Larry and Mick Adjust Their Ties

Prologue...

I know what you're thinking...
How can you have an entire story based on two men adjusting their ties?
Well read on, Doubting Thomasses!

Chapter 1: the prophecy

Some believed the Numero Uno would come and save them from the impending catastrophe which would otherwise wipe out their entire civilisation.
Some did not.
Of those who did not, some believed the Numero Deux would come, realise that the Numero Uno didn't exist and save the world instead.
'Personally,' said Citizen#1 to Citizen#2, 'I believe the Numero Uno and the Numero Deux arrived twenty epochs ago, at the same time, got into an argument about who would save the world and killed each other in the resulting bar-fight.'
'Well you're an idiot,' said Citizen#2. 'Now get those drinks in ' my abdomen thinks my throat has been cut.'
Abdomen? ' I hear you say. Thorax? Yes, you got it... these people aren't human. They're not exactly insect either.
And the world which they live upon is not The Earth or any approximation thereof. Well not technically speaking.
The world which they live upon is a far, far smaller world than that occupied by the tie-adjusters of the title... Or was.
I know what you're thinking... What's all this alien world/pending apocalypse/Numero Uno hoo-har got to do with two men adjusting their ties?
I'll come to that in a minute.
But first...

Chapter 2: the sermon

'Now hear this, O venerable citizens of Knotopia! For many generations, you have lived in the relative comfort of your Knotopian homes! You have slept in your comfy Knotopian beds, sat in your comfy Knotopian chairs, eaten from your sparkly-clean Knotopian plates, whose grease and ground-in grime from last night's Knotopian dinner have been cut through and effectively cleansed, using your lemon-fresh Knotopian washing up liquid, which you bought from your handy, local Knotopian supermarket, whose Knotopian shelves are always well-stocked with well-known and home-brand Knotopian products. You have... erm... hang on... oh yes... Hear this! You may feel, right now, at this moment in time, as you sit in your comfy chairs, in your comfy homes, that your comfy lives are immune to the random vagaries of happenstance, which will, when you least expect it, burst forth into your comfy lives and stick a large and very sharp and most uncomfortable pin into your comfy bubbles-'
'Enough of the "comfy already!' heckled a heckler at the sermonising twit on the podium.
'So... erm... But you're not! Comfy, that is. Or rather, you are now, but you won't be soon. If you see what I mean. Oh no! It's true, I tell you! And you better listen up or there'll be trouble! Not from me, that is. I mean, I'm not threatening you or anything. I'm basically a peaceful man, me. Wouldn't harm an amoeba. But there are those who would. Oh yes! And not just an amoeba! There are those who-'
'Button it, ya flippin' loony!' heckled another heckler. 'I wanna go home fer me tea!'
'But that's my point!' continued the sermonising twit. 'Soon there won't be any tea to go home to! Soon there won't be a home in which your tea is served! Soon there won't be a wife waiting at home to serve you your tea!'
'Isn't that a bit sexist?' heckled a third heckler, of the female persuasion.
'What?' said the second heckler.
'That whole wife-waiting-at-home-to-make-your-tea thing. At bit last epoch, don't you think?'
'It's a metaphor!' said the sermonising twit.
'Well it's a poorly chosen one.'
'But don't you see what I'm getting at? Don't you see what's happening here? Can't you see that the End Times are approaching and the only way we stand a chance of surviving them is by waking up from the comfortable drudgery of our lives and listening to the signs?'
'How can you listen to signs?' said heckler number four. 'Personally I just look at a sign and it says, "this way to the loos or somesuch.'
'Bugger this for a game of soldiers, I'm off fer me tea,' said the sermonising twit.
And so he was.
But not before stopping off at the pub on the way.

Interlude...

Larry & Mick considered adjusting their ties.
.
.
.
But...
.
.
.
Decided not to.

Chapter 3: the precursor

'Your round,' said Citizen#1 to Citizen#2.
'No, it's yours,' said Citizen#2 to Citizen#1.
'I think you'll find it's yours,' said Citizen#1 to Citizen#2.
'It's most definitely yours,' said Citizen#2 to Citizen#1.
At which point Citizen#1 and Citizen#2 fell off their barstools. Despite their advanced state of inebriation, this was not due to a lack of coordination resulting from such. It was, in fact, due to the ground shaking beneath their barstools. Given the fact that it would be rather an odd thing for the ground to shake just beneath the barstools of two drunken fools, it must be explained than this ground-shakery did, in fact, extend to the entire public house ' the whole building was subjected to this vibratory interjection. And furthermore, the street which it was a part of, the town through which that street was a conduit, and the entire buggery world which that town was the merest fraction of a pinprick upon the face of, did find itself within the grip of this 'tremor,' whose severity was, admittedly, barely enough to dislodge two drunken fools from their seats.
Nevertheless...
'Doomed,' said the Sermonising Twit of the previous chapter (who shall henceforth be known as 'Citizen#3'), who sat in a dark and dingy corner of the public house, nursing his umpteenth pint of what looked to be a carefully constructed concoction of seven parts rat's piss, two parts engine oil and a dash of camel spit.
'Say what?' said a Nearby Youth (or Citizen#4, if you prefer).
'You heard me,' said Citizen#3 (the Sermonising Twit) to this Young Upstart (he had no particular cause to consider Citizen#4 to be a 'Young Upstart' ' he was just in that kind of a mood).
'I did heareth ye not,' said Citizen#4 (or the Nearby Youth... or the Young Upstart... or... whatever!). 'Then bugger off and leave me to drink my pint,' said you-know-who.
'I am displeased with the manner in which you speak,' said the young'un.
'I am displeased with the way your face is blocking my view of a world which will not last beyond tomorrow,' said he-who-was-asking-for-trouble.
'Are you asking for trouble?' said he-who-was-preparing-to-deliver-some.
'Whether or not I am asking,' said the-one-who-would-soon-be-in-receipt-of-said-trouble, 'I fear that none of us can prevent its imminent arrival.'
At which point, the trouble did arriveth. Not the big, apocalyptic, end-of-the-world-type trouble. The fist-connecting-with-unsuspecting-conk-type trouble.
'Ahh, sweet sweet unconsciousness,' said the Sermonising Twit/Citizen#3, as the archetype-of-youthful-ignorance-and-misunderstanding purloined the newly available pint, said 'fucking nutter' in that way that such archetypes do, then departed in search of further cathartic confrontations at which to express his social antipathy.

Chapter 4: the lull

All was peaceful in the world of Knotopia.
Until...

Second Interlude...

Larry & Mick adjusted their ties.

Chapter 5: apocalypse

The barstools fell over and landed on top of Citizens #1 and #2. Citizens #1 and #2 rolled across the floor. Citizen#4 (the Nearby Youth) accidentally smashed the pint of Citizen#3 (the Sermonising Twit) into the back of the head of Citizen#5 (a Random Stranger), which would have led to a Cathartic Confrontation, if not for the fact that Citizen#6 (a Well-Endowed Female) stumbled and fell into Citizen#5, thus temporarily distracting him from the pain and dampness at the back of his head. Citizen#3 (the Sermonising Twit), who was already unconscious, fell off his chair and added to the pile of citizenry started by Citizens #1 and #2.
All of the above happened in the space of about 0.0003 milliseconds. And then some more stuff happened. By 'more stuff,' I mean Big Stuff. And quite a lot of it. So much so, that if you attempted to describe it all in the space of a couple of paragraphs, each paragraph would be about the size of one of those fifty-volume diaries written by really boring politicians, who have nothing better to bang on about than Cabinet Reshuffles, Taxation Theory and what type of biscuit the present PM prefers with his morning cup of tea. Except the paragraphs in question would be low on (*!*OXYMORON ALERT*!*) 'Political Wit' and high on 'This person fell over,' 'That building collapsed,' 'This pile of old crap spontaneously exploded' and blah-de-blah-de-blah. In short, chaos and destruction a-plenty did occur.
The once peaceful land of Knotopia was reduced to a pile of rubble. Less than rubble. You can live on rubble. The once peaceful land of Knotopia was reduced to a pile of what is left behind when rubble collapses. Which isn't much. Only two citizens survived to tell the tale:
'I am the Numero Uno,' said Citizen#1.
'I am the Numero Deux,' said Citizen#2.
'Liar!' they both said simultaneously, and killed each other in the ensuing scrap.

Epilogue...

'Wouldn't it be funny,' said Mick to Larry, 'if when we adjust our ties, we are killing off an entire civilisation of microscopic beings?'
'Don't be so bl'm'n stupid,' said Larry to Mick, as he removed his tie, deciding he wasn't going to wear one that day after all.
'Just a thought,' said Mick, as he adjusted his beret and considered whether to go with the Mickey Mouse cufflinks or the Skull and Crossbones ones.
'Well it's a stupid one,' said Larry, as he removed his shirt entirely and replaced it with the lime-green string-vest he had recently picked up for £2.50 at the market.
And that was that.

[FIN]