Larry and Mick and the Coleslaw Catastrophe pt1
To Vicky, who confessed to the author of having ‘lost the plot’ with coleslaw before.
It was a day like any other.
The coleslaw delivery van was travelling up the M5.
By a terrible coincidence, the hummus lorry was travelling in the opposite direction.
None could foretell the disaster that was about to ensue.
“Ay up,” said Larry as he gazed pensively at his iPad screen. “Something’s afoot.”
“Sorry,” said Mick, as he moved his foot away from Larry’s.
“Thank you, friend Mick,” said Larry. “But lookee here.”
“Lookee here where?,” said Mick.
“At yon iPad.”
“What dost thou see?”
“A potential cataclysm, Mick.”
“Are you perchance viewing traffic cams on northbound and southbound portions of the M5 motorway?”
“Um... something like that.”
“And what dost thou see?”
“A potential calamity, Mick.”
“I am experiencing déjà vu.”
During the following pause, a cat yowled, a goose honked, a passing elderly gentleman coughed and, inexplicably, a theremin whizzed, wooshed and plunked in the distance.
“We must do something, friend Mick!”
“But what can we, two humble gentleman, who’s style and manner doth not befit adequate description or indeed definition, possibly, as you say, ‘do,’ about an admittedly conjecturable condimentary catastrophe?”
“We can formulate a strategy!”
“A plan! A procedure! A proposal! A project!”
“Anything that doesn’t begin with ‘p’?”
“Um... a document of intention?”
“Then we shall do so!”
Whilst Larry Lampshade and Mick Mastodon made notes on a napkin and doodled on a doily, the coleslaw delivery driver nibbled on nachos and supped on a stein of squash.
“10-4, 10-4,” he said into his CB rig. “This is Slippery Salamander, sliding down the chicken run, on the lookout for little green men with a yen for a hen called Ken. Over.”
Which was followed swiftly by the response: “Stop talking crap and get yourself home for your tea!”
“Oh God, Mom, will you stop hogging the bandwidth?!”
“Don’t be so disgusting! You’ve gotten a filthy mouth on you since you started delivering that slop.”
“It’s not slop, Mom, it’s coleslaw.”
“What was that, you’ve got a cold sore?”
“You know I didn’t say that, Mom.”
“I’ve told you, it’s those French girls you’ve been kissing.”
“I haven’t kissed any Fr-... wait... why’s that lorry on my side of the road?”
The hummus lorry looked like it didn’t have a driver.
Fortuitously Larry and Mick were situated inside the McDonald’s at the motorway services by junction something-or-other, roughly halfway between the current locations of the coleslaw delivery van and the hummus lorry, dipping fries into their milkshakes whilst pondering the potential problem before them, so upon consuming the last few remaining potato-based comestibles, slurping up their milkshakes, wiping the corners of their mouths with their napkins, folding and carefully disposing of their doilies, having a wee and popping on their smoking jackets, they dashed out of the branch of the popular fast food restaurant, hurtled towards the nearby pedestrian bridge which spanned the M5, hotfooted it onto such, awaited the swift arrival of the hummus lorry, said a quick prayer to the Invisible Pink Unicorn, then leapt onto the cabin of said lorry and proceeded to bang on the windshield of such, the intent of said action being to wake the incumbent driver therein, whose state of unconsciousness rendered her invisible to the confounded peepers of fellow motorists - that is to say, the optical organs of the coleslaw delivery driver, whose vehicle was approaching most expeditiously, but who was thankfully, at present, the only other motorist currently in the vicinity.
“Wake up!,” said Larry and Mick, in a manner of utmost urgency, whilst banging most frantically upon the windshield. “Wake up!,” they then said again. And, “Wake up!,” a third time.
“Hnnngfffrzmb?,” said the hummus delivery driver, who had been on the G&Ts the night before, so was really in no fit state to be transporting substantial quantities of hummus or indeed any chickpea-based paste.
“Wake up, you fool!,” said Larry.
“Or there’s going to be a Coleslaw Catastrophe!,” said Mick.
“Or indeed a Hummus Catastrophe!,” said Larry.
“Although Coleslaw Catastrophe sounds better, on account of the alliteration!,” said Mick.
“Wha-?,” said the hummus delivery driver. Then, as she became aware of the reason for the sense of urgency of the two men who were shouting and banging on the windshield of her lorry, as it caromed quite a bit past the speed limit along the motorway... “Oh Parmesan pantaloons on Pluto! Ooh my head...”
She took the wheel, she swerved onto the hard shoulder, she brought the hummus lorry to a hair-raising halt, then the coleslaw delivery van whizzed past, but not before the hummus delivery driver (who was quite good at lip-reading) noticed a few choice 15-rated verbal slippages emerge from the gob of the driver of said vehicle.
“Ooh my head...” said the hummus delivery driver again.
It took quite an effort for Larry and Mick to not make comment upon the relative states of their bashed and battered bonces.
Back in McDonald’s...
“Well that was a close one,” said Larry.
“Indeed it was,” said Mick.
“I think we deserve a trip to the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co* in Mexico,” said Larry.
“I think we do,” said Mick.
As the coleslaw delivery driver regained his composure and continued towards his destination, he was unaware that something stirred amongst the several tonnes of coleslaw in the back of his van.
[ to be continued (maybe) ]
Inspired by the aforementioned confession of Vicky and, in part, by this: