CycleChat The Novel.

[Speicher]

The staff at Hotel California then told him he could check out but he could never leave.

 

[colly]

Unbeknownst to the cycling contingent of the 'Dogging for the Elderly' organisation there were dark forces planning the downfall of their leader, Nobby Throgmorton, known by his cycling chums as...............................

 

[User32269]

pervy colly.

 

[Speicher]

Hugh Pervy Colly-Wobbles is his full name.

 

[User32269]

Hugh Pervy Colly-Wobbles adjusted his gimp mask as he rode his trusty trike to the dark car park. Luckily, it was an aero gimp mask, and he was making fine time.

 

[User32269]

The sight that greeted his eyes sent shivers down his spine. The cycle chat dogging for the elderly meet-up was in full swing. Inspector Biggs sat astride a fine steel frame, flashing a vintage Ever Ready front lamp wildly, whilst Lord Drago performed unspeakable acts with an Aldi floor pump. Italian Pat, dressed as a high court judge, ran amongst the debauched throng, hopping from saddle to saddle with abandon. A Street Ka was rocking wildly in the disabled bay. A seething mass of lycia clad limbs and palm leaves pulsated within, a strikingly handsome bald scouser circled the vehicle on an old mountain bike, stealthily stealing the wheel trims.
Then a crazed figure appeared in the midst of this depravity, long blonde wig swirling wildly, make up that appeared to have been applied with a paintball gun. Ripped fishnet stockings straining to contain hairy calfs, and bizarrely, a tee shirt emblazoned with the words I'm Retired.

Just another evening out for the cycle chat massive. Little did the revellers know that things would soon take an unexpected turn.

CHAPTER FIVE​

 

[Reynard]

First Cyclist stood up and poured himself a bowl of tea from the insulated jug that was a permanent fixture in his office. As he was blowing on the tea to cool it, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Yes, enter.”

Second Cyclist stuck his head around the doorjamb. “Ah, First Cyclist. Might I have a word?”

“Of course.”

Letting himself inside, Second Cyclist settled comfortably in the nearest chair. “I see that you still have not replaced that torn cushion.”

“I keep it there as a permanent reminder of a harsh lesson that I do not wish to forget,” First Cyclist replied, handing Second Cyclist a bowl of tea without needing to ask. “Forgive me this small vanity.”

Second Cyclist waved a hand in dismissal. “Everyone has their small vanities, First Cyclist, no?”

“Indeed.” First Cyclist sat down behind his desk and pushed a selection of candied fruits towards Second Cyclist. “So,” he asked, “how may I be of service?”

Second Cyclist declined the confectionery. “Actually,” he said, “it is more the other way round. I have some information that will almost certainly be of interest to you.

 

[classic33]

It concerns people, just like yourself, with small vanities. We feel our product, once tried, will banish those small vanities for good.

Independent research shows that small vanities can be a big problem for some people. With some almost ashamed to admit to having any. And as you yourself have just demonstrated, they can affect anyone. Often causing acute embarressment when mentioned.

We feel that our solution will be the best of its kind, once it's out there. For all to see, and want. I've been told that I can let you in almost from the start, if you're interested, or indeed embarrassed by your small vanities.

1st cyclist leant forward onto the desk whilst dropping

 

[Drago]

His guts. Second cyclist gagged at the smell of decaying cat, but maintained his composure.

Third cyclist entered, took one sniff and immediately died. First cyclist made a note in his journal to promote Fourth Cyclist.

Just another day that the Cyclechat Jeremy Corbyn and Commie Huggers Ltd, suppliers of gold braid, berets, and jungle fatigues to left wing dictators since 1951.

 

[Oxo]

The two men sat huddled against the cold, waiting patiently in the shelter. As the bus approached the real Lord Drago stood up, it was time to unmask the imposter and claim his pension in his own right. They climbed aboard as the Sunday morning cyclists from a local tavern swept past clouded in a veil of secrecy. A faint smell of cheese hung in the air and a belle could be heard in the far distance as the bus set off passing close to the cyclists.
The two men made their plans, Drago wanted his fingers in the pies, the
last time he'd been grateful to get them out still attached to his hands, his companion knew that he would be happy with a plum. Drago had his trusty dirk, a handy weapon if he felt in need of a liquid lunch. He was ready.

 

[Bazzer]

The bus trundled past lines of stationary cars, secure in the bus lane. The occasional heavy thump rattling the interior fittings, as the bus wheels bounced through the potholes on the poorly maintained roads. Not Lord Drago's usual form of transport, but it served a purpose and conveniently helped to hide his real identity.
With each stop the bus slowly filled. This was good; even more incognito. And the CCTV cameras of the bus were likely to further obscure him.

Drago's mind wandering was brought to an abrupt halt as the bus halted outside a pub. He heard a commotion, but the standing passengers prevented a clear view of what was happening. After a minute of so, the passengers around Drago reluctantly shuffled along to make further space. The new passenger could not be seen, but a strong smell of alcohol drifted towards Drago's nostrils.

Rebus, having drunk the pub's supply of Absinthe, was back on the move.

 

[User32269]

Rebus sat next to Drago. He struck up a conversation, sharing with the disgraced aristocrat tips on how to forge one's day rider ticket. He boasted wildly of never having to pay for transport since the late nineties.
Drago began to perspire in the heat of the crowded bus, on reflection, wearing the huge taffeta ball gown had been a mistake. The bus rolled past the old canal, the nearside passengers, if they had glanced from the grimy windows, would have caught sight of Mr Postman, furtively emptying his bulging sack into the fetid waterway.

 

[postman]

Looking down on the fetid waterway,from his office on the twenty first floor.At a oak desk with a tooled leather top.Shaun sat worried,tapping his Waterman gold pen,he lazily looked down on the tiny figures scurrying along on their lonely life's journey,a man ,a tall balding man,had just dropped some leaflets into the canal,they looked like household delivery items,waste the public thought.Offers of pizzas,new driveways,rubbish all of them.Shaun was jolted back to reality,nothing was adding up,he had infront of him the list,the list of all of the CCers.Something was wrong,he had asked his new finance secretary to give him the numbers of members.What had she said yesterday,thirty,three hundred,thirty three thousand,thirty three million.This new lady dianne ,yes that's her name Diane from London,she said.she had knocked on his door two nights ago.soaked from the pouring rain,which was still coming down and turning the muddy waters of the Humber even darker.Strange woman,this Diane,what had been in the large bag,what a surprise when he had sent her out for more tea bags,wigs,yes wigs of all shapes and sizes.Who was this woman exactly,she called herself shadow,shadow what sort of log in name was that,anyway he had noticed something the tea money had not added up since Diane took over,that is why she was now at Morrisons buying the cheapest tea bags,it was Waitrose when Shaun was in charge of running the kitty.Maybe just maybe,Shaun thought i should have given Carol the job or even Miss Goodbody.
Well back to work thought Shaun,
Looking back to the canal path and road,a grimy bus continued on it's way out of the city,and that tall old balding postman looked better with his sack now empty.

 

[User32269]

Lord Drago and Rebus sat in the snug of the Elf and Safety Arms. It was the kind of dive where you would be considered a middle class ponce if your tattoos were spelt correctly. Drago's large cocktail, resplendent with sizzling sparklers, drew some scowls from locals at the bar. The air was heavy with tension.
The disgraced aristocrat had lived under something of a cloud since his dishonorable discharge from the old regiment. The Girl Guides was in his blood, how could they have taken that from him? Rebus blew a snot rocket from his left nostril, then turned to the Peer to speak.

 

[roadrash]

if only rebus had realised that lord drago was sat on his left BEFORE he blew the snotrocket, lord drago was sat covered in nasal detrious when...