DDWF

I was challenged to write a short story based on the TV programme 'Dragons Den'. I came up with an idea which involved Steve Jobs unsuccessfully pitching the iPhone to the Dragons, but whilst it was fun to write and was okay, I felt my writing was a bit too bland, and unimaginative. So I wrote this instead, which certainly could be called as "out there" or "left field". Does it work? I'm not sure, to be honest. But it was nice to let myself go a bit, and write a bit of nonsense with careless abandon.


“Oh Lord...Peter Jones! PETER JONES! That sick and twisted giant is making his way to ringside, and there's not a damn thing Thumbtacks Theo or Murderous Meaden can do about this King!”

“I don't like the look of this JR!”

“I don't like the look of it one damn bit King. Ladies and gentlemen, these three competitors that are still left have put their bodies on the line – their goddamn flesh, blood and souls on the line for this DDWF Title. It's been a hellacious slobberknocker - what in blue hell do they have left?!”

“He's climbing the cell JR, he's climbing the cell!”

“Peter Jones...that sicko, that 8ft nightmare, the man who put Brutus Bannatyne out of action with that cowardly attack, that vicious assault which left him needing to recuperate...not in hospital, but in one of his exclusive health farms...”

“The Executioner is standing JR!”

“The Executioner Evan Davis...what guts! I don't think he can damn well see straight right now King!”

“No change there then!”

“BIG right hand from Jones, that goddamn son of a bitch. Davis is trying to fight back, fight back with the support of 60,000 people in this arena but OH...THE BIG BOOT!”

“That's just knocked him clean out, JR! If Jones just pins him, he wins the title!”

Peter Jones covers Evan Davis. The referee drops down onto the cage roof alongside them, and begins the count. ONE...TWO...

“One...Two...WEHAVEANEWCHAMPIONNOOOHEKICKEDOUT! DAVIS KICKED OUT!”

“I think that guy has more guts than brains JR! He should have just stayed down! Give this monster the title and don't make him angry!”

Peter Jones stamps on Evan Davis's face, then laughs, a laugh which sends a chill down the spine of every spectactor in the stadium. He turns, menancingly, towards the lifeless body of Deborah Meaden. Picking her up, he then walks over to the edge of the cell, and flings her off the top - her body falling...falling...falling...until with a sickening thud she crashes into the commentary table at ringside. As the crowd simultaneously gasp and cheer, her body lies still. Perfectly still.

“GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! HE KILLED HER!”

“Oh...my...God...”

“AS GOD IS MY WITNESS SHE IS BROKEN IN HALF!”

“Oh my God...”

“Somebody get out here. I mean it! I cannot believe....that cage is 16 feet high King! Oh bah Gawd...this freak is completely out of control!”

“I don't think he's finished yet either, JR. He's signalling chokeslam!”

With a demonic grin on his face, Peter Jones lifts Thumbtacks Theo up by his throat, and then slams him down onto the roof the cage.

“Oh for God's sake, this is over. Somebody ring the damn bell – ENOUGH is ENOUGH.”

Peter Jones goes to cover Theo. ONE...TWO...

The lights go out.

“JR? JR you still there?”

“I'm still here King...what the damn hell now?”

The arena has been plunged into darkness, and the only light available comes from a barrage of camera flashes that have suddenly struck up. After what seems like an eternity, the lights go back on. Standing on the roof of the cage, behind a confused Peter Jones, is a man with floppy brown hair.

“What?!”

“FARLEIGH! FARLEIGH! FARLEIGH! BAH GAWD FARLEIGH!”

“Richard Farleigh?! But...but...he was expelled from the DDWF JR?!”

“RICHARD FARLEIGH HAS COME BACK TO SAVE THE DDWF! AND YES INDEED, BAH GAWD BUSINESS JUST PICKED UP KING!”

Enraged, Peter Jones takes an almighty swing at the dimunitive Australian. However, Farleigh ducks, leaving Jones off balance and suddenly vulnerable. Despite the huge height difference, Farleigh goes on the attack. He kicks Jones in the midriff, then jumps up and yanks Jones's head down onto the metal structure.

“SYDNEY STUNNER! SYDNEY STUNNER! SYDNEY STUNNER! MAH GAWD KING FARLEIGH'S GONNA WIN THE TITLE!”

“But...he's expelled JR?! This is insane – he isn't in this match?!”

The referee drops down to his knees as the Australian goes for the pin, and the victory. ONE...TWO...




Patrick Campbell, 2010

The Dolmio Family

All UK readers with a TV should know the Dolmio Family. The family of puppets crop up on adverts trying to flog their pasta sauces under the frankly annoying catchphrase "When's your Dolmio Day?" For this short story, I played with the idea of this innocent looking family secretly being a Mafioso heavyweight organisation, much like the Corleone Family in The Godfather movies. See what you think.

“...and profits are down by 12%. However you spin it, it's been a bad six months. This Grossman figlio di puttana is overtaking us Papa!”

Papa Dolmio took a sip of Strega whilst studying his son closely. It was hopeless, he thought. Carlo could never become the Papa of the household. Not with his temper, and his reluctance to let his head overrule his heart. And over such trivial things! He settled back down into his seat before speaking.

“Carlo...Carlo...my son, you are not thinking. A little competition is no bad thing, especially when its in the form of a famous figure. My child...when we fund every bookmakers in the region, every casino in the country, and we have countless police chiefs in our pockets...finances are not a problem. This is a little problem, no more.”

Carlo exhaled his cigar smoke and looked at his father intensely.

“Let's drop the facade, Papa! Ditch the fuckin' pasta sauce shit, and go underground. We can do it – you know we can, you've just said how we can! Let's get into narcotics! It's a sure-fire quick buck, and we both know that the Ravanelli family are interested in working with us on a deal.”

“That will never happen whilst I am alive, child. A true Sicilian does not engage in such means, regardless of profits. For harming Italianos...Signor Fabrizio is no friend of mine.”

“Papa, our family is a laughing stock. The television adverts, where we pretend to be happy clappy fuckin' goofballs. The fact that we sponsor “This fuckin' Morning”. Does a true Sicilian degrade themselves, constantly, on fuckin' television just to pretend to be legit? Huh? Not narcotics? Fine – but alcohol, tobacco, pornography. Let's make a fuckin' statement Papa – make those bastardos respect our motherfuckin' name!”

Papa Dolmio stood up, gently, but then turned his back on his son. It was a dismissal. After a silent moment that felt like a lifetime, Papa began to speak, slowly and patiently.

“My child, how you mock me. I started with nothing, and now look where we are...I have built the Dolmio empire up to stand strong long after I have departed, whilst never compromising on our name and our good reputation...and this is how you treat me. I shall simply make this Grossman an offer he can't refuse, and that shall be the end of it. Tell Gattuso to get the car – I am ready to go home now.”

But Loyd Grossman refused the offer. Rebuked the Dolmio family, a choice that a man can only make once. Papa Dolmio's second offer came a few weeks later. Grossman had been for a swim, and was drying his torso with a towel when he opened the door. “It's your Dolmio Day, Loyd!” said Gattuso, firing the shotgun before Loyd could react. There was no time to feel fear, or pain. Loyd was thrown back against the door. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Patrick Campbell, 2010