Born To Spoof: Chapter 11 - This Isn't Mogadishu

Funny story written by Skoob1999

Friday, 15 October 2010


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Buenos Aries? Mogadishu? Anybody?

I hate being blown up. Explosions make me all giddy and dizzy and shit - and I mean, to be honest, I don't know what I'm doing most of the time, and explosions just complicate things.

Like now.

I should be in Mogadishu buying moonshine for the Oasis, but this can't be Mogadishu because there aren't any skinny blokes riding about in pickup trucks with machine guns.

And now I've got some clown telling me he's pissed off.

"Who are you anyway?" I ask.

"I'm Simon Cockle," he says. "And I'm a bit pissed off because I was featured writer on the Spoof for a whole week, and nobody gave me as much as a bean for it."

"Tough at the top mate," I say. Adding under my breath: "Wanker..."

"Pardon?" he asks.

"Wanker. I added under my breath that I think you're a wanker."

"Oh...thank you. That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me in a long time."

"You're welcome."

I look around, and see a bunch of shell shocked spoofers. All soot blackened and tattered.

"Where am I?" I politely enquire of a patient looking chap standing close by.

"Buenos Aries," he says.

"What are we doing here?"

"Well, them other spoofers is looking for The Oracle Of Knowledge or somesuch bollocks. And trying to stay away from Mark Lowton and Number Three. Me, I'm just waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Not really sure mate. Could be anything. You never really know until something turns up. That's the trouble with waiting - you never know how long it's going to take."

I like this guy. I introduce myself.

"Hello," he says. "I'm Seaton Carew. I'm quite famous. Diana Ross once sang a song about me, mate."

"Which one was that? My Old Piano?"

"Nope. I'm Still Waiting."

"So what's the crack here Seaton? What's going on? And why are we in Buenos Aries?"

"I'm not sure. You should speak to those three - the Welsh bloke, the one in the Man United shirt with his back to you, and the one who looks a bit like Dean Martin."

"Will they be able to help?"

"Probably not. But they seem to be pretty much running the show between them. They seem okay. A bit mental admittedly, but generally okay."

I clear my throat and approach the trio. Clearing my throat is something I have to keep doing because it tends to get blocked up with fluff in warm weather and I don't really want to suffocate.

"Excuse me..." I say.

"Hello boyo. Isnit?" the obviously by this point Welsh one says.

"Ooh ah, mon dieu qui qui," the one in the United shirt says.

"I'm a little bit of an ole wine drinker, me." says the third chap. The one who looks like Dean Martin.

"I know you," I say. "It's masterchev, Jaggedone and Jean Le Fete..."

"You recognise us?" Le Fete says.

"Sort of. But reading Chapter Ten kind of gave me a clue," I admit. "So what happens now?"

"I'm not sure," says masterchev. "All I know is I've worked me arse off on this collaboration boyo, and if you fuck it right up at this point, I shall not be best pleased isnit."

"I'll try not to," I say.

"Why?" Jaggedone says. "I like it when people fuck it right up by introducing Chinese railroad workers and gay cowboys in pink suits with Gatling guns pistol whipping prostitute nuns. Isnit. Oh fucking I'm turning Welsh too boyo. In a honky in Chicago. Christ, it's worse than I thought..."

Just then, somebody bumps into me in a totally contrived piece of plot development. He's a man in a hurry. He's wearing a Bolivian military uniform and wearing a ridiculously large stick on moustache.

"Colonel Juan!" I say. "What are you doing in Buenos Aries? You were supposed to be in Bolivia..."

"Quick!" he gasps, grasping my arm. "There's no time to lose. This is urgent Skoobie! We have to go to Plaza Solis in Boca - where the Juniors play footy. We need to go to the north side, on Suarez - it's down by the docks."

"But why?" I ask.

"Shut up you twerp," he says. "Morse. Iain, Seaton, Charpa, Jean, JO and the Welsh one - come on!"

CJ leads us through the streets of Buenos Aries to a taxi rank. At speed. Morse complains that he has a stitch. Charpa holds him up.

"Worst fucking collaboration I ever worked on and that's for sure," Morse complains. "We didn't have any of this running about shit on Below Decks. That was all raping and pillaging, even if the food was shit. I could be back home in SC right now playing golf or burning mosquitoes with a flame thrower in the back yard."

"Keep moving Cap," Charpa says. "You need to be strong. I may be from Texas but I'm not strong enough to hold both you and Frankie the J up when he comes into this. Y'all."

Our taxi is a VW bus. We speed through downtown Buenos Aries. The driver takes us on Suarez to the north side of the Plaza Solis in Boca. Down near the docks.

We get out.

It's quiet. Quite warm and humid, but with a faint breeze blowing in off the ocean.

"Why are we here?" I ask CJ

"We must find the Oracle Of Knowledge Skoobie," he says.

I look at PM and ask him what he's thinking about.

"The gerbils of hell," he says dreamily.

I really need somebody to help me out. I turn to Seaton Carew.

"Now what do we do?" I ask.

Seaton looks around at the steel shuttered storefronts and rickety cast iron balconies facing the Plaza. Then he looks at me and says:

"We wait."

The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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