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Thread: Oh God, all I want is a bloody sandwich!

  1. #1

    Oh God, all I want is a bloody sandwich!

    Brief Intro

    So Geb has worn me down. It's time to start a simple, fun, hopefully funny story. I've never posted here apart from being drawn into the occasional bar brawl, so here goes.

    Chapter 1

    Alan arrived home from work late, tired, and alone. The tired and alone are par for the course these days, but the late is a recent addition and a bloody nuisance. Shoes, work bag and the will to carry on are dumped by the front door; to be dealt with another time. He peers at his watch through heavy eyes: it was just gone half one. Not good. Jeremy will want him in the office at 8 sharp, and tonight's overtime will not be an excuse. Alan reaches the only logical conclusion to a man in such a dilemma - to sleep now, fully clothed and worry about it all when the alarm goes off at 6:30. Fully aware that he was to put it in his own words "bloody starving", Alan threw caution to the wind, crossed his blokey little flat and threw himself on the bed with face flat on his pillow. As he drifted off, he didn't particularly think of anything at all. He was that sort of bloke.

  2. #2
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  3. #3
    Alan jolted from his bed when he heard the ravenous mastication. The possibilities haunted his mind, and the waking nightmare pulled him out of his bed, his body gravitating towards the noise in half-fear and half-desire for food. A light glowed from the kitchen, and Alan slowed his approach...

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    The sound stopped. Just as suddenly as Alan had been roused from his bed so too stopped the chewing and slobbering. In its place rose a low howl, and a sort of wet farting sound.

    "Walter!" cried Alan with an exasperated tone, "what are you doing here?!"

    Alan walked briskly to the kitchen to perform the infrequent but unpleasant task of evicting his neighbours' dog, a Stafforshire Bull Terrier. She (yes she) was a monster of a dog but relatively well mannered. Alan noticed something reflective hanging out of her mouth.

    "Walter? Drop it! Drop. It."

    Walter wasn't listening, and continued to munch merrily on what Alan had now figured out was a packet of paracetamol. Alan went for the pills...

  5. #5
    "Why are you feeding my dog psychotropic drugs?" shouted Sharon. Alan's next-door neighbor was out weeding in her garden and had noticed the commotion through Alan's kitchen window.

    "They aren't psychotropics," said Alan, wrenching the bottle away from Walter the girl dog. "It's just a mild pain reliever, or as we say in England, 'paracetamol'."

    Sharon's eyes narrowed and she menaced Alan with her rolling pin. "I'm watching you, Alan. Frankly, selling drugs just isn't cricket and should I discover any further irregularities, well, I shall be forced to alert Scotland Yard!"

    Sharon whistled twice, calling her dog.

    "Come along then Walter. Back to the house, or as we say in England, the 'flat'."
    Last edited by Tracer; 06-18-2009 at 12:32 AM.

  6. #6
    Alan glanced at the stove clock and his heart sank. The whole episode with his neighbour had wasted all of his breakfast time - if he left now he'd just barely make it to work.

    Grumbling, Alan donned his galoshes and jacket and set out down the lane. As he rounded the bend from Bermondsey he heard a loud screeching sound.

    "Oi you! Unhand me purse!" yelled an old lady who was being mugged. A thug was attempting to wrestle away her purse.

    "I say! You there! Unhand that handbag!" shouted Alan, breaking into a run.

    "Aw, crumbs," muttered the punk, who turned tail and fled the scene. Fortunately, just as Alan was about to give chase he noticed a passing Beefeater and flagged him down.

    "Greetings, citizen," said the Beefeater. "How may I beef you?"

  7. #7
    (When it comes to over-the-top British stereotypes, Tracer delivers! )

  8. #8
    "Begging your pardon...officer? Is it?" Unsure of the Beefeater's status as a peace officer, Alan faltered. For his part the Beefeater stared back blankly.

    "Indeed," he replied. "Officer of the beef, as it were."

    "Er, yes," said Alan, who was finding himself somewhat thrown off not just by the beefeater's top hat, frilly collar and puffy pants but also by his all-business, all-beef attitude.

    "As I was saying, begging you pardon but I just witnessed a purse snatching. It was that poor, old woman." Alan pointed at the old lady.

    The beefeater's face contorted into an expression of pure rage. "So there's thievery afoot? Madam, is this true?"

    "He snatched me purse he did!" yelled the old lady.

    "Very well then," said the beefeater, adjusting his hat. "Citizen, it is in the name of the Royal Beefeaters of England that I hereby deputize you as a Junior Beef Officer!"

    "Um, now hold on just a moment," said Alan. "This whole thing seems rather dangerous, and I'm already late for work as it is -"

    "Nonsense!" roared the beefeater. "Criminal activity is the responsibility of every royal subject, and I demand that you fulfill your civic duty to the crown."

    "But I don't -" protested Alan.

    "On pain of a severe beating and subsequent imprisonment in the dreaded Tower of London!"

    "Isn't that more of a tourist destination?" inquired Alan.

    "To the beefmobile!" responded the beefeater as he ran towards his patrol car dragging the still-protesting Alan behind him.

  9. #9

    Lightbulb Idea!

    Whilst Alan was becoming involved in police matters the excitement was brewing down at the House of Lords. One Mr. Quincy Adams Esquire, the mustachioed American industrialist was visiting to negotiate an important deal with key members of British parliament.

    "Good sir, if you would care to accompany us into the industry minister's chambers," said the aide escorting Mr. Adams.

    "Yes, yes, quite, quite," said Quincy Adams as he followed the functionary into the drawing room.

    "Ah Mr. Adams! What a pleasure it is to finally meet you!" exclaimed Industry Minister Lawrence Haggenbottom as he rose to shake Quincy's hand.

    "Indeed, indeed," replied Quincy, returning the grip. "As we, ah, often say in America, the pleasure is..."

    An awkward silence descended upon the room as Haggenbottom and the aide both waited for the long-winded gentleman to complete his thought. Finally Quincy found his tongue.

    "What was I saying?"

    Haggenbottom and the aide exchanged confused glances.

    "Well, yes. Nevermind," said the minister as the trio took their seats. Haggenbottom shuffled some of the government documents on his mahogany desk and cleared his throat.

    "Now then Mr. Adams, let's cut to the chase, if I may use one of your American terms," began Haggenbottom.

    "Certainly, certainly," said Adams. "Very, ah...apt usage sir. Very apt indeed. Certainly."

    Another excruciating silence followed. Haggenbottom felt unsure how to proceed; was this a clever negotiating tactic?

    "You know," began Quincy, "when I was, ah, in the Army that's how we did it, yes sir."

    "Did what?" asked Haggenbottom, now thoroughly confused.

    "Why, cut to the chase. Of course we had our share of lollygaggers in the, ah, regiment, if you will, so when I addressed the troops I said...now what was it?"

    But before Quincy could continue his rambling diatribe the aide broke into the conversation.

    "Sir, it occurs to me that perhaps Mr. Adams would enjoy sitting in on the parliamentary session. There's plenty of seating available in the gallery."

    Haggenbottom leapt at the opportunity.

    "Good show, Higgins!" he said excitedly.

    "Capital," said Quincy, his top-hatted head bobbing up and down in agreement.

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    Minister Higgens and his American visitor Quincy Adams entered the House of Lords viewing gallery, where the various members of parliament and their opposition colleagues were in mid-debate.

    "Mr. Speaker, I move that the government's tax proposal be put to the vote immediately," said the opposition MP. "I further wish to issue a counter-proposal that the honourable finance minister is ugly." The MP took his seat to a chorus of boos from the government and a round of applause from his party.

    The finance minister stood and raising his voice to be heard over the hubub said, "My dear Mr. Speaker, I, the honourable minister of finance wish to counter the finance critic's counter-proposal with my own proposal." He cleared his throat and continued, "I move that I demand satisfaction and challenge the honourable finance critic to a duel fought with the weapon of his choosing wherefore we may settle the issue once and for all like gentlemen upon the field of battle yay or nay."

    This proposal was met with applause from both parties as the members hollered their assent.

    "Very well," said Mr. Speaker, who opened a massive leather-bound book and with a quill pen wrote down the details of the impending scrap. "Let the duel be so noted." Finishing his notes he replaced the pen in it's inkwell and closed the tome. "Now then, on to the next issue: the hospital levy."

    The British health minister rose to deliver his remarks but before he could begin the British health critic sprang to his feet.

    "Mr. Speaker," said the health critic, "having already read the honourable minister's report I wish to humbly suggest that he save his breath because I can already tell you that I find his report on the matter preposterous to the highest degree. In point of fact I shall go so far as to say I find it personally insulting and demand the opportunity to exact satisfaction upon my opposite number in government."

    "Oh yes," responded the health minister, who at this point had to shout to be heard, "There will be satisfaction my good sir, there will indeed!"

    At this point it was becoming somewhat difficult to make out the various threats being issued by the two members of parliament because of all the cries of "DUEL! DUEL!" and "SATISFACTION" ringing through the chamber.

    "An additional duel to be fought this evening by health minister and counterpart," said the Mr. Speaker, writing the information into his duel book. "Very good, very good."

    The speaker consulted his schedule. "I see that the junior member from Abbotsfordshire has the floor next."

  11. #11
    ((This story is great so far! Sorry I have nothing good to add to it, but I wanted to at least say that much.))

  12. #12
    I forget where I was going with this, but whatever.

  13. #13
    hi, "Very well," said Mr.Speaker,who opened a massive leather-bound book and with a quill pen wrote down the details of the impending scrap
    MichaeL

  14. #14
    You plagarised my works.

  15. #15
    Meanwhile in the beefmobile Alan and his new beefeater friend were in hot pursuit of the would-be purse snatcher.

    "I must say I never realized that being a beefeater was such a serious job," said Alan, who was finding the whole situation rather strange.

    "Indeed, my dear chap," said the beefeater. "There's much more to the badge than just eating beef."

    "Say, you wouldn't happen to have any spare morsels, would you? I got caught up in all the excitment and missed breakfast."

    The beefeater glared at Alan.

    "Beef rations are for beefeater personnel only."

    "Oh, I see," said Alan. "Jolly good then."

    The beefmobile was speeding through London town, passing by the great Thames river. The parliament buildings were coming into view, and Alan could see the politicians assembled on the front lawn.

    "I wonder what the commotion is," said Alan.

    "Most likely a duel, I expect," opined the beefeater.

    "A duel? Really?" said Alan.

    "Oh certainly," said the beefeater, giving Alan a questioning look. "Every schoolchild knows that British politics runs on duelling."

    "I don't really read the papes," said Alan sheepishly.

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