The Pizzaman

By Ross Wilson

Mr Parratt is a pizza delivery man in a small Scottish town. There is one delivery he is never going to forget on a fateful night when his world is turned upside down... after jilting his bride-to-be at the altar, he finds himself catapulted into a bizarre series of adventures on the other side of the world involving drug gangs, jail breaks and the discovery of fabulous treasures deep in the jungles of Latin America.

Graham Greene's Man in Havana meets Groucho Marx meets Forrest Gump in this tale of a hapless hero mixed up in a story of drug running cartels, murder, intrigue and betrayals in the search for long-lost jungle treasures...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781716172014

Book preview

Chapter 1

Snow had been falling most all of the day, piling up on the pavements and forcing even the hardiest of souls to remain indoors.

Rubbing a section of the steamed up window of the fast food restaurant with the sleeve of my jacket I stared out at the wintry scene, cars sliding and skidding across untreated roads, a homeless person huddled in a shop doorway on the opposite side of the street.

Would he last the night I wondered?

11.30pm and the restaurant owner had decided to call it a night and was already counting up his till receipts which suited me fine, there was no way I could possibly make any further deliveries in such Hellish conditions; outside it was like Ragnarok, Armageddon, and a mini ice-age all rolled into one.

My home lay only a mile from the fast-food outlet, a pleasant twenty minute walk in most circumstances, but tonight I knew the journey would take me hours.

The delivery scooter stood in the doorway of the shop, totally useless, hardly fit for purpose when snowdrifts lay almost two feet deep. The Lambretta GP150 was never meant for weather such as we were experiencing, terrific if you lived in Turin or Milan where they were designed and built, or even for disappearing to Brighton in the height of summer sandwiched somewhere in the middle of a convoy of parka-clad Peter Pans; but mid-December in Inverness?

And then the phone rang. I could hear the one sided conversation quite clearly and my heart sank.

‘Two large Pepperoni with extra cheese, you want mushrooms?’ A slight pause and then, ‘No problem,’ and the phone was hung up.

How in Hell was I expected to deliver anything on a night like this I thought and cursed the idiot who had placed the order. I had two clear choices, do a quick impression of Scott of the Antarctic and brave the icy conditions or tell my boss to stick his job up his arse. I chose the former, not because I’m a coward or that I timidly bow to authority, but I needed the job pitiful as it was.

There was no point in taking the Lambretta, the scooter wouldn’t have made it ten yards before lying down and playing dead; even machines can’t be forced into doing something they don’t want to do.

The manager handed me a slip of paper with the customer’s address before slipping two piping hot pizzas into his special boxes. A novel idea really and one he was extremely proud of, each box lined inside with a thick layer of tinfoil that ensured the food inside was kept as warm as possible.

I looked down at the slip of paper, Montgomery Street; Christ! It was nearly three miles away. I seriously considered committing suicide on the spot but instead simply picked up the two boxes and headed out into the night. I knew the manager was ready to lock up the instant I set out on my epic trek and would be safely tucked up in bed by the time I had covered only half the distance to my destination. I was not a happy bunny.

It began to snow again, heavier this time, an icy wind blowing head on forcing me to cover my eyes as I trudged through mountains of slush. I could sniff the appetising smell of the pizzas as I struggled forward and for one brief moment considered just heading home and devouring both, screw whoever had the bright idea of ordering food at almost midnight.

When I eventually did arrive at the customer’s home the house was in total darkness and it took three sustained rings of the doorbell before an upstairs light lit up the front garden. I then heard heavy footsteps descending the stairway and moving towards the door, a security chain being pulled back and a face peering out as the door opened a mere fraction.

I slid the pizza boxes sideways through the narrow gap before the door was then slammed shut in my face. ‘Obviously off to get the money,’ or so I believed, ‘No tip from this asshole I thought?’

I waited a good five minutes before again ringing the doorbell. My fingers were by this time turning a pale shade of blue, my feet had given up the ghost, and numbness was now creeping up both my legs.

A window opened above me and a man poked his head out, ‘what do you want?’

What did I want? I must admit at first I didn’t understand the question but then the voice from the window clarified the situation.

‘You were twenty minutes late, it states quite clearly on your menu that if you don’t deliver within half an hour then it’s free.’

I couldn’t believe my ears, the twat was lucky I made it there at all!

The window slammed shut leaving me standing in the snowstorm and all I could do was to make my way home cursing under my breath as I went; what else could I do?

Chapter 2

I slept late into the afternoon and arrived back at the fast food restaurant around 3pm to find only one customer awaiting his order, sitting patiently in a corner and reading a year old magazine.

I explained in great detail to the manager the reasons I hadn’t been paid for the pizzas but he was having none of it and I eventually resigned myself to the fact that the monies would be deducted from that week’s salary.

The storm had abated somewhat since the previous evening’s onslaught with only a few errant flakes still intent on making life a misery. A snow plough had been busy through the early morning hours and the roads were almost clear, and most of the shopkeepers had shovelled away the build-up on the pavements outside their premises. 

It was a slow day, not many deliveries, and even fewer tips. What had I ever done to deserve such a miserable existence I wondered? Had I pissed off some great deity in a previous life and this was their idea of revenge? And to top it all I was supposed to be getting married in just over a week’s time. The very thought gave me a migraine; if I could barely support myself then how the Hell could I hope to support a wife and God forbid a family. Things had to change and change fast, but at that moment all I was concerned with was getting even with the asshole that stiffed me.

I suppose I must have been drunk when I decided to propose, either that or it was during one of those low spells when I felt vulnerable, lonely, and a need to be mothered. Her parents were dead keen on the match even if it was to the ultimate loser and I suspected the real reason for their eagerness was simply that they were just glad to be rid of their daughter. But regardless of their reasons the date had been set, the Church had been booked, the caterers paid for, and it seemed there was no going back; doomed for eternity.

It was a Thursday, the worst day of the week for business. The usual crowd who appeared to survive solely on takeaways had already blown their weekly allowance and were living on beans and waiting for Friday to renew the cycle and begin again.

I gazed out of the shop window and although the pavements and pathways had been cleared there were still few people going about their business, it looked like Aberdeen on a flag day, totally devoid of life.

Bored, bored, bored; and I couldn’t wait for night to come.

The asshole that had refused to pay for the pizza delivery and forced me to be out of pocket had to warrant some sort of revenge, but I was still undecided on how to meet out my vengeance.

Various scenarios played out in my mind, paint ‘an asshole lives here’ in two foot high lettering across the front of his house, feed his entire front garden a mixture of toxic chemicals, take out all four tyres of the Range Rover that was parked in his driveway; the list went on and on with each imagined episode more extreme than the last. But the one I eventually settled on seemed the easiest to pull off, the most appropriate, and had the added advantage of being accomplished in a speedy fashion; or so I believed.

All that afternoon my services had only been called upon to make two deliveries, a Maryland Chicken meal with extra corn fritters on the side and a Special Tandoori which came with all the extras, poppadoms, pakora, spiced onions, the works.

At least both customers had the courtesy to take pity on such a wretch that was forced to undertake such work. OK, so one of the tips was only seventy five pence but the other was almost three pound. I know what you’re thinking, pretty rubbish, but over a week I generally took in forty to fifty pounds in tips alone and as a bonus all the chips I could eat.

‘Your portions seem to be getting a lot smaller’

I was used to this complaint. What did they expect when I had already eaten half their meal?

8pm and an order for two pizzas, chips and cheese, and two Hunga Busta burgers was phoned in; and the customer’s address was only one street away from where I would seek my revenge. The roads had now mostly been cleared and the Lambretta easily swerved in and out between the meagre traffic on the way to my destination. Definitely not late this time, only ten minutes from shop to customer and a four pound tip to boot, things were eventually looking a whole lot brighter.

Night had fallen hours before, a moonless cloudy sky providing me with the darkness I required to carry out my dastardly deed. I slotted the Lambretta between two parked cars just around the corner from Montgomery Street and walked the remaining hundred yards. So far so good, but I had hardly begun to make my way up Mr. Asshole’s driveway when a security light flooded the entire front garden.

Christ! It was like a super-nova. There was no such welcome the previous evening and I could only assume that somehow it hadn’t been activated. But then I remembered the snowfall and the answer was as plain as the nose on my face, the snow had obviously blocked the sensor and now it was clear.

I hurriedly made my way across to the other side of the street and secluded myself in a telephone box pretending to make a call, staring out through the grimy panelled windows waiting for the security light to return to its dormant state. No-one ventured outside of the house and I gave a sigh of relief; probably used to it with cats, dogs and the like I thought, perhaps I should have simply continued up the driveway.

I studied the property next door to my target, no security lights that I could see, the house lying in total darkness. Either the occupants were on holiday or out for the evening and a new approach began to formulate in my mind.

It occurred to me that I could enter the neighbour’s property unseen and undisturbed, a ghost in the night, and from there easily scale the six foot high fence separating the two houses. I was confident I could then edge my way around asshole’s house by hugging close to the walls and staying out of range of the security light’s sensor.

Cautiously I crept towards the building, halfway up the driveway and still no floodlights exposing my aim, no nosey neighbours staring out through gaps in closed curtains. Everything was going to plan.

Hurriedly I made up the remaining ten yards until I stood in a narrow pathway between the house and fence, but as I started to climb I thought I could sense movement somewhere in the darkness of the neighbour’s rear garden. I halted my ascent for a few seconds, hanging in mid-air, but all appeared still and calm and I ignored the feeling and continued to scramble upward.

In no time I was up against the side wall of asshole’s house and beginning to edge my way around to the front. The letterbox stood halfway up the front door, slightly higher than I had hoped but my plan still feasible if I stood on tiptoes.

I had purposely put off going to the toilet all day and had drunk multiple coffees and litres and litres of water. I was ready to release a flood of Biblical proportions and I hoped the bastard had a really expensive hall carpet. I could hear splashing from the puddle that was forming on the other side of the door and moved from side to side to obtain maximum coverage, a quick shake completing my act of revenge.

More than satisfied that I had at least gained some amount of payback I edged my way back around the building towards my point of entry. All was still and silent, no noise, no lights, the task ninety nine percent complete; and then everything fell apart, and I mean everything.

I was over the fence already, well almost, my feet dangling only a few feet from the ground when the movement I thought I had sensed earlier re-occurred. But this time there was no denying the fact that there was definitely something lurking in the neighbour’s back garden. And then I could make out a dark shape coming towards me, a low growl as the unknown entity approached.

The biggest German shepherd I had ever laid eyes on slowly crept into view; the beast looked as if it had been crossed with a Grizzly bear or perhaps a Yeti. I stifled a scream and began clambering back up the fence but the animal rushed forward, teeth tearing at my legs, my jeans being ripped to shreds.

I gave one massive kick backwards, the Alsatian locking its jaws around my shoe and ripping it free, but this act gave me the opportunity to haul myself back over the fence to lie gasping on the other side.

The dog was now barking in a manner enough to wake the dead, my jeans ripped beyond recognition, my legs scraped and bleeding, and now I only had one shoe. Was this some kind of divine justice I wondered? A balancing of Yin and Yang?

I raised my bruised and battered body up from the ground and began to make my way towards the street completely forgetting about the security light, and I had made it only halfway across asshole’s front garden when dazzling brilliance flooded the entire area. And then a light came on in an upstairs bedroom, the accusing eyes of a hundred gnomes burning into my soul.

The front door opened and I tried to run, but with only one shoe it was more of a lopsided shuffle. The effort was less than successful and culminated in me tripping over a garden hose and falling face down.

‘Hey,’ came a voice from somewhere behind, ‘did you just piss through my letterbox?’

Even the best laid plans I thought, but I guessed the outcome was somewhat inevitable knowing the sort of luck I was prone to.

I lay there groaning before I found myself being hauled to my feet, a fist smashing into my face causing me to again lie sprawled across the lawn, blood pouring profusely from a broken nose. I began to crawl towards the street, helped along by the toe of a boot until an upstairs window of the house flew open, a woman’s voice interrupting the onslaught.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Phone the police,’ shouted my assailant, ‘this prick just pissed through our letterbox.’

‘What?’ shouted the woman.

‘Just call the cops,’ repeated the man, ‘shit! I’ll do it myself,’ and he strode off back towards the house.

No more than five seconds later the security light ceased to illuminate the scene as if the whole episode had come to a close and I took advantage of this by hobbling back to where I’d left the Lambretta. I wasted no time in turning the key and starting the engine, disappearing as quickly as my injured state would allow, eager to be some distance away before asshole re-appeared.

Chapter 3

I decided not to drive back to the restaurant, how would I be able to explain my condition? OK, I suppose I could have lied and made up some story about having had an accident with the scooter, but the Lambretta had barely a scratch on it that hadn’t been there for years.

Instead I made my way home and phoned my boss claiming the scooter had broken down, it was almost 10pm and if this were truly the case I knew he would not expect me back. My next stop was the bathroom mirror, inspecting my wounds and gently washing away the dried blood and dirt.

Once I had cleaned up I had to admit to myself that my face didn’t look half as bad as it felt although my swollen nose was almost twice its normal size. ‘Going to look great in the wedding photos’ I thought, and then as if some form of ESP were in play the phone rang with my intended on the other end.

‘Have you made plans for our honeymoon yet,’ she giggled, ‘or is it a surprise?’

Honeymoon? I thought, ‘where the Hell did she think the money was coming from?’

But then I supposed it would be somewhat of a surprise when I told her all I could afford was a weekend in a tent on some desolate Welsh hillside.

‘Yeah, it’s a surprise,’ I eventually said, ‘listen, I have to go, I’ve another delivery to make.’

It seemed a white lie was an easy way to terminate the conversation, after the night I had I was in no mood to talk to anyone.

‘See you in a few days then,’ she said and hung up.

She had been gone for almost a week, attending some conference or other on financial management techniques, whatever the Hell they were. But I couldn’t grumble, at least there was one of us with a career and able to support both of us if need be.

She worked for one of the bigger private pension companies and held the prestigious position of Senior Financial Adviser, impressive as Hell until you realised everyone who worked there held the exact same title. Still, she earned more in a month than I did in a year, so sour grapes on my part.

Somewhat gingerly I lay down on my two-seater settee and found a comfortable position where pain was at a minimum before flicking the on-button of the TV remote and proceeding to trawl through the channels.

News, adverts, reality show, adverts, repeat, adverts. Eventually I settled on a game show that seemed the best of the bunch.

At first I paid little attention but as time went on I found myself mesmerised by the mind-boggling stupidity of the contestants, surely no-one could be as thick as the motley crew they had assembled. I mean really, the questions wouldn’t even have tested any self-respecting ten year old and yet the answers being given were as unbelievable as they were incredulous.

Q.  ‘What Asian country does Indian Elephants come from?’

A.  ‘Africa?’

And then I found myself shouting at the TV as if they could hear me, ‘What? The answers in the fucking question you twat.’

If I could be allowed to digress at this point, I do have a theory concerning the sad lack of mental capacity in this day and age. I am positively sure everyone was much more savvier in years gone by; God, even checkout girls were able to count out your change without too much trouble, a skill that is sadly absent today.

Anyway, back to my theory. I blame it all on Chernobyl. I won’t elaborate or enter into any discussion regarding nuclear fallout entering the food chain, but give me a few beers and start any argument related to politics, religion, the NHS, or why there are so many repeats on TV and my stance doesn’t alter; Chernobyl’s to blame for everything.

I woke in the morning with the TV still on, a message scrawled across the screen telling me the service would resume at 6.30pm. I still ached all over from the previous night’s mauling but at least my nose looked a whole lot better, maybe it wasn’t broken after all.

I didn’t have to appear at work until just before the lunch time rush so I was in no hurry to clean up and change clothes. I stared down at my tattered jeans now only fit for the rubbish bin, but then again maybe the look would someday come into fashion, who knows?

It was almost ten when I was disturbed by a loud hammering on the front door of my flat. OK, I like to call it a flat even though in real terms it’s only a glorified bed-sit; it’s good for my ego to think of it as such. I still hadn’t changed and looked a total mess and hoped whoever it was would give up and go away but the hammering just got louder until I had no option but to answer the door.

I opened up the door slowly to find the manager of the take-away restaurant demanding the keys to the Lambretta. I must admit at first he had me a little confused but then I remembered the events of the previous evening and put two and two together. Mr. Asshole had obviously remembered I was the pizza delivery guy from the night before and phoned my boss bitching and complaining. Either that or he had caught the logo emblazoned on the back of my jacket, PIZZAMAN in fluorescent four inch letters.

‘And don’t bother coming in later,’ shouted my boss, ‘you’re fired!’

‘But I need the money,’ I pleaded, ‘I’m supposed to be getting married in a few days.’

‘Tough!’ he said, ‘you should have thought of that before pissing through customers letterboxes,’ and with these words he turned and made his way back down the stairway to ground level, tripping on the last step and almost falling face first.

‘Serves him right if he had split his skull,’ I thought and hoped he was sued for selling two week old kebabs. How was I going to explain all this to my girlfriend, it looked as if even being able to afford a tent in a Welsh wasteland was now beyond my means.

Things were certainly not great and now they were becoming even worse, but I tried to put a brave face on my circumstances and told myself it was time I found a better job anyway. And the more I thought about it the more I wondered why I hadn’t changed long before now; familiarity? An easy life? I couldn’t put my finger on the reasons but the bottom line was the take-away only afforded me pissy minimum wage anyway, that and free food.

So, that morning I washed, dressed in my best clothes, and left the flat a lot more optimistic than my present situation dictated, a spring in my step and full of hope.

Chapter 4

It wasn’t as easy to find another job as I had anticipated, especially when the take-away manager refused to give me a reference. I had spent days walking around the city looking in shop windows for ‘help wanted’ and ‘vacancies’ posters but with less than no luck. I couldn’t really see myself handing out flyers or selling women’s lingerie, and neither could the woman who interviewed me for that position.

Right from the outset it was pretty obvious the only reason she was wasting her and my time was simply because of any legal ramifications that could ensue over sexual discrimination issues or the companies stand on equal opportunities.

‘You do realise the position entails selling ladies undergarments,’ she asked, a concerned look crossing her face.

‘I’ve had some experience in women’s underwear,’ I lied and she stared at me as if I was some sort of pervert.

The remainder of the interview fared just as badly, a slow downward spiral until the HR person decided it was time she terminated the torture and put me out of my misery.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘thanks for coming in, we’ll be in touch.’

The phrase ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ ran through my mind.

I still hadn’t told my fiancée I was now unemployed and the date of the wedding was fast approaching, and not only that but I was beginning to have second thoughts about this match made in Hell. I thought hard about the years ahead and how they may pan out, would things get any better? They certainly couldn’t get any worse.

And then the big day arrived, and where was I? In a pub twenty miles away getting sloshed. I should never have allowed things to go that far but time just seemed to rush past until it was much too late to do anything about it.

I arrived back at my flat late that night to find her three brothers waiting for me on the stairwell, no discussion ensued, no words spoken, only a flurry of fists and feet leaving me bleeding on the landing; could my life get any better?

Two weeks passed without any prospect of a new job or any further contact from my ex-girlfriend’s brothers for which I was more than thankful. At that point in time I had reached an absolute low, but then one rainy Monday morning everything changed, and for the better I may add; well for a short time at least.

There was a loud thud and then a clunk as my letterbox snapped shut, a heavy A4 envelope lying at the foot of the door. At first I assumed it was just more junk mail, the kind with your name and date of birth plastered over every sheet; how do they get hold of this information? I was about to disregard the package out of hand and dump it in the wastepaper bin but curiosity got the better of me. In hindsight opening the envelope was most likely the worst mistake I have ever made.

I slid the contents free and read the heading at the top of the first page, a dead giveaway that this was indeed more junk, ‘CONGRATULATIONS – YOU’VE WON’ in big bold red capitals. I began to scrunch up the sheet but then noticed a smaller envelope stapled behind the page, ‘Tickets and Vouchers’ printed across its front.

I slit the small envelope open and lo and behold an airline ticket fell onto the table. I felt slightly confused as I couldn’t remember entering any competition for a holiday, but then again I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth and guessed it must have been one of those supermarket surveys with the chance to win a prize. Still, I was a great believer in karma and with all the bad luck I’d been having I accepted the fact that fate was simply restoring the balance; kismet.

At that point I turned my attention back to the cover page and found I had won a two week all expenses paid vacation in sunny Belize. My first thought was where in Hell was Belize? But a quick check on the Internet answered my question. Strange location for a holiday destination I thought but beggars can’t be choosers.

I again looked at the airline ticket and found the flight was due to depart the very next day. I glanced at the post date on the A4 envelope, over a week ago, three cheers for Royal Mail. But then a worrying thought crept into my head, the holiday was all well and good but I was virtually penniless, what would I do for spending money? I emptied the remainder of the envelope’s contents out onto the table and sifted through the vouchers, one for hotel transfers, two for