| | I found an old story that I wrote on my computer. This was written back in Year 11. In the middle of IT class.
Alf was sitting next to me at the time, and I was bored.
***
Alfred the pancake cooker was a very normal pancake cooker.
He worked on the 47th floor of a half-destroyed Hong Kong flat, selling
illegal pancakes to illegal immigrants. He cooked in his own kitchen,
turned his house into a small cafe, and bribed the police with pancakes
every time they came over to investigate his house.
In other words, he was completely normal.
Alfred was not known for the quality of his pancakes, but for the speed
at which he produced them. The entire neighborhood talked about his "Thirty
Second Breakfast", which consisted of a lot of pancake mush crammed
into a pot (Yes, he cooked pancakes in a pot) and a couple of spare
pineapples to go with it. (His neighbor upstairs owned a perfectly
normal illegal pineapple farm hidden under his bed).
This pancake cooker, perfectly normal as he was, always ran into his
share of problems. Of all things, Alfred hated policemen who would
refuse his pancakes. Of course, he had never encountered one who
refused them before, but he hated them anyway. On his bedroom wall was
a huge poster with the giant words hate policemen who refused to be
bribed by my pancakes?in several different languages. It was extremely
fortunate that the police force was very fond of pancakes (however
thick or pineapple-filled they were), as Alfred would go to any means
to take his revenge on those who didn like his pancakes.
It was one Saturday night when he finally met one.
Saturday night was usually a quiet night for Alfred. His cafe business
was almost always overtaken by the numerous bars and clubs below him
that lit up the city. Saturday night fanatics were interested in
absorbing liter after liter of alcohol, and not pancakes. During these
rather lonely nights, Alfred liked to bring out his Play Station 2 and
faded dance mat and play the extremely old game, ance Dance
Revolution? Those in the flat always knew he was playing when the dust
started to burst out of the crannies in the ceiling, and the pipes in
the walls began to burst.
He usually managed to deter the complaining neighbors by giving them a pot filled with one gigantic block of a pancake.
On this particular Saturday night, there were no customers. Alfred
sighed to himself, maneuvered around his very cramped cafe/apartment,
and pulled out a dilapidated dance mat from the ventilation shaft. He
shook out the lizards making a colony in the plastic, and cleared off a
space on a mahjong table.
Soon the tiny flat was filled with energetic dance music, and Alfred
was cracking joint after joint as he hammered himself against the mat
on the table, using every appendage on his body to play. (Yes, every
single one). He also sang along to the songs with his very rudimentary
English. In fact, he was stomping and smacking and bellowing so loud
that he almost didn hear the doorbell.
Standing in the open doorway (Alfred didn't actually have a working
door anymore) was a policeman. He was completely normal. He was missing
one leg, and stood on crutches. He also had his hat on backwards.
Completely normal.
Alfred looked up at him with a very bruised face. He was used to policemen.
This particular cop looked like he was about to fall over. The waves of
loud music seemed to blow him backwards, and the pants leg that was
missing a leg billowed back like a flag. Alfred realized that this one
would need a lot of pancakes to properly bring back his health.
Mustering all his strength, the policeman hobbled towards Alfred,
forcing his way through the palpable waves of noise. He tried to shout
over the music in Cantonese.
Alfred, being an illegal immigrant from Sweden himself, had no clue
what the policeman was saying. Leaving the music on, he decided that he
better start preparing his pancakes and weaved his way into the kitchen.
The policeman tried again, falling over in the effort of shouting.
Alfred didn't even notice. He was pulling out a trash can sized pot from the light fixture.
In one final burst of energy, the policeman pulled himself up...
...and fell down again.
His crutches punctured a hole in the already battered floor, and he
fell straight through into the illegal Panadol factory on the floor
below. A huge cloud of dust, splinters, and lizards flew in all
directions.
It took a while for Alfred to realize what had just happened.
***
I hardly remember what exactly I wrote that day, so reading this was really entertaining. =)
IT class was silly.
Edit: I'm thinking I might want to continue this one.
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| | Posted 9/17/2006 5:46 PM - 26 Views - 14 eProps - 7 comments
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