The sad end of a mysoginist.

(or is it?)

As Quinto stumbled through Penistone road after doing another fatty blunt-batastic, he thought that it all was a little too silly for his liking.

He wondered, for a moment, what would he do if the jetpack he was promised by a Scottish band had arrived. He would probably be happy to stop climbing that deadly hill that is the road to Crookes.

Heart attack before 40, here comes Quinto.

“I’m not a billy goat” he thought to himself, on a very William Hartnell-esque voice. Still, he soldiered through and arrived to Sloucher Towers with a freshly done, greasy, artery-clogging kebab from Northern Sole.

He’s a fan. And he has history with someone from there.

Alas, there was not a soul in Sloucher.org Towers.

“Where is everyone?” he thought to himself. “It’s almost the first anniversary of the site and no one has sent anything…should I do summink? Nah, dig into the kebab and watch Black Books”.

After finishing his square meal, Quinto picked his chalupa shaped telephone (he’s quirkier than Juno) and dialled Sam The Spam.

-Bonjour?

-You’re not Bullet Tooth Tony nor Vinny Jones, fat feck, so drop it. Not funny.

-It is to me, Quintus. What’s up? What took you so long?

-Been a long one.

-It’s always a long walk every where here in Sheffield. You ok?

-Yeah, sorta went hungry on the way up and thought I wouldn’t make it to Northern Sole, so I there I was, ready to give up and regenerate, when all of a sudden I saw a tin of meat.

-Dude…

-Who cares if it was opened? I went through it. It was bits with gravy or summink.

-Dude…cat food?

-Don’t knock it ’til you try it, Samster.

-Wait, where did you find said can?

-Conduit road, near the landscape and architecture building.

-You worthless turd, that’s Guantecito’s food!

-…Guantecito’s?

-Yeah, one of the little black cats with white paws in that road.

-Little? I’ve seen the gang of cats. The cat has a tabby on each side of the road, sentry-like. And they are massive. They look like the Beast of Exmoor.

-You bastard! You stole their meal.

-Could be worse. Thank heavens I didn’t see a bin near.

-Dude…

-Too soon?

-Animal cruelty is never fun.

-Oi, says the guy who laughs at the kitten scene in “Brothers Grimm”.

-Don’t mess with the Gilliam, Q.

-The Pythons are smug, sophomoric humour.

-Sorry, we all can’t like Peep Show.

-Ah, one day you’ll get the brilliance of Mitchell & Webb.

-Dunno, you tried getting me into The Beatles and The Rolling Stones and failed. Miserably, I might add.

-Aye, you and my ex-wife never got it…

-Fine +2 pts.

Quinto played around with a bottle of Gaymer’s. Then opened it with his teeth, spilled some on his wifebeater and started swigging from the bottle.

-So, what’s new on the site, Spammer?

-We got a couple of reviews, a new free cd, a couple of close calls with brick walls and a I’ve broken the “no anorak stuff” a few dozen times.

-Shit. You paying kebabs.

-Northern Sole?

-Only place, perra. Gotta see my girl. Wasn’t in today.

-She don’t work there no more, Q man.

Ah, story of my life. I find someone as beautiful as Marisa Tomei and she goes away, with BBQ sauce and mushy peas and a secret smile y así.

-Say, Quinto, I think I should inform you the lawyers from No Kids have been sending subpoenas.

-We still milking that?

-Aye. Oh, and we got some hate mail about your “go make me a sandwich” remark.

-Feminazis. Never mind them.

-We might need to clear that one up. Remember the last time?

-Oh, yeah, they almost tore you a new one.

-I still wish for the day when you stop making me the patsy.

-That’ll be the day I stop paying you lot.

-We get paid?

-Nah, I’ll spend it all in Fed Ex ing this red sweater back.

-Cool, Q.

Quinto (that is I, the narrator, tricky device, eh?) smelled the sweater, caught a whiff of some high powered Jamaican Smokezilla (TM) combined with rabbit blood and decided that maybe it would be best to wash it before leaving it for the Fed Ex man.

-Say, any news on the monster truck rally at the Botanical Gardens? Still need to save the world.

-Yes, still tomorrow, 11 am. Sharp.

-Ok doks, enough time to finish a few bottles and save the world. With a migraine.

-Yeah, yeah, heard it all before.

Sam hung up and Quinto was left to think about life. He looked at the now blurry, half empty bottle of cider and, well, contrary to what his cirrhosis-stricken uncle said, he has still to find the solution to every single woe at the bottom of a bottle.

Still, if at first you don’t succeed…

So Quinto (that’s me) finished the cider, got out a bottle of Southern Comfort and downed the fecker whilst watching that first episode of the second series of Life on Mars. There’s something about that particular episode that struck a deep cut in his black heart.

Quinto goes to sleep while half singing a ditty about whisky and gin. The one some gorilla sang once at The Grapes. I’m sure I have a cause to remember, but my memory serves to no effect.

Then Sunday came and Quinto decided to switch to first person narrative to waffle his article.

I wake up when the bell at the church tolls. This is followed by a procession of churchgoers who are still cross at me parading myself in me Spiderman boxers by the window.

C’mon, you Bible thumpers. You pray to a guy in less clothing than me nailed to a few planks. So…yeah.

I get myself quick snap to the Botanical Gardens, well armed with a cudgel, a bag of balloons (party balloons, not condoms) and a bottle of alcopop that I finish and discard on top of someone’s garden gnome.

God, I hate those pieces of crap as much as I hate Dawkins, the smug. I also hate religion in general. I’m an equally opportunity hater. Or so said my ex-wife.

So, Botanical Gardens and Sheffield’s Annual Monster Truck Rally is ready to start. I wonder to myself if the thing shouldn’t be called Sheffield’s Annual Monster LORRY Rally. But I digress.

I check out that chick that looks like Wednesday Addams checkin’ me out. Must be my musk. Which is Hai Karate. Chicks dig Hai Karate.

Before I approach and go for my womanly-way-defeating-approach, I feel I need to feed my inner tapeworm (!) and make myself scarce. Destination? That sandwich shop in Ecclesall Road, the one that sells the Full Monty.

On the way, a ninja shows up. I beat him, quick snap. Then a Nazi comes out. I go for the Dunkirk spirit, stiff my upper lip and run like Sir Robin (the coward). No soiling of myself. Then a Pots and Pans robots appear, but I use my Sonic Screwdriver. Thanks, you plasticus ex machina. Then a dinosaur appears and I declare that this bit was too silly and too similar to Family Guy.

So I went into the sandwich shop. The woman behind the counter looks familiar. Her name is Brenda (I think). Her skin is orange with a thousand fake tan bleaches and she seems highly cross at me.

Feck it, I’m a paying customer. And probably one of her exlovers. I can’t keep track of all these birds.

“How are you, love?”

“I’m not ‘love’, I’m Monty…”

I tell her to make me a Utah Bap, some cheese fries and a Coke. She knows I always ask for this.

“I never serve that, ‘love’”

“But…I always come here for this…”

Then I realised…the woman behind the counter… WAS THE IMPOSTOR!

Actually, no, she hit me in the head with a big chunk of jamón serrano. The last thing I remember before going into a cold, hard concussion is:

“That’s what you get for saying I should shut up and make you a sandwich, you jerk!”

Everything goes dark…

(to be continued)

Words : Sam and Quinto.

This writing references: We Were Promised Jetpacks, Marisa Tomei, Crookes, Sheffield topography fail, Mittens, Doctor Who (Doctors 1, 5, 10 and 11), Electric Six, Black Books, Family Guy, Snatch, Monty Python, The Brothers Grimm, Terry Gilliam, No Kids, Cause & Effect, The Unfortunate Incident, Self-referential, Full Monty.

About the authors: ROADHOUSE!