With Apologies to Chris Morris and the City of Lincoln

Anonymous

A short story by an anonymous contributor.

Mohammad, Mohammad and Mohammad embraced for one last time inside the semi-detached kebab shop. Each grinned an ordained grin as they turned one to the other and invoked the almighty in turn.

“Inshallah!” said Lil Mo; the smartest, yet the littlest of the Mohammads.

“Bismallah!” said Mean Mo; on paper the most average of the three Mohammads, but possessing what in boxing parlance is known as the ‘intangibles’.

“Mo Salah!” said Big Mo; the biggest and the strongest, but not the sharpest minaret on the masjid.

Knives, scrapers and all other implements had been stowed away behind the wire scrubbed stainless steel counter. The tabletops, worn into patterns of resting forearms, had been swept away spotless. The large single pane windows, cold and stark against the Winter outside, gleamed like plates of burnished crystal. The hard interior rang like tin with each heavenly oath, and it was amidst further cheers that they hoisted on their black puffa jackets and debouched onto the street via the shiny chrome disabled ramp with embossed floor grate and guided handrail.

Taking care to lock the door - no further business would be conducted that day - they skirted round to the enclosed car park at the rear, offering more prayers and slapping their fellow radicals on the back all the way.

Which is when they saw it, sparkling like the Koh-i-noor, set among the sheer jet of the tarmac; Mean Mo’s glossy neon green 2007 VW Golf, freshly waxed and parked diagonally across two spaces. Mean Mo styled himself the most sensitive of all the three Mohammads, with undoubtedly the finest aesthetic tastes, and all their veiled mothers had known it since he was a young sabi.

They found themselves stooping as if compelled to reverence, the three heads bowed in unison towards the outrageous front splitter that looked like an old bathtub cut lengthways. Only after some time did they become aware of their silence.

“Fellas,” pronounced Mean Mo, “this will be our chariot to heaven tonight. The seventy-two virgins await us.”

Lil Mo’s eyes snapped away from the car to flash an incredulous look at Mean Mo.

“What?” he said, protesting with an outstretched hand, “nah bruv, no way. There ain’t no way we’re bombing this through the Christmas market.”

“Isn’t it,” said Big Mo laconically, his bowed legs semi-circling his top-heavy frame towards the car. He turned and pleaded with Mean Mo. “This is your life’s work man. There’ll be people and s—- down there; it’ll get bare scuffed.” He ran a fat finger along a vent in the bonnet. “You’re gonna get dirty kuffar all over it.”

“Eh?” sparked Lil Mo, redirecting his scorn. “What you talking about, bruv? I mean look at it!”

Big Mo stepped back and beheld the car dimly. What a spectacle, he thought. Like if the blessed Aisha herself was neon green and in car form. Still, he couldn’t quite work out why he was staring at it until Lil Mo had another go.

“It’s bright green, bruv!”

“So?”

“So, we’re meant to be undercover. This is way too flash. They’ll see us coming a mile off.”

“You can’t see green, bruv, it’s camo.”

“We live in downtown Lincoln, what’s it camouflaging against?”

“But it’s got tinted windows anyway innit.”

“So?

“So they won’t see us coming,” scoffed Big Mo, soliciting Mean Mo for support.

Lil Mo could only look to Mean Mo as well. Mean Mo shrugged; this was the only car they had, but even so it wasn’t long before Mean Mo found himself crushed between the two, trying to force a separation with one of Big Mo’s tits resting on the top of his head.

“Fellas, fellas!” Mean Mo exhorted the two as they wrangled for each other’s throats. “Ease up! Remember our real enemy, yeah? The dirty kuffar who-”

Something stopped him dead before he could finish his plea.

It was Fat Mike, who had just wheelchaired himself around to back of the shop. He sat there cowlike before the three of them, looking on at the black tangle of puffa-jacketed limbs. Before long Big and Lil Mo spotted Fat Mike, too. The two relinquished their grips on one another. All stood (or sat) still for a moment, waiting for something. Then, without turning or saying anything at all, Fat Mike pointed back at the kebab shop with an expression on his face approaching hunger.

Mean Mo put a hand on Lil Mo’s shoulder and spoke softly into his ear.

“Take him inside, bruv; fix him up something nice. Double large.”

Kebab served, the trio saw Fat Mike off at the door. He switched to electronic power buzzed off contentedly up the road, strips of grey kebab meat stringing via fork from hand to mouth from his lap.

Back in the car park there was nothing else for it - it was too late to find another car. However, as a sop to Lil Mo, Mean Mo peeled the gold foil from the VW logos (both front and rear) and disconnected the puddle lights from under the car door.

There was no time to replace the spinning chrome rims with the factory standards he still had in his garage. The dump valve might give off their approach, but replacing it was definitely a no go - the longevity it lended to the turbocharger could not be compromised. The tottering spoiler might raise the profile, but at high speeds the added downforce would make swerving into pedestrians a piece of cake. Not even Lil Mo could think of an objection to that.

With all inside, the engine ignited with a roar, the mega fat exhaust trembled, and the car park filled to the brim with its sound.

They only had to make one turn from the car park. They exited, and the Golf straightened itself up for the final stretch towards the Christmas market. In the short calm before the storm, Mean Mo caught himself thinking about the strangest of things; he thought of Fat Mike, and how for a kafir he was actually rather fond of him, and how for twice a day, without fail, he would order the double large kebab (off-menu) with all the trimmings. It was regularity like that that kept his business afloat.

Then he turned to another kafir he shamefully admired: Jeremy Clarkson. After all, Top Gear was the whole reason he got into cars in the first place; he and the other Mohammads had even attended the filming live in studio. To this day you can see them starstruck and grinning from one side of the Cool Wall.

The vanishing promise of civic nationalism was swept from his mind, however, as the cathedral towers hove into view with the busy market unravelled below. Mean Mo steeled himself and gripped the steering wheel harder until his brown hairy knuckles turned slightly less brown. White lines passed them by in ever quicker succession. By the end of today, Jeremy Clarkson would no doubt be disappointed in him - but Mean Mo would have a whole eternity to come to terms with that.

This would be the greatest terrorist atrocity…

…in the world.

“It’s just a shame, innit,” said Big Mo, “that we can’t go ice skating this year.”

Mean Mo slammed up another gear. The dump valve hissed like a tormented ifrit. Every illuminated dial on the dashboard twitched, danced, ascended. The Christmas market opened up before them, the gothic face of the cathedral climbed higher, commanding more and more of the view through the windshield. Big Mo checked the temperature on the digital display; an unseasonably pleasant 13°C. Then something clawed at Mean Mo’s neck and screamed into his ear.

“Wait, wait, wait; yo, yo, stop! Stop! Hold up!”

Mean Mo didn’t hear it. The material world had melted away - only the rolling golden meadows of Jannah concerned him now. He pressed forward the charge as if in a wajd, eyes burning with vengeance, not even registering the cries, claws and feverish hands of Lil Mo frantic at his chest. Then something happened that not even his state of religious ecstasy could overcome; the beefy hands of Big Mo wrestling away the steering wheel.

* * *

It was a minor muʿjiza that Mean Mo managed to get the VW Golf back under control. They came to a mad, swerving stop halfway up the curb, mere yards from colliding with the market goers who went about enjoying their Christmas one blink away from their deaths.

Mean Mo fumed inside the pressure cooker of a cockpit as he demanded to know why his shahadah had been taken from him. Lil Mo could only plead with him to get out the car and see for himself. Eventually he collected himself and did just that.

So he stood under the gothic shadow of Lincoln Cathedral, its shoulders spanned fully wide before him, the three grim necks rising like ancient watchers; a monument bracing itself for another thousand years. And whether it was the adrenaline dump finally catching up to him, or finding himself motionless in the shade, Mean Mo suddenly felt the air to be very chill - cloying, even - and its fingers creeped up the elastane cuffs of his black puffa jacket. Paradoxically, a glittering film of perspiration formed upon his brow.

At that point a family leaving the market walked him by, smiling and chatting, oblivious to what might have happened. The father and teenage son both enjoyed a mulled wine, the mother carried a bag of beeswax candles and carved trinkets, and the girl, small and gaily dressed up for the day, feasted on a sweet pastry.

By now they should have been driven beneath his bonnet.

“Filthy arrogant kuffar,” Mean Mo cursed to himself, and he even had to restrain himself with a reminder that their attack, for whatever reason he was yet to find out, had been postponed.

And when the family moved on he finally saw what had caused the others to force themselves upon him; an impenetrable fortress of concrete blocks, just over knee high, twice as far deep and nine feet wide, laid down one after the other encompassing the entire market like a henge. He kicked the bottom of one. It remained obdurate. He squealed with pain. and hobbled back to the car, Big and Lil Mo waiting expectantly.

“We’re f—ed,” he said, once inside his tinted window. “Our jihad is over. The whole place is surrounded by those things. How did they know?”

“Oh yeah,” Lil Mo remembered, “remember when cousin Mo bombed through here last year?”

Of course; how could they have forgotten about Mostly Peaceful Mo?

Each sat there stewing dumbly, unable to process the next move. And then Big Mo noticed he was hungry.

“So,” he declared, “that’s that then isn’t it. At least we can still go ice skating later though. And we should probably head back to the shop. Fat Mike’ll be turning up in a bit.”

“No,” said Mean Mo, drumming the steering wheel. “We ain’t going ice skating. And we ain’t giving up that easy. There’s gotta be a way round. Or through. Or over. Or something.”

“Come on bruv,” said Lil Mo, reaching in with a creak from the leather backseat. “You saw it yourself. Those things look bare heavy. No way we get through. Not even if we roll Big Mo into it.”

“Well, what about them gaps in between the blocks?” asked Big Mo.

“What about them?” said Lil Mo. “They’re way too small.”

“Yeah, for the car. But what if we get on some mopeds and drive them through, innit.”

Mean Mo’s mind shut itself off from the inane bickering that ensued. There had to be an answer. He knew there had to be one. And just like that, a bell tinkled inside his head. If only there was a way to get just one of those blocks out the way, or even the bollard that was now being raised to make way for the town’s single tram that looped Lincoln every twenty minutes.

The tram tinkled again politely, now making its way out the market.

The tram line! There was a gap! This was the chance!

The roar of the igniting engine silenced both other Mohammads. The car slid off from the lip of the curb and with squealing tyres hurled towards the now open section in the wall - and as fast as it had left the starting line had halted once again.

For Mean Mo, in all his haste, could already tell right that the bollard taskforce were highly trained. The bollard was already back in place. He put an elbow up and traced out the logistics of the operation in his head.

Every twenty minutes, upon both entering and leaving the market, Lincoln’s only tram driver would announce his arrival by tinkling on the bell, which put the bollard operators on standby. The driver would come to a gradual, snug stop right by the barrier, with a distance between them you couldn’t even you couldn’t even throw a miswaak down. Only then would the bollard taskforce wheel out their hydraulic lifting form, attach the forks to the hydraulic fork receptacle bay, lift, and remove it to one side. Simultaneously, the tram would creep in behind them just like jumping the turnstiles at the train station.

The seat next to Mean Mo was empty.

“Where’s Big Mo?” he asked.

Lil Mo’s little hand pointed through the windshield at a large, puffa jacketed figure stalking the bollard operators, still busy disengaging from the lowered bollard.

Big Mo relished the chance to finally start swinging his fists. Initiative was one of the key skills he gave at the unemployment office. Today’s action would be a testament to that.

A middle aged woman with hi-viz and an obvious biscuit condition intervened on his approach - the bollard was not yet fully and safely lowered. With a lurch he shoved her out the way and onto the floor. She hit the ground with a grunt and demeaning slap. His real target was putting the finishing touches to the lowered bollard. With him taken care of, Big Mo would use the hydraulic lifting platform to place the bollard to one side, and the car would fit through.

The bollard operator stood up. And kept standing up, until he was a whole head taller than Big Mo. And there was no lifting platform to be seem.

He had lifted the anti-terrorist bollard all by himself.

And the blond, crew-cut goliath did this twice every twenty minutes, all day long. The hi-viz of his colleague flapped around on the floor, still in a feeble mess. Big Mo stood over her. He heard her cries. His pale cheeks reddened, his wintry eyes narrowed. He stepped over the bollard and made directly for Big Mo, who was already halfway back to the car.

The door slammed shut in panic.

“Drive you mong!”

* * *

“What we need is a new crusade bruv,” said Ben, tall and taller still with his ginger hair gelled up into a quiff. He blew out and thrust the minuscule blunt at Daryl. Daryl passed it on without partaking. He didn’t smoke marijuana, and it peeved him how his friends spoke just like the Mussulmen. His own dialect was a conscious choice.

The next chav along pinched the blunt between finger and thumb and drew until his lungs were full. He let it out lazily. “Crew-sade? Wossat, then?” he croaked in a cloud.

“It was like, when they went over and bashed in the p—s innit.”

“Yeah that’s what we need,” said the next one along, getting his fingertips on the blunt.

“True that,” said another, waiting his turn.

Another sat upon an abandoned pile of Taylor Wimpey bricks and busied himself by scorching the bottom of a shrub with his lighter.

“Sign me up,” he said, rather absently, to the flick of the flint.

Just over half a dozen of them hung out in the sordid strip of land between the thin wooden slats at the back of the Safeway car park and the chain link fence of the abandoned railway. All of those taking part in the moot agreed that a crusade of some sort was exactly what they needed.

Even Daryl believed in one, in principle. But only in principle. Strategically - prudentially - speaking, the notion didn’t make sense to him right now, but for reasons he deigned too subtle to elaborate to the rest.

Ben’s black puffa jacket scratched as he rolled the zip lower and looked up at the grey sky. He was a little too warm in it. Snow was yet to fall that year, and whatever morning frost there was had melted away miserably with every afternoon. He spoke.

“Big Steve said they tried to attack the Christmas market yesterday. They shoved over some woman and then pussied out.”

Daryl looked up the incident on his phone. Fragments hummed about on social media.

Local Muslims Attend Christmas Market was the euphemism used in the local paper. Daryl relayed it to the others.

“F—ing libtards,” dismissed Ben. “F——ing libtards. In fact they probably hate Christmas anyway.”

Someone asked what there was to do. Ben already had the answer.

“Pig fat bruv. Lard. It’s halal, innit.”

“Haram,” corrected Daryl.

“Whatever. Imagine yeah, we go down there and just f—in’ spray the place with pig fat, they won’t go anywhere near it after that. Even with their cars. Cos then they would go to Muslim hell.”

The group loudly agreed; Daryl cringed and interjected.

“Ben, last summer when they wanted to convert that graveyard into a mosque - do you remember what happened?”

Ben grinned and revealed his big white teeth.

“We went down there and sprayed it with lard. And you came with us, don’t deny it.”

“Well it didn’t do anything.”

“Well I don’t see no mosque there this year, do you?”

“Because they’re still getting planning permission. Why is your answer always to spray everything in lard?”

“So what’s your f—in’ solution, speccie?”

“You’re gonna walk into Safeway and buy enough pig fat to cover the whole Christmas market for the rest of winter? What if it snows?”

“Global warming mate, it won’t happen. And if it does, well we’ll finally have a white christmas. Why do you care, anyway? Obviously you don’t, ‘cos you’re leaving us and pissing off to uni soon.”

“Because the movement needs-”

“Needs what?” Ben interrupted. “What are you studying, again? I forgot.”

“The movement needs culture in order to-”

“Yeah so what subject’s that then?”

“Art History.”

Ben couldn’t couldn’t contain himself; his laughter nearly ruined the last viable toke on the joint.

“You f—ing poof,” he said through smoke, “that’s the gayest f—-ng s—t I’ve ever heard. You f—-ing bender! What are you gonna do with that degree - paint them? Just grab a f—-ing stick of lard and join us.”

“I don’t want to get arrested, thanks.”

“Arrested for what? Food waste?”

“They’ll find something.”

“Well, there you go, Picasso. You’re just scared. Go draw other men. We’re actually gonna f—ing do something.”

Ben made as if to flick the roach onto the tracks. Then changed aim and stung Daryl right between the eyes. One by one they stepped through the gap in the slats and left him behind.

“Enjoy your crusade.”

* * *

Business was a little lighter than usual inside the kebab shop. Fat Mike was a little heavier. For all the rumours about the three Mohammads, he feasted over his double large kebab and washed each massive mouthful back with a coke. Behind the counter Mean Mo busied himself with drying up. There was nothing for the others to do except watch Fat Mike toss string after limp string of meat into his mouth.

“So,” said Fat Mike, between two mouthfuls, “I heard,” he said after the next mouthful, “the real story about,” (another mouthful) “what happened at the market yesterday.”

Mean Mo’s eyes narrowed. His grasp on the razor sharp, yard long meat slicer tightened.

“Oh really?” he said, watching Fat Mike closely.

“Yeah,” (more eating), “about how they stopped you,” (more) “going into the market,” (more) “due to,” (more) “Islamophobia.”

Mean Mo’s grip relaxed.

“Yeah, well… it’s no big deal. I don’t think we’re gonna be going back anyway.”

“Isn’t it,” said Big Mo, hardly looking up from his phone. “Bare racists down there. Still though, would be nice to go ice skating innit.”

“Oh come on,” said Fat Mike (chewing elided), “don’t let a few bad apples spoil the bunch. You should be able to enjoy the Christmas market just like anyone else. It should be open for all.”

“Well it’s not open for us,” said Mean Mo, sticking the blade back on the wall-mounted magnet.

“That’s just sad. It’s not just ice-skating. The nosh down there is top notch. Top nosh! But to be honest, I’m not going either.”

Mean Mo sighed and rested his elbows on the counter. This was not how he expected the day to go.

“Yeah? Why’s that, friend?” he asked into his chest.

“There’s no disabled access. They put those concrete blocks too close to each other. My wheels can’t get through. Nothing I can do I about it I suppose.”

“That ain’t true, bruv,” said Lil Mo, piping up from the corner.

“No?” said Fat Mike.

Lil Mo cleared his throat.

“You should read section twenty of the Equality Act 2010. The council, as the service provider of the market, is bound by law to make reasonable adjustments for your disability, your disability being a protected characteristic under section four as defined by section six.”

Fat Mike, for the first time that afternoon, had stopped chewing.

“How the f—k do you know all that, bruv?” said Big Mo.

“‘Cos I put the ramp up for Fat Mike. Anyway, the Act empowers you to complain to the council about it.”

“What happens if we complain?” asked Mean Mo.

“Well, most likely they’d be obliged to make reasonable adjustments.”

“Reasonable adjustments?”

“Like, make enough room for him.”

A glimmer of hope crossed Mean Mo’s face. He switched seamlessly to arabic.

“Brethren, do you know what this means?”

“Is we finally going ice skating?” said Big Mo.

“No, brother. Not today. If Allah wills it, the local council will hear our prayers.”

* * *

A very, very short drive from the removable bollard, Lil Mo clarified Fat Mike’s right to appeal within the terms of the Human Rights Act 2010 from the passenger seat of the VW Golf. Mean Mo was in the driver’s seat. Big Mo was absent.

“Listen Mike, just f—-ing roll your rig down at that big blond bastard and demand he lifts up the barrier. Just go and f—ing demand it, otherwise he’s breaking the law.”

“Ah you know me, Lil Mo, I can’t get mad that easy. I’m a gentle giant, I am.”

“The sooner you get inside, the sooner you get all that Christmas food innit! All them mince pies or whatever the f—k it is you eat. Gravy and s—t. Think about that!”

“But I don’t like mince pies.”

“Well what do you like, Mike?”

“I like… kebabs.”

Fat Mike warbled. His bottom lip quivered. His eyes glassed over. Even from the driver’s seat, Mean Mo could see that Fat Mike was having a tough time under the pressure.

“Mike,” he said, “you go do this for us, yeah, and the next kebab - it’s on the house, mate. Trust.”

Even that offer didn’t move Fat Mike. He sat there perfectly still, sunk deep in this wheelchair as if in a stupor. Did he suspect what the plan was? For a long time, it didn’t seem like anything would rouse him. Then he sniffed. And suddenly, he spoke.

“Double large?”

Mean Mo smiled - genuinely.

“Double large.”

“Alright, Mo. I’ll do this for you.”

Fat Mike disengaged the handbrake and moved off towards the tram lines. Lil Mo lent out the window and shouted.

“Don’t forget to quote it - The Equality Act 2010! Section 4!”

It wasn’t clear if Fat Mike heard him.

“We’ve only got fifteen minutes until the tram comes,” said Mean Mo.

“So?” asked Lil Mo.

“So then Mike can squeeze in once they raise the bollard. They won’t have to make space. And our entry is blown.”

Mean Mo tapped the steering wheel nervously. A wind blew in. He closed the passenger window remotely.

“You think they’ll let him in?”

“Deffo bruv. I told him if s—t goes south, just get your phone out and start recording innit. Get their badge numbers and s—t. Make them famous. No way the council will keep a cripple out.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Call him what?”

“Cripple.”

“Kafir, then.”

“Whatever.”

“Are you worried, bruv?”

“About Mike? ”

“No, about the jihad.”

“No, of course not. Not as long as Big Mo don’t pussy out again.”

Lil Mo perked up and spoke quickly.

“There goes Mike, look. He’s chatting to the woman right now. And there’s the big blond c—t coming up.”

The matchstick-sized figures deliberated on the threshold. The two Mohammads watched in silence.

“Allow this, bruv,” said Lil Mo, “they ain’t shifting. Just look at that fat white b—h just standing there.” Lil Mo sidled uncomfortably. “Just let him in for f—k’s sake.”

Something caught the corner of Mean Mo’s eye.

“Wait, who the f—k’s that?” he said.

“Who?”

“There - it’s the chavs.”

“What? What the f—k are they doing here? Do they know about us? Did they see Big Mo?”

“I dunno.”

“Hang on - they’re moving the bollard for Mike!”

“Wait… what have the chavs got on them?”

“The buckets?”

“Yeah but what’s in them? No way that’s…. no way! S—t! That’s molten lard bruv!”

“MOLTEN LARD?”

The chavs were indeed carrying buckets of molten lard, and all of them seemed quite coy about actually spilling any of it until Ben lost his cool with the high-viz woman. He turned his bucket upside down at her feet, and that caused Big Mo to race off like an oversized midget down the nearest alley. An eruption of liquid pig fat doused the tram tracks and ran down the grooves into the market beyond, saturating the market stands and covering the concrete blocks, and each chav went about the market blessing the place until every stall and stand was slick and greasy with the congealing ectoplasm.

On the threshold, Fat Mike was still having some trouble. The lard had gotten caught up in his wheels, it was all over his hands, and all over the floor beneath him. So he did what every frictionless object did under such conditions; he spun 180 degrees and slid backwards until both wheels plugged themselves plumly into the tracks. A fatal fit.

And then Fat Mike heard death calling.

Ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling.

The familiar ring woke the two Mohammads up in their car.

“F—k all that, look!” screamed Lil Mo, ”the bollard’s out the way! We gotta gun it!”

There was no hesitation from Mean Mo. The VW Golf’s ultra fat tyres screeched and rallied for traction on the damp cobbles. A second after that they bit down and slung and the hatchback forwards.

Last summer, in both rain and shine, Mean Mo had tested and tested again his nought-to-sixty down at the local race track; there was no doubt in his mind he’d make it before the tram passed through. And this time there would be no intrusive thoughts of Jeremy Clarkson.

The high-viz woman slipped about on the puddles of lard next to Fat Mike and screamed impotently for the driver to stop, but there was no use. The driver was helpless; lard had engulfed the wheels, tracks, brake pads and gears. The tram, unstoppable and stubborn, blundered on. The great blond bollard deadlifter raced back to try and heave it between Fat Mike and the tram, but the handles had caught a splatter of lard and inhibited his purchase. His weightlifting chalk lay on the other side of the tracks - there was no chance to retrieve it in time. The bollard taskforce had failed in their duty.

But there was still hope for Mean Mo. He raced, clear-eyed and calculated, for the gap that still remained between the front of the tram and the outlying concrete barriers. He hammered through each gear to the gasp of the dump valve.

Lil Mo, to his left, had lost his mind. Rabid, frothing and ecstatic, his mouth peeled back towards his ears like an incensed hyena. He screamed their bloodlust home.

“F—K YOU FAT MIKE, YOU FAT KAFIR C—T!”

Mean Mo darted a look at Lil Mo, then back to his front. He slammed the breaks, shucked the car into a hard left, and the rear tyres squealed and fluttered over the cobbles. They flew out into a wild crescent, the spoiler cut through the air like a scythe, and, at its perigee, came within a hair’s breadth of Fat Mike’s chins. The Golf’s driver door smashed into the concrete barriers and clattered onwards down the street, spraying green paint chips, tinted shards of glass and bucking like a wild bull trying to escape its ring.

But the tram still was still ploughing its way forward, the bell rang without cease, the brakes clamped fast. Accretions of lard piled up in ever greater ripples at its feet. Fat Mike craned his neck left and right but could only hear the mad whirr of death getting closer and closer. He shifted his weight one side and the other in one last desperate attempt to throw himself off the tracks. It didn’t work.

“GET ME OFF THIS THING!” he screamed to the big blond bollard deadlifter, who slid over to him and steadied himself by getting his hands on his lapel. If he couldn’t lift the bollard, maybe he could lift Fat Mike. But there was no luck. He weighed just as much, and the chavs had already basted him with lard. Bulky and greasy, the bollard lifter gave him one last sorrowful look, then rolled for his life.

This is it, thought Fat Mike. He closed his eyes, thought of kebabs and waited for death. Something stiff jabbed his back through the seat of his wheelchair. Then there was nothing.

* * *

The tram had come to a stop in the nick of time. Fat Mike was being prodded in the spine at its very tip. He opened his eyes, blubbering, and wondered if he was still alive or had woken up in the next world.

Meanwhile, the chavs had either run out of lard or dispersed. Big Mo was nowhere to be found. The VW Golf came to a rest, humping a concrete barrier like two elephants mating. Its neon green shrapnel lay all over the road in a scattered path towards it. Lil Mo and Mean Mo were also unseen. Extraordinarily, the market patrons had already gone back to their mulled wines and smiled gratefully at it all being over. The bollard team and the tram driver set about extracting an apologetic Fat Mike from the tracks. A strange resolved calm held the scene.

They wiped down Fat Mike’s chair and he managed to wheel himself off in a daze. But it was only a short distance up the road until a familiar pair of hands - brown, hairy, scraped and bloodied - grabbed him by the shoulders. It was Mean Mo.

“Alright, Mo,” said Fat Mike weakly.

“Alright, Mike.”

Fat Mike relinquished control of his wheels. Mean Mo was taking him towards the kebab shop.

“I, er, kind of thought you were about to do me in back there. Are you okay? What happened?”

“It’s all good, Mike. I think the car must have slipped on some of that grease down there.”

“Oh, right, of course. The pig fat. I’m so sorry about those racists, Mo. It’s awful that happened. But at least you got out alright.”

“Yeah.”

“So; we’re going back to the shop, then?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna fix you up something nice.”

“Double large?”