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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol VI No. 1 |
Soundtrack:
Queen - It's A Kind Of Magic |
A familiar figure gazes across the valley at the Cake Stop. His piercing, unblinking stare systematically
registers every one of the bikes lined up in the rack outside the hallowed tea rooms — the graceful
frames are rendered minuscule by the distance the wiry framed man is gazing across, but the clear
warm air, the colour of Sauvignon Blanc allows him to identify every machine. He sees that of the
Adonis like Gunner (wondering if the wound in his 'thigh' has healed yet), the sparkling Bianchi of
Terry, better equipped than most of the machines in the observer's hellish peloton. And, with a shudder,
the stalwart frame of Fingal, next to the gleaming tandem of the Pikes and a brace of Bromptons being
the Nutties'.
The cafe doors burst open. Armstrong (for it is he) stands at the door bearing a monstrously ugly
chainset, recognized by many as a hideously outsized Dura Ace 10 speed, the teeth horribly sharp.
"Ah, the Cakestop," he bellows. "Hall of champions. Well, who among you will rise to a challenge?"
He is answered by silence.
"Is this the brave clan that has so oft defeated me? The heroic 'League'? The 'Intrepid Sorority'? Will
no-one meet my challenge?"
Ravenbait, a wry smirk playing about the corner of her lips, but Newbie, the gallant innocent
catches her eye and motions her to sit again.
"I'll meet your...challenge," he tries not to stammer.
"Is this the best this hall of champions can muster?" laughs Armstrong. "The squadron that beat my US
Postal Team Time Trial outfit by harnessing A-Time? At least he has a chivalry that none of the rest
of you share."
With a horrific grin, he pulls his jersey aside at the neck, and leans his head to one side.
"What...what?" utters Newbie. Ariadne is struggling to remove the handlbars of her Brompton to fashion
a weapon to defend poor Newbie, while Charlotte and Speedy611 gather fixed sprockets to use as
throwing stars. The Cake Stop is rallying to fight back while the deadly tourney presents itself.
Armstrong, by way of explanation, hands the chainset to Newbie and says:
"Strike, boy, strike — and do the best that you can. Your reward will be a return blow, nothing more."
"Make sure he's in no state to give one," Ravenbait tells Newbie mildly. "The Goddess is watching over you — honour
her and you will come to no harm."
Newbie grips the chainset hard in his slick hands and swings for all he is worth. The chainset, for all its
ghastly looks, is a fine weapon. It slices through the air, then through flesh and sinew, and Armstrong's
head is bouncing dully on the rustic wood floor of the Cake Stop. The brethren and sisterhood gape as
the eyelids twitch, and the Tour God's body, far from falling in a lifeless heap, moves to pick up the
severed head.
"Now there's something you don't see every day," says Gordon.
As the Tour God Armstrong reaches down, Brock murmurs in a bad American accent: "It also left a
man's decapitated body lying on the floor next to his own severed head. A head which at this time has
no name."
Armstrong resets his head on his neck and instantly there is no sign that there was ever any injury.
"I know his name," says the Priestess.
"Well, yeah," says Keith Oates. "It's Lance Armstrong. He's quite famous."
"Does this mean we get fried chicken?" FatBloke asks brightly.
"Coming right up," says Clare.
Armstrong looks a little puzzled at the lack of perturbation and apparent non-sequiturs, but hides it
well. He was expecting more of a reaction than this.
"You'll be wanting the return shot some time then, I take it," Redshift says amiably. "What's it to be? A
year and a day? Three moons hence? Next season?"
"Can't be that long," says Chuffy. "Have that hanging around for the next year? God, it would just be so
passé so quickly darling. We'd all forget. We haven't even got next year's calendar on the board to
pencil it in."
"Plus," observes Frustruck, "we're all busy thinking about the Forum relay at the moment. We need a
nice, easy date to remember."
"How about," Ravenbait says thoughtfully, "August 1st? That's a good festival date. Appropriate too,
what with it being about harvest and everything. On the beach at Dunwich. Then we can all have a fry-
up and a swim."
"You seem remarkably unconcerned that I am going to take your little friend's head off," Armstrong
snarls.
"Well, there's no point getting upset about it, is there? You made the challenge; he accepted. You
followed the rules. I don't quite know what's got into to you today, Lance, given that I thought we'd
sorted out our differences last time. I'm assuming it's just a bit of over-competitiveness. Or have you
been indulging in something you shouldn't have, and these violent mood swings are the result? Didn't
Pantani teach you anything?"
"You should have accepted the challenge, Priestess, rather than cowering behind some stripling, wet
behind the ears," Armstrong spits, stung.
"You didn't ask me specifically, did you? Anyway. I've got more sense, Lance," she replies. "I don't
need to prove anything to anyone." She lowers her voice. "What is it that you are trying to prove?"
"1st August, then," Armstrong says, ignoring the question, eyes stormy. "See that you don't miss it," he
tells Newbie.
With that he stomps out of the door, leaving it swinging behind him until it abruptly slams shut, almost
as an afterthought.
"What have I done?" Newbie asks, shocked, and would have sunk to the floor but Rigby, being the
perfect gentleman, whisks a chair across and underneath his behind. Ariadne gives Clare the bent eye
and the lady proprietor brings over something distinctly alcoholic to help Newbie settle his nerves.
"Let me see," says Aeroflash, who had dropped in to talk to Flying Monkey about something. "You've
made the classic error of accepting a formally phrased challenge from a relatively new, insanely
competitive and evidently irritable deity, and now you are bound to undertake a great Quest that will
follow the basic formula of all the great Romances, and on the first of August Lance Armstrong will
attempt to decapitate you. Your real name isn't Mattie Groves, is it? No? I wouldn't worry about it too
much, then."
"He's going to try to decapitate me?" Newbie whispered, gulping down some of the heady brew Clare
had placed in his grasp.
"That's the general idea," says Redshift, kindly.
"But the Death Clock gave me longer than a couple of months!" Newbie protests, face pale, eyes wide.
"I'm too young to die!"
"I wouldn't worry too much," says Cuddy Duck. "I believe this entire episode will turn out to be one of
those predictably mythic allegories regarding the Romantic ideal of chivalry, which, incidentally, was
completely unrelated to the actual behaviour of knights at the time. I imagine you will just be just fine
as long as you manage not to succumb to the demons of post-modernist relativism and keep your
opinions to yourself. Or at least keep your pants on."
"Why? Is he related to Ray Mears?" Chuffy asks.
"The blue tits are nesting in the letter box again!" Kathy calls from the other side of the room.
"Oooh! If Newbie is related to Ray Mears, all he needs to do is drop his shorts and then we can have
roast blue tit flavoured with wild garlic," Chuffy squeals delightedly. That catches FatBloke's interest.
"Are they like those funny little French things? I thought you were supposed to drown them in cognac."
Newbie realises that he is losing their attention.
"I don't want to die!" he wails.
"Oh, don't worry," says Kitzy, blessed with the preternatural faith of the innocent. "I'm sure everything
will be just fine."
"Fine? Fine?!" Newbie exclaims. "I just chopped off Lance Armstrong's head and he stuck it back on
again, and now he wants to do the same to me!"
"Well," Kitzy wrinkles her brow in a delicate and endearing frown. "I think we do have some
superglue, so I'm sure it will be okay."
Newbie finishes the rest of his drink and gets up, stumbles across the bar and is served another.
"What am I going to do?" he mumbles disconsolately.
"You could always go up to the Temple and ask the Goddess for advice," Nuttycyclist suggests,
clapping him manfully on the shoulder. "Anyway. We have plenty of time to work it out so try to relax,
there's a chap."
"Where's my X-Men 2 DVD?" comes an irate cry from the far side of the room. Clare's face blanches.
"Quick!" says Kathy, whispering fiercely. "We'd better find it. She's got a Hugh mood. It's all that talk
about going to see the new film. We either find her an X-Men video or we have to sit through the Alien
Quadrilogy again and then go play hunt the alien in the basement and we haven't got rid of the scorch
marks from last time."
Newbie is left sitting alone at the bar while a mass hunt is conducted for the missing DVD, staring into
his drink and feeling very small.
"Don't worry, old chap," says Rigby. "It's almost Friday, what!"
"Yeah," Newbie says miserably. "But, more to the point, it's almost May."
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