A Friendship Cemented.

A FRIENDSHIP CEMENTED

SCENE: A BUILDING SITE. IT IS HOT. IT IS LUNCHTIME.
TWO MEN ARE SITTING ON A PILE OF BRICKS; THEY ARE STRIPPED TO THE WAIST. THEY ARE ABOUT TO EAT THEIR LUNCH.

Fred the site plumber and part time bank robber was liberally coating his sausage sandwiches with brown sauce. He carefully laid them down on the greaseproof paper his wife always wrapped them in; he then splashes some of the sauce onto his bare chest and begins rubbing it in. John his mate is a scaffolder and part time bank robber's mate. He is smoking a cigarette.

F. "Working man's Amber Solair this is.

J. "You're fahkin' mad you are.

F. "Why's 'at, you don't mean to tell me you buys vat expensive gear do yuh? S'nuffink in it.

J. "Course vair is.

F. "Wot?

J. "Sunblock for a start an' uvver fings, factor 8 an'at.

F. "Wossat when it's at 'ome?

J. "It's jus' vuh strengf of wha'ever vay puts in it, to stop yah burnin' vas all.

F. "Nah yah don't wanna go by wot vose ads say, va's bollix vat is. Vis stuff is just as good an you can sling it on yer sandwiches, vat Amber Solair's shite in an egg roll.

John plucked a stray hair from his nostril and pulled on his cigarette; he felt his pivotal faculties were about to be tested to their limits. There was a long silence while Fred got on with eating his sandwiches, there was an occasional drop of sauce that escaped its environment, but it was immediately seized upon by a grubby finger and employed as a sunblock on Fred's macerated chest.

F. "Where ja go on yer 'olidays vis year John?

J. "Blackpool agen.

F. "Blackpool why Blackpool? "I fort a man of your wossname would go somewhere abroad.

J. "Wot, Wales or ve Isle ah Wight or wot?

F. "Nah don't be stupid, I mean France, yah could get loadsa cheap beer, or Spain vay got pubs 'n veryfing. "Yah can get fish 'n chips 'n beer an'ay all speaks English.

J. "Nah mate too many bleedin' foreigners an' I'm wanted in France anyway, an' I don't like flyin' neevah.

F. "Why's 'at?

J. "The 'ights.

F. "Wot 'ights?

J. "Up vair.

F. "Up where!

J. Pointing upwards "Vair!

F. "Joo mean to tell me vat yah don' like goin' up 'igh, an' you bein' a scaffolder?

J. "S'right.

F. "Well ah can you shimmy up one ah them uhhh.

J. "Scaffolds?

F. "Yeh, them. Ah comes you can do vat every day in your work an' you won't go up in a hairy plane?

J. "S'different.

F. "Nah it ain't

J. "Tis, s'like you an' yer plumbin' an' at.

F. "Ah's at then.
J. "Well, jus' cos you're a plumber it don't mean vat your gonna go up vat Pompidoodle Centre nah does it?

F. "Might

J. "Well yah might not.

F. "I've lost the catchment area of your drift.

What with the heady intoxication of their metaphysical ramblings coupled with brown sauce overload, they both fell into a sub-fusc slumber. They were awoken by a strange buzzing noise which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
Fred's chest was now covered with wasps which disconcerted him somewhat. Now Fred had carried out many a 'sting' in his time but the irony was something that he failed to grasp.
Fred looked down at his swarming chest for about one millisecond, then decided upon swift action. "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghghghgh!!!!!!!!!!!! Fred screamed as he leapt and ran - followed by the swarm - to a huge machine that was dispensing a muddy grey fluid into what were going to be the foundations of a bank. Again irony was not at the forefront of Fred's thoughts. He didn't think about the consequences, he dived straight into the swirling cement.
As Fred was a much loved local villain, the local people decided to give him a gangland style funeral which was covered by the local newspaper. Their headline ran:

EAST END MOURNS HARDENED CRIMINAL