In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ripped from the Headlines!.”

Rad Blog.

Here’s another story for you. The prompt says go to the news and pick a headline that is interesting then write a story based on it. Bing News is where I am and this is the most interesting title on the site. I mean, I guess I could write about some dude that was tased 20 times before he died in police custody, but would you really wanna read that grim of a story? Besides, I’m not some gonzo.

I think that’s my most clever link yet.

Okay. This one is called “No Wine, No Dine.” Now, I don’t have to write about the news story, but I’ll summarize it for you anyway. The Iranian leader was supposed to meet with the French leader, but the Iranian leader didn’t want wine to be served. The French thought that was stupid and canceled the meeting because they wanted wine. That’s the news, I suppose. Wine over diplomacy? Yay?

CHAS EDIT: Sorry. I got the story wrong the first time. I guess I should have read the article. I’ve amended it.

Well, here we go. Off the cuff and no pre-writing because that’s how I roll. Also, not really based on the story because it is pretty stupid. I’ll do my own take from the title.


“What do you bloody mean there’s no wine!” The faux British snarl leaped out of a tiny, portly man.

“I’m sorry sir, but we are out of wine. Our reserve was destroyed by the tornado last night. Have you seen the city, sir?” the maître d’ said in a calm, sophisticated voice.

Last night, an unannounced tornado hit the city of Hawkewall. The last reported tornado near the two was around three hundred years ago. People were calling this destruction “bad luck.”

“What about it? I have guests to entertain! If you have no wine, I am not going to dine here! I will go to a different establishment. How dare you advertise yourself as a five-star place!” The portly man squawked, turning nervously to his two guest slightly behind him. On his left stood a very tall women. She was about three times as tall as the portly man. She wore a rather large, haughty fur coat. Her eyes gleamed the riches from a thousand tears of sweat shop workers. Combined with her long, white-blonde hair, her snobbery was almost contagious. She shot the maître d’ with a slow, bored look as if to show her displeasure with the portly man with the faux British accent.

To the portly man’s right stood a slightly taller man. He wore sunglasses, yet one side was broken. His hair was a knotted nest of cockroach shavings. He wore a deep yellow shirt with the words “See Ya In Santa!” embossed in blue. He did not regard the maître d’ and kept his gaze upon his smart phone.

“Sir, this town has been completely decimated. You will not find a bottle of wine in this city,” the maître d’  said in a cool manner.

“Yet, you’re open, right? Why bother being open if you don’t have wine?” the portly man looked to his left for assurance. The woman sighed and darted her gaze to the Doric column that managed to still stand after the tornado.

“Sir, myself and the chef have nothing better to do today. We both live out of the city and thus were not effected by the tornado. We are currently serving victims only. Are you a victim of the tornado?” the maître d’ stated motioning to the pretty much empty restaurant.

“You bet your auntie’s bollocks I am a victim! I can’t find good service anywhere!” the portly man broke into something that resembled cockney.

“Hey man, let’s go to that cupcake place. I want a cupcake” the mop-headed man said.

“No. Cupcakes are so last year. This year is all about parfaits. Ooo! Ask them if they have wine flavoured parfaits!” the woman said in a nasally excitement.

“See! My bird here wants wine. How do you feel that you’re going to crush this poor lady’s hopes of a wine flavoured parfait?” the portly man jabbed.

“Sir, you are obviously not a victim and therefore I must ask you to leave,” the maître d’ said now motioning a shooing arm gesture.

“Do you know who I am?!” the portly man stomped. “I am the son of the governor Kingston upon Hull! I have more culture than you and your ‘establishment’ could ever have! I live in my father’s governor mansion, buddy. I can see The River Thames outside my window! You know what that is? Huh?”

“Sir, I suggest…” the maître d’ started

“No! I suggest you bring me a bottle of your finest wine from Franceland, you phony frog!” The portly man hastily brought out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. His guests remained behind him, just as bored as they arrived.

With that tirade, the maître d’ moved away from his counter and walked to the kitchen. Moments later, he came back with the chef. The chef towered over the portly man, holding a long ladle in one hand. The sun glistened off his dark skin as he made his way outside. With each step he took towards the portly man and his party, they took a long step backwards. The mop-head man dropped his phone. The snobbish woman’s countenance broke into a fearful glaze.

“What’s this all about, eh?” the chef boomed.

“These ‘guests’ have been causing problems, Chef” the maître d’ said slowly with a heightened deviousness.

“Problems? Well, we can’t have that. What seems to be the problem, eh?” the chef now leaned down looking directly into the portly man’s terrified eyes.

“” the portly man gulped completely losing his faux-British accent, “Wine?” He regained his composer slightly. “Yes. Your frontman will not serve us any wine!”

“Well, sir, this city was destroyed by a tornado. You see our building here?” the chef pointed to the roof of the restaurant with his ladle. On top of the roof was a Fiat. “That, friend, is my car.” The snobbish woman let out a disgusted groan. The chef’s gaze quickly darted to her. Just as quick as she let out her disgust, she hopped right back into trembling.

“I…see,” the portly man replied. “Well, I suppose we could go somewhere else. Yes. That would be best, guys, right?” He looked to his companions. The mop-head nodded still fixated on the chef’s now bulging biceps. The three scampered away back to a large yellow Land Rover.

“My phone!” the mop-head exclaimed turning to go back and get it.

“Leave it, Jerry!” the snobbish woman puckered her reply. The portly man hopped into the driver’s side. He took one last look at the chef and the maître d’.

“This isn’t even a French restaurant, is it? Some poor rubbish it is. Wait until Yelp hears about this,” he scoffed as he hit the gas. The chef threw a bit of rubble in retaliation, but to no avail.

The maître d’ walked over the the chef who was breathing heavily. He placed a reassuring hand on the chef’s cocked elbow. “What a day.”

“I hate people like that,” The chef said, now noticing the maître d’s gesture. He turned to him and grabbed the maître d’s reassuring hand with his hulking free hand that still had dust from the rubble he threw.

“Your father would be proud,” the maître d’ said with honour.

“Would he?”

“I don’t really know, actually.” The maître d’ moved a bit closer to the chef. The chef gazed back into the maître d’s eyes now with a hint of a smile. The maître d’ returned the smile and fixed his slick backed hair that had come undone from the excitement. They stood there for a moment just smiling. A ray of sun hit the two as it escaped the prison of the clouds. At first, it beamed off the Fiat’s still intact mirror, but then it crept its way to the chef and the maître d’. It formed a spotlight, completely contrasting the wreckage of the city around them. A small songbird warbled in the distance. For a moment, the dilapidated city seemed like hallow ground, perfect for a king.

“Let’s ask him then,” the chef broke from the gaze and peace, now cupping his free hand to his mouth. “Dad!”