2am

“You cannot be serious, Ian Devine” I spluttered. “We are gentlemen – we are much too sensible to fight a duel.”

“That, Dennis Brent, is precisely what gentlemen do. Common folk brawl in the streets, gentlemen duel in a well organised and sensible way.”

“You make a good point, Ian Devine, but we cannot fight a duel within the confines of an aeroplane. Surely you know enough basic physics to understand the effects if the plane’s walls were to become damaged.”

“Dennis Brent, it falls to me as the wronged party to choose the manner of our confrontation. I choose…” he paused for dramatic effect, “…a pie eating contest.”

“A pie eating contest?” I gasped.

“A pie eating contest” he confirmed.

“But your pies are in your trunk and that is in the luggage hold. Your satchel isn’t nearly large enough to contain a whole contests worth of pies.”

“Ah but you underestimate me, Dennis Brent” he said smugly. “My trunk is beneath this green cloth.”

“I thought that was a hillock…” I began but stopped myself just in time. “Yes, I’d been wondering how that got there” I said instead. “How did you get it out of the hold?”

“I have my methods” he said cunningly. I couldn’t imagine Ian Devine sneaking down and manoeuvring himself slickly between the piles of suitcases.

“Meaning?” I asked, knowing he would be unable to resist a chance to gloat.

“I don’t make a habit of gloating but I paid a lithe looking prole boy from economy glass to retrieve it.”

“A very sensible idea. How much did you give him?”

“That is the beauty of proles – they can be purchased so easily. I gave him ten dollars and the naive fellow actually believed me when I said that equated to ten English pounds. They really have no idea of the intricacies of international finance.”

“You got yourself a bargain, Ian Devine, and no mistake.”

“So now we can fight our crusty duel” he said, returning to a topic I hoped could be brushed under the carpet.

“But I would feel terrible if I denied you half of your pies” I tried.

“Ho ho ho – the mere idea that you could match me pie for pie. That is richly comic, Dennis Brent, and I would congratulate you in writing if we weren’t currently sworn enemies.”

“Thank you” I said meekly.

“I will be able to soundly defeat you in combat and lose barely ten percent of my pies. Perhaps fifteen percent but we are nearing the United States of America and yankie-pies.com assured me that New York City offers several round the clock pie emporia.”

“Then what must I do to give you satisfaction?” I asked, forgetting that I had been the party most heinously wronged.

“I will eat a pie, then you will attempt to eat a pie, then I will eat a pie, then you may attempt to eat a pie, then I will eat a pie, then you will make an attempt at a pie, then I will eat a pie… and so on until you surrender and declare me the winner.”

“How is the surrender to be signalled?” I asked.

“By the failure to eat ones designated pie within the internationally recognised two minute period.”

“And who is to act as judge?”

“We shall use Miss Mifflin. She is reliable. Miss Mifflin” he called. The stewardess came over and Ian Devine explained what was about to happen.

“That sounds rather unpleasant” she said, “Many people feel rather ill as the plane comes in to land. Wouldn’t you gentlemen be better settling your differences on dry land?”

“Piffle, Miss Mifflin, I am Ian Devine and I have never expelled good food. Dennis Brent on the other hand may vomit until he strikes oil and I will not shed a tear. He called me names and I want satisfaction.”

“Very well” she said with reluctance. “You go first, Mr Devine.”

CHOMP.

“That was most enjoyable” he said. “Your turn, Dennis Brent.”

I took a bite and, although it was rather pleasant and I had barely eaten since my small bowl of BranFlecks that morning, I couldn’t see myself lasting the course. Ian Devine was excitedly counting down the period of time which I had to eat my first pie. I tried appealing to Miss Mifflin that Ian Devine was burning up calories by being so animated and therefore was gaining an unfair advantage but she ruled in Ian Devine’s favour. With barely five seconds to spare I swallowed the last of Ian Devine’s pie and signalled that it was his turn.

CHOMP.

“I must congratulate Mr Wetfinger – he must’ve enjoyed marital relations before baking that pie. His lively glow shines through every crumb and chunk of fruit. Your turn, Dennis Brent.”

I faced my second pie with what I convinced myself was Ian Devine style gusto. I took several large bites and chewed as best I could but it didn’t seem to get me anywhere. I am a man of refined tastes and Ian Devine’s bulk-is-best philosophy was alien to me. I completed the challenge with seconds to spare and let Miss Mifflin check my mouth for any attempts to conceal half chewed pie. Ian Devine grabbed his third pie and waved it in the manor of a prestidigitator about to make a handkerchief vanish.

CHOMP.

“A little below par – that one was fashioned on a Tuesday and the melancholic nature of that day has influenced the texture. I also detect a hint of lead – possibly a goods van was parked outside as it was being formed. Your turn once more, Dennis Brent.”

And so it continued for several more minutes of tortuous eating. Mid way through pie number eight I felt my belt snap and my stomach slam its door shut.

“I concede” I said weakly. It was all I could do to hold one weary arm up and wave it dejectedly.

“I respect that you made it thus far, Dennis Brent, you have earned my forgiveness. We shall not mention this sorry escapade again save for each anniversary when I will celebrate my victory with a special pie upon which Mr Wetfinger will draw an image of your face in icing.”

I was sickened by his words and my stomach eagerly agreed.

“Oooh – that’s going to stain the carpet” said Miss Mifflin.