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Writing Chalk and Cheese


Blayze
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[center][B][U][FONT=Lucida Sans Unicode][SIZE=3]Chalk and Cheese[/SIZE][/FONT][/U][/B]
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Grosvenor-on-Wye: an idyllic, peaceful village in the southeast of England, mainly populated by the elderly and those not quite old enough to be classed as "elderly," but who are too sad to live anywhere else in the fucking country. There is one drinking establishment mainly concerned with the peddling of fine British ales which taste like they're made out of wood, and two shops, mostly catering to the many, many old women who live here. Honestly, it's a wonder we managed to fit in as well as we did.

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[B][U][FONT=Lucida Sans Unicode][SIZE=2]Chapter One: Arrivals[/SIZE][/FONT][/U][/B]
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As soon as my foot hit the cobbles, I knew I was in trouble, and as soon as my Gucci-clad arse slid off the leather seat of the sedan, that feeling was absolutely set in stone. Immediately I felt out of place, my Gucci suit and Armani sunglasses, my expensive haircut and even more expensive cologne, all in a place where it seemed the main fashion accessory was a god-damn colostomy bag.

[B]"Jesus Christ,"[/B] I exclaimed, [B]"This should be a lot of fun."[/B] I sense that maybe Colm recognised that subtle hint of sarcasm in my voice, because almost immediately after Iid said the words, I was treated to a pair of strikes around the head with one of his dinnerplate-sized hands. The enormous gold ring on his middle finger didn't help matters either.

[B]"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, you blasphemous little bastard,"[/B] he said, hauling his fairly extensive bulk out of the car.

[B]"Ok, so when did it become blasphemy to take the Lord's name in vain, but alright to swear like a bleeding docker, Colm? Did I miss the fucking memo?"

"Hey!"[/B] he said, his index finger now a fraction of a centimetre away from my face, [B]"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Do you kiss yours with that one?"

"That's different. You were brought up by fine Irish Catholics. I was brought up by a pair of drunkards who communicated by beating each other about the house."[/B]

[B]"Same thing in the end, I suppose,"[/B] I said, and Colm spluttered into a roaring fit of laughter, his jowelly face turning the same scarlet as his tie. It took him a minute to calm down before he could even talk to me.

[B]"Remember, son,"[/B] he said, wiping the salty tears from the corners of his eyes, [B]"We're here to lay low. You really buggered up that last job, and the Chief wants us to keep quiet for a little while."[/B]

[B]"That's why he sent us to a fucking ghost town?"[/B] I asked, maybe a little too loudly - half the population of the village were currently staring at this "odd couple" that had just invaded their peaceful little lifestyle and started shouting and cursing until the air turned blue.

[B]"Sorry, folks,"[/B] said Colm apologetically, [B]"He's a youngster - doesn't know how to talk around us. Please, carry on about your business." [/B] This seemed to calm the oldies down, and they did as they were ordered.

[B]"For fuck's sake, Dom,"[/B] he hissed at me, [B]"Does "keep a low profile" mean nothing to you?"

"I just don't see why we have to keep a low profile in the fucking Twilight Zone, that's all. Why couldn't he post us in Paris, or Vegas?"

"Because if we were trying to lie low in Vegas you'd get drunk, gamble all our money away and then shoot the place up. I know what you're like, and so does the Chief! That's why he's sent us here. No-one here does anything against the law - there's only one policeman and he's supposed to be almost a hundred years old."[/B]

[B]"Well, surely that means we're gonna stick out like a frigid girl in Belfast. What we do is a little bit against the law, in case you hadn't realised in your sixty odd years doing this fucking job."

"I've been doing this job for thirty-two years, you cheeky little shite,"[/B] Colm snarled, raising his fist and shaking it in that old-timey way that the older generation tend to fall back on, [B]"But don't try to change the subject. Just grab your bags and we'll go settle in, alright? We can finish this in the hotel room."

"Wait..."room"? Singular? There's no fucking way I'm staying in the same room as you for three weeks!"

"What's wrong with staying in the same room as me?"

"You're an old bastard who snores like a bloody earthquake and farts like an erupting volcano. If we share a room for two nights, even, I'm going to have to kill you myself!"

"We have to share a room. The Chief told me to keep an eye on you - how can I do that through a brick wall?"

"Oh, and what the Chief wants, the Chief gets, eh? Tell me, Colm, how long have you been his whipping boy?"[/B]

[B]"I ain't nobody's whipping boy, sonny jim,"[/B] Colm spat, [B]"Me and the Chief are friends, we go way back, that's why I do what he asks, alright?"[/B]

[B]"Fine,"[/B] I said, holding my hands up in that universal gesture for "please don't beat the shite out of me". I grabbed my bags and followed Colm towards the hotel.

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This is my latest little story, just something I came up with on the fly. It's basically an "odd couple" kind of story about two Irish assassins sent to a small English village to lie low after a botched operation. There's going to be funny moments, sexy moments, action-packed moments, so watch this space for updates!

Disclaimer: I do apologise if I've done any kind of a disservice to the Irish - I honestly don't mean to, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you, and in fact you're the British culture I identify most with, more so than even the English, of whom I am one.
Also, Grosvenor-on-Wye is an entirely fictional town, one I totally made up. So don't go pretending like it's a real place.[/SIZE][/FONT]
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[SIZE="1"]The only aspect of that entire story I found in the smallest bit insulting Phil, was when you said Irish culture was a part of British culture, that wounded me deeply. :p

All kidding aside, it's a great story so far Phil. I can't wait to see where you go with this, as it already feels a little "Hot Fuzz" to me. [/SIZE]
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