Flat Pudding 8: Is Boris Goodenough?

Sergey Lapdog looked at General Getyouroksov and enquired: “Did you, by any chance, arrange your duel with Jens Stoltenberg?”

“Whaddayanutz? Why would I do that? We’ll see what happens here first.”

The time had come; the duel was nigh. In the time-honoured tradition, it was dawn and only the duellists, their seconds and around 80 security personnel were present.

President Vladimir Pudding looked nervous. He was sweating profusely and was fidgeting like a schoolboy with a sugar and additives addiction. He addressed his team: “Anyone who records this on his cell phone will be sent straight to the Kherson front line with “I want to kill Ukrainian babies” tattooed on his forehead. Capiche?”

Boris ‘Jovial’ Johnson, on the other hand, was in fine fettle, chatting and joking with his team: “I’ll get the first round in after this is over.”

“It is only 7am, PM…”

“7am, pm? What are you blathering on about, Punt?”

“Never mind.” Punt wondered is all this was just bravado; would Boris match up?

“Ok Pudding, let’s see what you’re made of!” harangued Boris.

“Flour, eggs, milk and sugar,” murmured Lapdog, with a smirk on his lips.

“So, if this goes pear-shaped, who will take charge?” whispered Getyouroksov.

Lapdog answered: “I don’t think it’ll be me, if that’s what you’re asking. I have a plane waiting to fly me and my wife to New York.”

“Very wise,” agreed Getyouroksov. “Mine will head to Little Rock, Arkansas; I’ve got family there.”

Jeremy Punt called over to Lapdog.

“You’re up,” said Getyouroksov.

Lapdog and Punt met in no-mans-land and wished each other good day.

“Shall we proceed with the request for an apology?” asked Punt.

Lapdog looked puzzled. “Apologise for what, exactly?”

“For invading the sovereign nation of the Ukraine, of course,” declared Punt.

Lapdog smiled and shook his head: “Ah, I see. I don’t believe that President Pudding is sorry for anything he’s done in his life.”

Punt replied: “So, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Boris and Vladimir were handed their flintlock pistols. Boris grabbed his enthusiastically and said: “Make sure you cock your pistol, Pudding.”

“No worries, mate. If you’re lucky enough to survive this, I’ll treat you to a few stubbies,” answered Pudding, in a strange mix of Russianised English and Kiwi twang.

“Strewth! The rumours are true. You were stationed in New Zealand during your James Bond days.”

“Let’s git this thing done and git outta this wop wop’s,”

With the niceties over, the two protagonists stood back to back, pistols held upright.