Berni
04-28-2014, 02:33 PM
The two protagonists, stripped to the waist and squaring off outside The Woodbine.
Monty, oiled, depilated and gym-honed, looks like a Greek God in the back of a spoon. Nic, on the other hand, looks like he’s wearing an old, grey jumper that got washed at too high a temperature.
“You bluddy insult my muvvah, innit, you bloddy bosstud! I make you disappear in London!” Nic bellows, displaying both an aggression and wit hitherto unsuspected in the ancient Greek.
Monty slowly realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew.
Nic flies at him like all the Furies, pummelling the young gourmand with his tiny, hairy fists. As each blow lands, Nic roars the name of a member of the first Arsenal team he ever watched. “Drake! *thud* “Bastin!” *thud* “Compton” *thud*, etc, etc.
Monty can take the blows singly, but their sheer volume is too much for him. He vainly tries to fend them off, but enough go home to let him know he’s going down. Nic’s walking regimen has clearly paid dividends –his fitness is unbelievable in a man his age.
Then comes an idea: “DUCK!” he shouts. “What type?” says Nic, his swarthy noggin swivelling as he checks the skies. Monty takes his chance, braining Nic with the copy of ‘When Football Was Football’ magnum opus he always keeps to hand to prove he is *actually* an author.
The blow is true. So much so that the word’ ARSENAL’ is clearly imprinted – albeit backwards - on Nic’s saturnine forehead. The older man sags. As his eyes dim, he sees his reflection in the pub window. “’ARSENAL’,” his failing brain registers. A beatific smile creeps over his face. He slips to his knees. He dies happy.
“Oh, lumme!”, thinks Monty. “This is the last thing I need on top of the motoring fine.” He flees into the dusk.
The crowd disperses.
FIN
Monty, oiled, depilated and gym-honed, looks like a Greek God in the back of a spoon. Nic, on the other hand, looks like he’s wearing an old, grey jumper that got washed at too high a temperature.
“You bluddy insult my muvvah, innit, you bloddy bosstud! I make you disappear in London!” Nic bellows, displaying both an aggression and wit hitherto unsuspected in the ancient Greek.
Monty slowly realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew.
Nic flies at him like all the Furies, pummelling the young gourmand with his tiny, hairy fists. As each blow lands, Nic roars the name of a member of the first Arsenal team he ever watched. “Drake! *thud* “Bastin!” *thud* “Compton” *thud*, etc, etc.
Monty can take the blows singly, but their sheer volume is too much for him. He vainly tries to fend them off, but enough go home to let him know he’s going down. Nic’s walking regimen has clearly paid dividends –his fitness is unbelievable in a man his age.
Then comes an idea: “DUCK!” he shouts. “What type?” says Nic, his swarthy noggin swivelling as he checks the skies. Monty takes his chance, braining Nic with the copy of ‘When Football Was Football’ magnum opus he always keeps to hand to prove he is *actually* an author.
The blow is true. So much so that the word’ ARSENAL’ is clearly imprinted – albeit backwards - on Nic’s saturnine forehead. The older man sags. As his eyes dim, he sees his reflection in the pub window. “’ARSENAL’,” his failing brain registers. A beatific smile creeps over his face. He slips to his knees. He dies happy.
“Oh, lumme!”, thinks Monty. “This is the last thing I need on top of the motoring fine.” He flees into the dusk.
The crowd disperses.
FIN