Thursday, 1 November 2012

The Pisses

Once upon a time, on the edge of mystical Snowdonia, stood a stone cottage.  It wasn't grand by any means, but it was cosy and homely.  It nestled against a rocky hillside, looking out on a vast valley of pines.  Blue smoke curled from its chimney and mingled with the languid mist, waiting patiently for its owners to return home from their expedition.  Suddenly, the bucolic hush was shattered by Roger Whittaker whistling like a possessed kettle as a dark blue car pulled up outside.  It was the headquarters of Coyote and Roadrunner; two intrepid travellers who harboured the curiosity of a thousand cats.  They were also fond of catnip, but weren't very good at walking on this is where the comparison with cats must end.

Roadrunner eagerly threw herself out of the car and stood looking at the garage up the road.  Her nose twitched.  Coyote rounded the car and slipped a loving arm around her shoulders.  'He's gone home, Roadrunner,' he soothed.  'He'll be back tomorrow morning, though.  Don't be sad!'
     Her shoulders dropped and she trudged up the steps to the front door, leaving Coyote to lug the Pimm's and Space Raiders inside.

Later that evening, they sat on the floor playing Scrabble by candlelight.  There wasn't a power cut; they just liked being able to make animal shadows whenever they liked.  Coyote was particularly good at casting shadows of honey badgers.  Roadrunner scrutinised the Scrabble board.  'I don't think that's allowed,' she frowned.  'It is!' Coyote protested.  'Everybody knows what a Qozxjym is!  And it's a triple word score.  Tot it up.'
     Just as Roadrunner began counting on her toes, there was a flash of light outside.  It was a torch.  She sprang to her feet and ran to the window, beaming from ear-to-ear.  Sure enough, she was greeted by the sight that her heart longed to see.  A man with a white beard and blue overalls was slowly walking down the road, carrying a plastic 4-pint milk bottle.  Blue top.  It didn't appear to contain milk, however.  Roadrunner jumped up and down on the spot.  'Coyote...Coyote...IT'S MISTER PISS!' she squealed excitedly.  Coyote crossed to the window and grinned as the man passed by, carrying his container of dubious liquid.  He waved at his back as he disappeared around the corner.  'Hello, Mister Piss!' he smiled.  'Hey,' he turned to Roadrunner, his brow perplexed.  'Where's Furry Piss?' 
'I don't know,' Roadrunner pondered.  'Maybe she's with Fat Piss?'
'Or Niss Piss?' Coyote suggested.
'I think Niss Piss is still at work,' Roadrunner said, looking out at the drizzle that washed silently through the orange street light.  'She works long shifts at the hospissal.' 
They fell silent for a few moments while they mulled over the possibilities.  With a shrug, Coyote gestured to the Scrabble game in progress and they resumed their battle of probably-not-in-the-dictionary words.

The Pisses were nice neighbours.  Mr Piss owned the local garage where he spent his days tinkering...and probably tinkling.  Niss Piss worked at the hospital (probably in the urology department) and Fat Piss - their daughter - was fat.  Furry Piss was their lovely sheepdog.  She liked to go on evening walks with Mr Piss as he toddled between his Piss Garage and Piss House, carrying bottles of...well, what appeared to be...piss.  
     Coyote and Roadrunner didn't know why he pissed into bottles.  They just put it down to a strong work ethic.  The less time he spent walking home to relieve himself, the more pisstons and pisstributors he could fix for his customers.  It made sense.  The only thing they didn't like about him was his vehicle.  It was a BOFpiss.  Not a BOFmobile, you understand...because Mr Piss was not a BOF.  Although the BOFpiss was indeed a black Range Rover with chrome bits and tinted windows, it couldn't be classified as a BOFmobile because no BOF would be seen dead in oil-spattered overalls; let alone pissing into a bottle.

Niss Piss and Fat Piss couldn't look less alike.  Niss Piss was a willowy, grey-haired lady with a gentle manner.  They often saw her elegantly strolling down the road - probably having delivered an empty bottle or two to Mr Piss.  Fat Piss, as has been earlier stated, was fat.  And short.  It should probably be mentioned at this juncture that Coyote and Roadrunner had no evidence of Niss Piss or Fat Piss relieving themselves into bottles - in fact, if you think about it, it'd be a bit difficult for them; being women and all - but they became Pisses by association.  Their dog, Furry Piss, was allowed to piss pretty much everywhere.  Because she was a dog.
     Coyote and Roadrunner had no interest in discovering their real names.  The village they lived in was quiet and they had to make their own entertainment.  One time, someone kidnapped a hamster and held it to ransom; demanding £5 and a Sherbet Fountain from the owner.  This shocking incident made the front page of the local newspapers and people were talking about it for years.  Yes...the village was very quiet.  So quiet, one might say, that you could hear a gnat piss.  Or a mechanic, for that matter.

To be continued...

No comments:

Post a Comment