Ride The Moustache

A man with a distinctive moustache.
 Photographed June 3, 2006 at Galesburg,
Illinois. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I reread the sign, slowly. "Ride The Moustache." I paused, contemplated, and poked my contact lenses to check they were working. Candy floss staining my eyeball, I rereread the sign, mulling over the message in my head.

 I realised I don't wear contact lenses first. Secondly, I realised it said, "Ride The Moustache." The sign definitely invited me - and, I presume, anyone else who could read - to ride the moustache. I examined the ride, nodding thoughtfully, sucking on my teeth, even humming cautiously at one point. It was, to the untrained eye, a teacup ride. Except, the teacups - and they were teacups, once, because they looked like teacups with the handles broken off - were moustaches. Crude moustaches made of teacups, parts of brooms and a lot of black paint, but moustaches none the less.

 "Ride the moustache, good Sir?" Said the portly gentleman manning the stall. He was a typical carnival man, short, squat and dressed in yellow tweed - tweed jacket, tweet waistcoat, tweed plus-fours, tweed deerstalker, tweed monocle, tweed so on and so forth. My eye worked my way up his body, past his tweed and his shirt and bow-tie - both, also, tweed - and eventually, I focused on his moustache. It was not tweed, instead, it was hair and large and bushy and well-suited to a man dressed entirely in tweed.

 For a moment, I froze. "Ride the moustache?" He asked again, his mouth actually obscured by his own moustache. "Ride the moustache?" The giant moustache asked. Slowly, time slowed. I know that sounds stupid, but it got gradually slower before settling into one speed, slower than normal. You understand, yea?

 The lights dimmed. There was nothing but me and the moustache. "Ride the moustache?" He asked again. "Ride me?".

 "I...I, what?"

 "Ride me!" the moustache yelled. "There is nothing but me!"

 "What about the other moustaches?" I asked, knowing the question to be folly. There was only darkness, and the moustache, floating in the air, bands of colour emerging from the hidden face behind and psychedelically slinking into the air.

"RIDE ME!" The moustache yelled again. I can't, I wanted to reply, I don't want to. I've just bought new heads for my razor, and they cost me an extortionate amount of money, so I can't go getting involved with moustaches right now. Leave me alone, I wanted to yell. I stayed quiet. The moustache continued to stare at me.

 I shook my head, and it faded like a dream. Time resumed, the moustache shrunk and returned to the tweed man's face. Noting my disinterest, he turned and headed towards new potential customers. I held my head in my hands and wept. This was getting too strange for me. I must stop huffing bacon-double-cheeseburgers from a spongebag before I go to the fair.

There was a truck outside. I could see it...

Image via WikipediaIt had just pulled up outside my house, all big and truck-like. A large, moustached man in a cap was seated in the driver's seat, and as I watched, he began to eat a banana in a most un-erotic fashion. After a few minutes, he finished and discarded the skin on the pavement to cause hilarity and mayhem at a later date. Stepping out of the truck with a daintiness unusual for a man of his girth, he opened the back and began to remove boxes.

 I began to fill with dread. Max, safely tucked up in bed in his own house, returned to youth - was this his doing? Steeling myself, I waited for man and box to reach the door.

But no! The man, moustache quivering in the wind, began to take out more boxes, stacking them by the van. In total, he unloaded around 30. Then, back bent with strain, he began the slow task of moving them to my doorstep. After a long, long period of time, he finished this task and fetched a clipboard from the front of the van. Looking at it casually, he approached the house. Then, suddenly, he stopped and stared in disbelief. His eyes went from the clipboard, to the flashing neon sign with my address on it, back to clipboard.
 He began to sweat. His moustache trembled. But he pulled himself up, rolling back his sleeves and fixing his face into steely determination. He ran the doorbell.

 "Sign here, Ms. Gunderson" He barked quickly.
I looked at the name and address on the clipboard. Miss Ann Gunderson, that wasn't me. I scanned down the address, taking particular interest in the fact Ms. Gunderson's home was actually a castle, and that it was in Sweden.
 "That's not me. I'm sorry, these aren't for me."
He looked at me. Indignantly.
 "I recons they are, Miss! I recons you'll be signing there, and I shall unpack and assemble these pieces in your bood-wair, as requested, Miss!"
 "I'm terribly sorry, but I really don't want these parcels. I haven't ordered them, they belong to someone else." Who is in Sweden. "I can't in good conscience take them."
 "Then perhaps, Miss, I shall telephone the constabulary. They might be taking of a dim view of such goings-on as these."
 "Fine." I replied. "I'll wait indoors."

I returned and watched through the window as the delivery driver paid a passing boy to deliver a letter to the local police station. After a few minutes, a police car arrived, and two officers got out. I watched as they listened and the man explained. I watched, with interest, their faces as the story - accompanied by hand-gestures - went on. After a few more minutes, he began to prod one of the policemen. After a few more minutes, he prodded too hard.
 I watched as they bundled him into the back of the police car and drove off. The boxes were still outside, blocking my view. As time passed, I realised they were blocking out the sun as well.
 Well, it looks like I won't be photosynthesizing tonight.

The woop-woop of the fire alarm woop-wooped like some sort of annoying bird. Wearily, I rose and checked the time. 4 in the morning, fucking great. I pulled on my jeans and a jacket, and got most of the way into my shoes when the door burst open and a fireman entered. From behind a truly massive moustache, he offered the following in a calming, authoritative voice:
"Nothing to worry about Sir, it's only a drill. Go back to bed, sorry to have disturbed you."
Waving off the trouble, I turned and headed back towards bed. As I approached, I heard a yell, and turned in time to see a large axe spit my door in half. A small, balding man with a clipboard and a badge indicating he was doing the testing ran into the room. After looking around for a second, he threw a match into my bin, and another into a pile of magazines. He then retreated to the door.
As I looked on in shock, two different firemen rushed into the room and started to put out the fire, which had rapidly spread. A third ran in and lifted me up, carrying me out of the room.
He discarded me on the grass outside and ran back into my burning home. Within minutes, the fire had spread to the neighbouring buildings, and two more fire engines had arrived. Within two hours, the fire was extinguished.
The firemen had gathered around the examiner, who proudly informed them that their demonstration had given him no reason to doubt their abilities, and that the district would be safe should a fire ever occur. With that, they left.
It was cold outside, but fortunately an ambulance crew were doing a similar test and rescued me.

My aim in life

Is to become an evil, Victorian-style landlord. I plan to grow a large, threatening moustache and throw families out onto the street for being a ha'penny short on their rent.
I plan to replace sound with fast-paced organ music, and write everything down on large slides, to make the whole experience more old-school. If you don't pay, I'll tie you to a railway line (Could that derail a train? Hmm... I'd be so evil I wouldn't care anyway.)
So, if you're looking for a place to stay, apply now!
Unless you're Jewish.
Actually, they're good with money.
No blacks!
Ah, mindless racism...