Mike stepped nervously into the ring. He was beginning to regret the wager he’d made with his mates. Win a competitive Pie Catching competition and they would buy all his drinks at the pub for a month. That had sounded too good to be true when they first came up with it. He’d bankrupt them all with free drinks, healthy liver be damned!
Of course, if he was to lose then he would most likely go broke himself, as he would then be buying all the drinks for his mates. Only for a week, but knowing them they would buy enough expensive drinks to bankrupt a small country.
He’d been feeling confident though. After all, its only pie catching. How hard could that be? That had been his mantra right up until that very morning, when it suddenly dawned on him that he had no idea what he was doing. He’d assumed it would be easy, the pies are small, they couldn’t be that difficult to catch. However, he hadn’t thought about the fact that mouths are also fairly small and difficult to catch things in.
But even so, he wouldn’t let himself stop being optimistic. He wanted those free drinks, and he would damn well earn them. And so he had walked through the doors of the competition building full of anticipation. He’d been slightly nervous, but that only helped to give him a much needed adrenaline rush.
But as chances would have it, Mike had somehow been paired up with Ali “The Pie-Man” Jones, the British national champion at Pie Catching. He had visibly deflated when he’d been told that. Any misplaced confidence he might have held before hand had suddenly vanished, and his optimism realised it had prearranged plans with a half empty glass of water and abandoned him.
And so he stepped into the ring, nervous and ready to accept defeat, already thinking up a eulogy for his bank account. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage a man new to the world of Pie Catching competitions, Mike McMillen!” A few people in the crowd clapped at the announcer’s announcement, and one person even offered a half arsed cheer.
But they roared in excitement when they saw his opponent step into the other side of the ring. Mike however, was not so excited. Ali “The Pie-Man” Jones was, quite simply, massive. At least a foot taller than Mike, his shoulders were twice as wide, and he looked like he could crush a grown man’s skull in one of his meaty fists.
“And now, all the way from sunny Yorkshire, a man who has never lost a match, the man voted Best Pie Catcher of the Millennium Award by Pie Catchers Monthly, the British National Pie Catching Champion, Aliiiii Joooooonnnneeeessssss!!!”
The crowd went wild; cheering at the top of their lungs, women throwing in flowers, one lady even threw in a pair of used underwear. Ali ignored all this, staring at Mike in stone faced determination.
Mike whimpered back at him uncomfortably.
“Round One!” yelled the announcer as the Pie Thrower selected his first pie. Mike readied himself to be utterly humiliated.
“Three! Two! One! Now!” Clenching his eyes shut in fear, Mike launched himself into the centre of the square. If he was going to be humiliated, he might as well be humiliated in style. He was amazed when he didn’t feel himself being crushed beneath his massive opponent. He stood there for a moment before hearing a loud thud, followed by a gasp from the crowd.
Nervously, he opened one eye, shortly followed by the other when he saw what had happened.
Ali had charged into the centre of the ring, eyes focused on the flying pie, and has stepped onto the pair of underpants that had been thrown into the ring. His feet had flown out from beneath him, and he had gone crashing to the ground, knocking himself out in the process. Adding insult to injury, the pie then landed on his sleeping face, spilling out warm mince onto his forehead.
The announcer, recovering from the surprise, ran up and grabbed Mike’s hand, lifting it up into the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner is Mike McMillen!”
