaten, he pined for the pizza he’d been cheated out of, his stomach growled aggressively “That’s some outfit lad” commented the gent.
“ta”
“I think I know who you are”
“Really” replied Fat Man, he loved this bit.
“I’ve seen thee on’t telly”
“Yes” Fat Man swelled (further)
“and ‘eard thee on’t wireless”
“Many times”
“You’re that Noel Edmunds aren’t tha, tha’s doin one of thi pranks”
Fat Man found a quiet corner on the tram and checked the adjustment and contents of the utility strap-on: rope, check, hand-cuffs, check, cagoule, check, mega-rider ticket, check, emergency sausage roll, che… Wait where was it? It was gone, then he remembered, he’d eaten it when he got peckish after breakfast… ‘keeps hunger locked up till lunchtime’ MY ARSE! He thought. He pondered whether he had time to stop off and replenish at Greggs as the tram laboured uphill.
The Greggs bags weighed heavily in his hands as he waddled through the Hillsborough stadium car park, in his mind’s eye he pictured the scenes of massed Wednesday throngs, heard the roar of the crowd… the smell of the burger vans, those were the glory days indelibly printed in his memory, and on his betamax. The not so distant rumble of thunder woke him from his day dream “OH NO, A STORM!” within seconds he was caught in a raging torrent of water. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the current swept him from his feet and pulled him inexorably toward the whirling vortex formed by the water being drained into an open sewer “NOOOO!” yelled Fat Man. A slurping thud signalled that Fat Man had been dragged into the open drain and now soundly plugged Hillsborough’s only drain.
Commissioner Wilkinson turned on the TV in the stand high above the flood water, just as Harry Gration closed his piece to camera “… as rescue workers work tirelessly to lever this hapless superhero from the drain, Hillsborough remains underwater” the camera pans away from Harry and focuses on Fat Man holding two carriers in the air yelling “SAVE THE PIES, FORGET ME, SAVE THE PASTRY!”
