A Few Sandwiches Short Of A Picnic (Part One)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

It was late afternoon and Greasy Joe's was almost empty, so the clutch of lorry drivers sitting at the table under the window that they regarded as their sovereign territory were free to misbehave. Not that their behaviour was particularly good when the café was full, but Joe Hopkins, the proprietor, could be a bit of a bastard when he had a mind to and sometimes he threatened to bar the miscreants. He could afford to bar even regular customers, and he had done so on several occasions in the past when folk had been a real nuisance, because though there was a motorway service station just a couple of miles away the prices were way too steep for the low paid, rough and ready characters that frequented his humble establishment.

“It's a bit fuckin' nippy out there, lads,” Wally said, sitting down and briskly rubbing his hands together after he had ordered an all-day Full English Breakfast with extra toast and a mug of tea. “It's the end of March, whatever 'appened to global warmin'? We should be wearin' Bermuda shorts an' sunglasses, sittin' outside catchin' some rays an' lickin' ninety nines by now. Oh, Joe, I forgot to mention,” he shouted over his shoulder as he scratched his unkempt beard. “I want me tea so watery it looks like washing up water an' tastes like gnats' piss, I want me toast burned to a crisp, me eggs that black I can't tell the difference between them an' me slices of black puddin', me bacon resemblin' somethin' the cat's dragged in an' only 'alf killed an' me fried tomatoes lookin' like I don't know what.”

“Shut the fuck up Wally, you wally,” Joe replied. “I know you're about to say that's what yer snap was like yesterday, you say the same damned thing every day, but you know very well it wasn't – a meal fit for a king I cook you arse-'oles day in an' day out.”

“To tell the truth, Joe, my tomatoes tasted a bit salty an' cheesy,” Stan said from behind his copy of the Daily Sport. “I reckon you swilled yer riffy cock out in the juice just 'cos you don't like me.”

“Shut your gob, you dirty bastard,” Joe called as he turned over a row of spam fritters on the hotplate. “You're a few sandwiches short of a picnic, you are – all the lights are on but no fucker's at 'ome, there are no spots on yer dominoes, your - ”

“My pork an' 'oss sausages 'ave got an un'ealthy patina,” Gideon interrupted. “They're an unnatural, totally unsausagelike shade of cack brown that leads me to suspect that you've been playin' 'ide the sausage with 'em up yer sweaty, fat bum-'ole while nobody was lookin',” he continued, desperately trying to contain his mirth.

“Yeah, right,” Joe grunted, unable to come up with a suitable answer for that one. “You're a few sandwiches short of a picnic as well.”

“I wasn't gonna say 'owt, Joe,” Stinky Pete added, “bein' a nice bloke 'oo doesn't like makin' a fuss, but my black puddin' tasted fuck all like black puddin'. It tasted like I'd expect warmed up, reconstituted ferret crap to taste like – you know, like the friggin' 'oss burgers the supermarkets an' kebab shops get away with sellin'.”

“Fuck you, Stinky, you scabby leper,” Joe said, pointing his spatula at Stinky Pete. “Now cork it an' bloody well be'ave yourselves, the lot of you'. I'm expectin' some special guests soon, top fuckin' totty, the lot of 'em. Ideally I'd like you lot outta 'ere, I'd like you a million miles away at the very least, locked in a deep, dark dungeon if necessary, but my VIP's said that they wanna experience the seedy side of life, they wanna meet a few real low-life scum-bags an' shit-'eads, an' I can't think of anybody lower an' shittier than you lot. Don't get upsettin' 'em, mind, it's about time we 'ad a few nice girls in 'ere.....”

“Girls, in a dirty, cholesterol rich, salmonella breedin' shit-'ole like this?” Gideon said. “I don't soddin' believe it. Why would girls wanna come in 'ere? Especially nice 'uns. A born bloody liar, you are, 'Opkins, you're just tryin' to get us goin'. I wouldn't put it past you to pay a few dirty old old slappers to pop in, see if we'll shag 'em in the karzey an' catch syphilis so that you can laugh your friggin' tits off when our cocks start drippin' green slime, our wives divorce us an' we end up in the gutter.”

“Less of the dirty,” Joe mumbled. “This place is as clean as a new pin, 'an you know it. Anyway, prepare to eat your words, dick-breath, 'cos my princesses are 'ere, 'an like all princesses they've arrived in style.”

The four truckers fell silent as a sky blue vintage Yankee car pulled up in front of Greasy Joe's - Stan even put his Daily Sport down so that he wouldn't miss anything. The chauffeur climbed out and circled the highly polished vehicle opening doors for the four delectable women it contained. “If I ain't mistaken that's a vintage Cadillac,” Wally said. “It's like somethin' out of Bugsy Malone, only it ain't black.....”

“'Oly shit, those birds 'ave got fuck all on considerin' the soddin' weather,” Stan managed to splutter. “'Oo are they, Joe? They're crackers, every last one of 'em.”

“You'll find out in good time,” Joe replied. One of the women, a tall, willowy black girl, whispered something in the chauffeur’s ear. The powerfully built man, who looked like he might have been a bodyguard as well as a chauffeur, nodded his head, lit a cigarette and leaned against the bonnet as the women sauntered over to the café, oozing confidence.

“I don't believe my eyes,” Stinky Pete said.

“Well you'd better start trustin' the fuckers,” Gideon muttered, “'cos it's true, believe me - four beautiful, immaculately dressed young women are indeed entering Greasy Joe's.”