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For Your Pies Only - 4

6" 5 Scarecrow

By Dr B
May 26 2006

We rejoin our hero on the cusp of selecting his crack team of experts to assist him in bringing to justice the members of the Pussycat Empire: Oz Tin, Dee Kon, Moo Di and Morr Phi. Having taken possession of his new vehicle, Tino, 0007 now must pick his team members from the plethora of talent available to him. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

“You’ll need someone who had a good sense of direction,” Thumper advised. “We’re sending you to the Midlands and you know what happens when Falcons go there ….”

“Nee probs man! Wor Mankey’ll be just the blerk like! Wor French trip last year showed him to be a reet cracka.”

“Mankey?” stuttered Thumper. “I thought Rob would be just the man for the job?”

“Naw Thumpah man, Rob sees things when he travels with wor lads. Planes flyin’ from the sky an’ aal that like. Better he stays here with the hairdryah ah reckon.”

“Mankey it is then,” grinned W, relishing the thought of Ward’s journey to the East Midlands via Ulan Bator.

Micky ignored the look of schadenfreude that crossed W’s face; “Ah’ll need someone taal like cos ah’m only wee and cannat see ower people’s heeds like …”

“Parling?” suggested Thumper.

“Nah man. Ah’m tryin’ tae go inco ….. incag ….. incogfeeto … without bein’ noticed like! Crazylegs looks like wan o’ them hermless people doon bah the Tyne. And his hair man! It’s a disgreyace! Ah’ll tek Grursy, he’s a big buggah and he’s heedin’ doon that way next season anyhow.” Micky shook his head as if trying to clear his mind of the concept of a covert pseudo-military operation involving a six foot five inch scarecrow like Parling.

“Translator?” W was really starting to enjoy this now. An image played across his mind’s eye involving Monkey, Ward, Gross and as yet unnamed companions heading down the A1 and getting as far as Washington Services before Micky got the munchies. Being that far south would mean that Micky would rely heavily on the services of a translator. Asking for a “couple of massive baps, like” south of the Tyne would more likely than not result in someone trying to slap Micky. Then it would all get ugly.

“Erm, aye, ah reckon that wee bairn Noah might do like,” Micky admitted.

“Sorry, you can’t have Flood,” apologised W. “God’s going through a GCSE Chemistry revision paper with him later this afternoon once he’s learned to read.”

Ward thought furiously. Ice ages came and went. Suns sputtered into nuclear life, burned out and died; “Hoos aboot Hergan then? He’s got the gift of the gab annee?”

“Mick? A good choice!” exclaimed Thumper approvingly. “All you’ll need now is someone to manage your wardrobe and some weaponry ..”

“Ah, I’ve got me muscle vest here. That’ll do woneit?”

“It’s not like Tyneside down there 0007,” sighed W, “you’ll need some proper clothes on for the harsh Midlands climate.”

“P-r-o-p-e-r c-l-e-r-t-h-e-s?” This obviously didn’t come naturally to Ward.

“We’ll send Alison down with you,” barked Thumper, “she can try out all the new ranges of merchandise on you before we stick ‘em in the shop in August!”

“Righty ho!” Micky was ready to go. After ten minutes with Alison, Ward was resplendent in a skin-tight pink and pale blue training shirt (with new “TheyWentThadaway” sponsors’ logos), fluorescent yellow training shorts, fingerless mitts in a fetching shade of black and his ears taped up against his wishes.

His motley bunch had been gathered and were ready to go. Mankey was arranging the sidecars for Tino and revving the enormous engine impatiently. Something was nagging Micky. There was another member of the group who he couldn’t put a name to. An older gentlemen with a camera slung around his neck. He looked like someone Micky had seen hanging around the dugout at some of the home games. He looked like trouble.

“Hoozat like?” Micky asked, pointing a finger the size of a pneumatic Pepperami at the man in question.

“Ah, he’s your club-spy team liaison officer,” chuckled W and Thumper together. “Micky, meet LouchTine!”


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