Flat Pudding 9: Go-Time

Boris and Vladimir stood back-to-back with their pistols held at attention. The Russian president’s armpits were sweating, despite the parky air of daybreak. Now that it was go-time, he was truly regretting his nonchalant bravado. “I should have got a double to do this for me,” he thought. “Why have I only thought of that now?”

The soon-to-be ex-Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had other thoughts on his mind as he ruffled his hair (it was far too neat) and puffed out his ruddy cheeks. He was nervous but exhilarated, the adrenaline coursing around his chunky body. He thought: “If I take this humungous-headed butcher out, I’ll be a bally hero. I’m going to make SO much money from the sale of my memoirs. The job offers will be flooding in as well; head of NATO or even the UN. Just keep calm and take steady aim.”

Lapdog and Punt cast nervous glances at one another. Sergey could see that his man was nearly pooping himself and was afraid that he was on the point of a humiliating back-down.

Punt was more worried about what would happen if his man won. Would the people clamour for the return of Boris? Would the Tory Party be riven by discord? Would HM the Queen intervene?

Vlad the Pants Pooper had an almost uncontrollable urge to get the hell outta there. He called out: “Come on, let’s get this done already!”

“I’m more than ready!” affirmed Boris

“Very well, gentleman,” intoned Lapdog. “I shall count to ten and with every number, you take a pace forward. On the count of ten, you will turn and fire your pistol.” He repeated it loudly in Russian, just in case his president’s expanding head had affected his hearing.

Jeremy Punt said: “Can I make the count? I’ve always wanted to do it.”

Lapdog rolled his eyes to the heavens and answered: “Really? Now you ask me?”

“Oh please,” pleaded Punt. “You can pronounce the loser dead or incapable of continuing.”

“For God’s sake!” bawled Vlad and Boris in unison.

“Okay, okay,” Lapdog capitulated.

Punt started the count: “One…” the combatants took a pace forward. “Two…three…four…five…six,” President Pudding stumbled a little and nearly dropped his pistol. “Seven…eight…nine…ten.”

Both men turned and pulled their triggers. The gunpowder in the pans was ignited, the explosive force impelled the round bullets down the barrels and out into the chill, morning air.