Wednesday, 11 January 2012

Russian Pizza

I don’t remember my dreams, not usually. But when I do, they are usually utterly warped and insane, i.e befitting of my character.

Let me regale you with one particularly vivid one. It’s about 20 years old now and I feel I must capture it for posterity, else it may be lost forever.

Me and one of my oldest and dearest friends Sal were on Wood Green high road. A new shop seemed to have sprung up, a restaurant of some kind, called “Russian Pizza”. We decided to try it out.

When we got in we witnessed a really bizarre scene. Ladies and gentlemen, seemingly from the Edwardian era were dining there. In fact the entire clientele of the restaurant was solely comprised of these old fashioned types. Men - in their waistcoats, top hats, monocles, pocket watches and formal coats. Women, with their whale bone skirts, tight at the waist, and frilly high collared blouses. Anyway, they were eating spaghetti, directly off the table, with their hands. They were troughing it like troopers, bits of tomato sauce were splatting all over the gaffe and it was dripping from their slobbery chops. The messy buggers.

We approached the greasy aproned proprietor at the far end of the restaurant, trying to avoid stray splashes of ferociously consumed pasta sauce along the way. We asked what was on the menu. As he stirred his huge cauldron he nonchalantly announced “you can have spaghetti like all these people or you can have Russian Pizza, but I warn you if you have Russian Pizza it will turn you into a werewolf”

And instantly I said “Yep! Russian Pizza for me!”. Now Sal was the voice of reason, he tried to talk me out of it in a shaggy from scooby doo voice all lily-ish and wavering. “Did you hear what he said? Don’t have Russian Pizza man, you’ll turn into a werewolf!”

But I ordered it anyway, after a few bites, I felt myself transform, my body break and realign itself, my muscles tightening and strengthening. I felt all powerful and yes, I was a werewolf. I was a machine built for speed and killing. I ran out of the shop (on all fours of course) and Wood Green had melted away, we weren’t in suburban north london, I was in a forest, at night, moonlight streaming through the leaves. I charged through the trees at lightning pace, barely avoiding them, weaving in and out. It felt incredible. Even better than the few times I was lucky to fly in my dreams (flying felt like swimming through treacle for me, nothing like superman).

I had the scent of something, I homed in and alone in a clearing was a sheep. I tore it to pieces and scoffed it. All went red. Then I woke up confused yet exhilarated.

I rang Sal the next day and told him about the dream, asked him what he thought it meant.. “What do you think it means Sal?” I said.

There was a moments silence, he contemplated an answer. And I’ll never forget what he said.

“It means you are a greedy fat bastard, as no one has lamb after eating pizza.”

2 comments:

Robert G. Boswell III said...

I think that story is actually true isn't it.

Rosanna said...

I am quite jealous of your dream...you will never have to get stuck with a story idea for a new tale with an active sleep pattern like that! You got well into your wolfskin tearing up the lamb too haha

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