SHORT TALES OF CHAOS, PART ONE

or TALK BOLLOCKS AND RUN FAST

I was doing a delivery, but not in my car. On foot. Because the person who'd phoned for delivery lived sufficiently close that it was quicker for me to deliver it on foot than in my car. We're talking serious, World of Warcraft-playing, cheeto-munching, basement-dwelling, neckbeard-wearing fatness here. Like, it was on the high street. Like, the place I work is on the high street.

It's really not a long high street.

But whatever, I get petrol money for every drop I do, so basically this delivery is money in the bank. As I casually stroll along the high street (we have to do every delivery in under thirty minutes, so another bonus doing this drop is I get to bunk off for twenty-eight minutes) I debate how to spend the promising riches of my non-petrol money. A pack of gum, perhaps. Or an ice lolly.

My attention is diverted by the sound of shouting up ahead. From what I can see there's a guy wandering in circles in the middle of the pavement, making a lot of noise and occasionally throwing his arms dramatically in the air like some kind of berserker demagogue. Clad in a dashing pink polo shirt, this becapped gentleman is wielding a can of Strongbow in one hand and a fag in the other.

Okay. Typical early evening drunken bullshit. Whatever. I cross to the other side of the road well before I get near him and just try to tune him out. As it turns out, that's a little difficult to do: he's seriously loud. More than that, he's saying some bizarre shit. My personal favourite was addressed to a woman walking past him:

"I'm not lying to you! If I was lying to you, I'd be lying to myself, and then I'd know I was lying. And then I'd have to arrest myself." (pause) "I'm not really a cop!"

Opening a conversation with "I'm not lying to you" is never going to end well.

As he carried on his end of the conversation, she responded by picking up her pace and walking away. Pink Shirt's volume rose proportionally, until the last bit - I'M NOT REALLY A COP - was roared after her hastily retreating figure.

I pass him by on the other side, like some kind of bizarro Samaritan, and carry on my merry way. About ten seconds later, though, a new noise cuts through the onslaught of warped public speaking: it's the sound of a police siren.

I stop, and turn around. The fatass up the road can wait, I've got nearly half an hour to finish my stroll up the high street. I'm about to see some POLICE JUSTICE. Speaking nonsense is a serious crime, man; I'm surprised they didn't show up with a bloody riot van-

Oh. They actually did show up with a bloody riot van.

Okay, that seems a little bit overkill, but whatever, you've got to justify spending all that tax money somehow, right? And if that means six riot police are sent out to handle this particular amusing if misguided street performer, so be it. I'm still hanging around to watch.

The door slides open and three of the cops jump out of the van. They start to walk over towards Pink Shirt, all serious and methodical and that. They haven't got their sticks out, which serves to further highlight how totally redundant a riot van is, but what do I know.

The other three cops just stay in the van. I guess they've got a pretty good handle on what a stupid idea this was, and have decided to kick back and take a few minutes of personal time. Let the eager beavers handle Pink Shirt: it's a nice afternoon, right? Too damn nice to spend it dealing with prats in pink shirts, that's for sure.

Pink Shirt notices the officers before they get halfway across the street. His reaction is a rough parallel to the stages of grief: shock, surprise, anger, acceptance, RUN AWAY.

This guy is like fucking road runner: a brief stunned pause, looking like a deer in the headlights, and then he utters two sage words:

"Oh. Okay."

Then POW! He's running, and he's doing so with surprising balance and speed for someone who'd been acting so monumentally sloshed the minute before. He really wasn't a cop, but he was faster than all of them.

Well... only one of them, really. As soon as Pink Shirt turned tail and fled, discarding the beer but keeping a grim hold of the fag, two of three riot cops who'd been crossing the street abruptly did a 180 and headed back to the van. The third cop hesitated for a moment, only for his shoulders to slump as he realised that, yes, if five of the six cops here weren't gonna chase the guy, he - the sixth - didn't really have much choice in the matter.

Off he jogs, but kitted out in his gear in the heat he never really has a hope of catching the drunken Olympian. Back he goes to the van, looking mildly dejected, and there ensues a brief but animated discussion between all six of the highly casual police officers. I didn't hear them, but I imagine they were debating the possibility of them just driving away and never mentioning the events of the past couple minutes again.

Apparently they reached the conclusion that it was quite possible, and they promptly departed, leaving in their wake nothing but a number of small clusters of people who'd been watching things unfold with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

For my part, I carried on my way and delivered the pizza with a full twenty minutes to spare. I wandered vaguely around the area after, seeing if Pink Shirt had popped up again, but no dice.

And the recipient of the laziest order in the history of orders?

Seriously fucking fat.