A/N: I toyed with all sorts of titles for this story, all involving the word Fine, because it's Larry's surname and I wanted it in there. 'Another Fine Mess' seemed too obvious. Plus, it's more obviously connected with Laurel and Hardy and I'm pedantic like that (even though it would have worked). 'One Fine Day', 'A Fine State of Affairs', 'Fine for Some'. I tried 'em all for size. Finally (ha, no pun intended), I settled on 'Fine and Dandy'. And then I invented a Dandy Street. Tenuous? Yes. But does this make it a fairly ill-fitting title, just like some of the Stooges' shorts themselves? I hope so!
Anyway, that's how it got its name. You may now proceed to read and I shall sit here biting my nails hoping that you like it.
Fanfiction written for fun, not profit.
Based on the Classic Three Stooges.
Fine and Dandy
Chapter 1
The Leaving of Larry
"Jenson," said the attractive Society lady in the back seat of the Rolls Royce, "we mustn't travel our usual route down Simpson Street today. My horoscope informed me that 'trouble comes with the letter 's'."
The weary, grey haired Chauffeur in the driver's seat nodded indulgently. He had long ago become used to his employer's little eccentricities. Astrology, numerology, the I Ching, tarot cards and the like- she followed all of it religiously. "Yes, Mrs. Featherington," he replied, calmly. "I'll cut across Dandy Street instead, although you may be slightly late for your meeting because Dandy Street's very busy at this time of the morning."
"That's quite alright, Jenson," Mrs. Featherington smiled. "As long as we don't encounter the letter 's'. Or I might not get to the meeting at all!"
"Very well, Mrs. Featherington, as you wish," Jenson glanced affectionately at his employer in the rear view mirror and made a mental note to turn left at the next intersection.
Dandy Street was, to put it mildly, very busy. Like an artery running through the industrial side of the city, Dandy Street was full of factory workers, manual labourers, tailors, carpenters, fishmongers and butchers, blacksmiths, ironmongers and the like. There were horses, carts, bicycles and motor vehicles everywhere, even on the pavements. The air was blue with cussing sailors and thick with various accents from all around the world. Taverns were open for those in the know even as early as 7am. The buildings were black with soot and the alleyways were strewn with litter. But Dandy Street was used as a shortcut for those wanting to get from one side of the city to the other- which was probably why it was always so crowded.
At the side of the road, where they had managed to squeeze their small, flatbed truck into an even smaller parking space by shunting the car behind up onto the pavement, three painter/decorators were unloading their tools of the trade. The chirpy fat one was standing on the back of the truck, passing things down to the grumpy one with the soup bowl haircut, who was handing them in turn to the easygoing one with the hair like a tumbleweed gone crazy. All three were dressed in overalls that had once been white but were now all the colours of the rainbow from various paint jobs they'd done over the last few weeks (some of which had to be abandoned half way through after going horribly, horribly wrong). The fat one was dawdling because he was easily distracted by other things that were going on around him, and his cohorts were starting to get impatient.
"Come annn, what's the matter with you," the soup bowl haircut one said to the fat one. "Hurry it up, will ya?"
The fat one went "hmmmm!" and waved his arm at his glowering colleague. "Don't be impatient!" he trilled in a ridiculously high pitched voice.
Soup Bowl turned to Tumbleweed. "How d'ya like that," he grumbled, gesturing with his thumb at the fat one.
Tumbleweed put his hands on his hips, shook his head and tutted. "Tell him we ain't got all day."
Soup Bowl turned to Fat One, but then did a double take and turned back to Tumbleweed. He slapped Tumbleweed loudly right in the centre of his forehead- the only place on his scalp where there wasn't any hair. "Don't tell me what to do," he snarled. Then, turning back to Fat One, he repeated exactly what Tumbleweed had just said. "Hey, Puddin' Head. We ain't got all day!"
The fat one pouted like an overgrown child. "Ya want me to go faster? All right! I'll go faster!" He slapped his own face several times, jumped up and down on the spot and began throwing things out of the truck at high speed.
Soup Bowl and Tumbleweed cowered down and covered their heads as cans of paint, planks of wood, boxes of paintbrushes and bottles of turpentine (among other things) came raining out of the truck.
"It's an ambush!" cried Soup Bowl. He winced as a bottle bounced off his head and smashed in the road, sending glass fragments into the path of a Rolls Royce that was trundling slowly down the street.
Jenson saw the bottle break in front of him and tried to swerve around it, but it was too late. There was a loud bang as the tyre on the front wheel nearest the kerb exploded.
"Jenson! What was that?" cried Mrs. Featherington from the back seat.
"We got a puncture," Jenson replied with dismay. "Some goons just broke a bottle on the tarmac!"
Mrs. Featherington was not happy. "Well! Now I really am going to be late for my meeting! Stop the car, Jenson. I'm going to give those three fellows a piece of my mind!"
Jenson shrugged. "I'm stopping anyway," he muttered. "we ain't going no place with a busted tyre."
The Rolls pulled to a halt alongside the flatbed truck.
"You! You there, you three gentlemen!" cried Mrs. Featherington out of the back window. "What do you think you're doing?"
Soup Bowl and Tumbleweed, still crouching behind the wagon with their arms flung over their heads, peered up at the red faced woman who was shouting at them from the back of a posh car.
"It ain't us, lady," said Soup Bowl. "It's that imbecile up there!"
The fat one was still throwing things willy nilly without looking to see where they landed. A paint can with a loosened lid sailed up over the Rolls Royce. The lid came off as the paint can reached the top of its arc and began dropping. It landed open-end down on the head of a man driving a horse-drawn milk cart. Covered in paint and unable to see where he was going, he fell backwards with a loud yell, pulled on the reins and caused his horse to rear up and bolt. Noise and commotion filled the air as people swerved and ducked to avoid the things that the fat one was throwing out of the truck.
"We can't hear ya, lady!" cried Tumbleweed. "You'll have to come closer!"
"Oh, of all the...!" Mrs. Featherington harrumphed. "Jenson! My door!"
With a sigh, Jenson got out of the driver's side, went around to Mrs. Featherington's door and opened it for her. The attractive Society lady climbed out and stalked over to Tumbleweed, her finger already poised to give the fuzzy-haired miscreant a stern talking to.
"Look out!" cried Tumbleweed, suddenly. All four (Jenson, Mrs. Featherington, Soup Bowl and Tumbleweed) turned to see what was about to happen. The bolting horse came thundering across the street, reared up again, and brought its hooves crashing down onto the roof of the Rolls Royce, caving it in right above the spot where Mrs. Featherington had just been sitting. Mrs. Featherington went pale at the sound of crunching metal and her hand flew to her throat.
"Why, if you hadn't made me get out of the car, I could have been killed!" she said, her voice trembling.
"There's still time!" said Tumbleweed, pulling her out of the way of another flying paint can.
Meanwhile, Soup Bowl, holding the lid of a trash can in front of his face like a shield, was climbing up onto the back of the truck. He ducked out of the way of a box of nails and deflected a hammer with his makeshift shield. Then he tapped the fat one on the shoulder.
The fat one turned around. "You said go faster!" he shouted, petulantly.
Soup Bowl took his shield and rammed it down over the fat one's head. "Well, now I'm tellin' ya to slow down!" he thundered.
"Make up your mind!" the fat one complained.
Soup Bowl looked at the trash can shield which had formed itself into the shape of the fat one's head. "At least I have a mind!" he growled.
"That's debatable!" the fat one grunted.
Soup Bowl was not impressed. "Why, I'll murder you!" he uttered, and launched himself at the fat one.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Featherington was gazing adoringly at Tumbleweed. "Young man, you saved my life!" she told him, her blue eyes dancing with gratitude. "Pray tell, what is your name?"
Tumbleweed dragged his toe across the ground. "Pray tell, I'm Larry." He blushed like a little kid in front of his favourite teacher. "And my two friends are Moe and Curly."
Mrs. Featherington looked with considerable disdain at Moe and Curly fighting on the back of the truck. Moe was raining a variety of items down on Curly's head- when something broke he just picked up something else. In the midst of the onslaught, Curly was able to get in a few blows of his own by waving his hand in front of Moe's face to distract him, and then punching him in the stomach. This only fueled Moe's ire, causing him to hit Curly even harder while he called him all the names under the sun, and some from under the moon and stars, too.
"How on earth do you manage to work with a pair of ruffians like that?" she asked in disbelief.
Larry sighed loudly. "It ain't easy," he told her.
"Are they like that all the time?" Mrs. Featherington blinked as a two by four snapped over Curly's iron cranium.
Larry nodded slowly. "Yep. They're like that all the time."
"You imbecile!" Moe roared. "You lamebrain! You empty headed nincompoop! You clumsy, no-good snake in the grass!"
"Hey! That ain't fair, I ain't no snake!" Curly kicked Moe hard up the rump. Moe's head went down into an open paint can.
"Why youuuuu!" Moe stood up and removed the paint can. Thick yellow paint oozed down all over him. He threw the empty can at Curly, who ducked. The paint can went sailing through a shopfront window, smashing it into smithereens. The owner of the shop came flying out onto the street, screaming and yelling blue murder.
Amidst the ruckus, Jenson had quietly gone to a phone booth and called Mrs. Featherington's butler for assistance. The butler sent along a second car, a sleek Daimler, which now pulled in behind the damaged Rolls, purring like a panther.
"Come along, Larry," Mrs. Featherington said, taking the startled tumbleweed by the arm. "I'm whisking you away from all of this right now!"
Larry hesitated, pulling against her. "What do you mean, you're whisking me away? Why?"
"Why? because you saved my life, that's why!"
"But what if I don't wanna be whisked?" Larry said plaintively.
Mrs. Featherington pointed at Moe and Curly, who were still raucously brawling on the back of the truck. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your days with people like that?"
Larry pursed his lips. "We-ell..."
Encouraged by Larry's indecision, Mrs. Featherington continued more forcefully. "Larry, listen to me. If you come with me, you shall have a life of unparalleled luxury from this day on. All the finest things will be at your disposal. You will never need to work, and you shall never want for money or food ever again. And you shall certainly be free from behaviour like that!"
Moe had just jabbed Curly in the eyes, and Curly retaliated by hitting Moe in the face with a wet sponge. The owner of the shop with the broken window had already been dispensed with- he was sitting unconscious on the pavement with his back against the wall wearing an upside down paint can on his head.
"You mean to say if I go with you, I'll never be hit over the head again?" Larry murmured. "Never be slapped by Moe for no reason at all? Never get the blame for stupid stuff that Curly does?"
Mrs. Featherington nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
Larry looked closely at Mrs. Featherington. She wasn't a bad looking broad, he decided. And then there was that old saying, 'never look a gift horse in the mouth'. She was offering him a way out, a new life, a prosperous life, and he'd be stupid not to take it.
Larry hitched his shoulders, stuck his hands deep inside the pockets of his dirty overalls. He watched Moe and Curly for a few more moments. "I doubt they'd even miss me," he sighed.
Mrs. Featherington sidled up to him and slipped her arm through his. "Well? Have you made up your mind yet?"
Larry nodded. "Yeah," he said, softly. "I guess I have."
Moe had managed to twist Curly down into a headlock with one arm and was bopping him steadily on the head with a monkey wrench. Curly was 'ow-ow-ow'ing' with every blow. Suddenly Moe stopped. He took his arm away from Curly's head and Curly promptly fell flat on his face.
"Hey! What gives?" asked Curly. "You broke the tempo!"
"It's Larry!" Moe shouted. "He's leavin' us!"
Curly sprang to his feet, surprisingly lightly for a fat man. "Whaddya mean he's leavin' us? Talk sense, Moe!"
Moe slapped his face. "I am talkin' sense! Look!"
Curly looked to where Moe was pointing with the wrench. Larry was climbing into the back of the sleek Daimler behind the snooty lady that had come over to give them a piece of her mind. "Hey! Where's he goin'?" Curly asked.
"How should I know? Come on!" Moe scrambled clumsily off the back of the truck. "Larry! Hey, Larry!"
"Hey, Larry!" Curly echoed. "Where ya goin'?"
"Larry," Moe yelled, breaking into a run as the Daimler pulled away from the kerb. "Larry! Wait for us!"
Larry turned around on the back seat of the Daimler and watched though the rear window at his two erstwhile friends running after the car. They were quite a sight- Moe, covered in yellow paint from head to foot with his arms waving wildly, and Curly, with a broken picture frame around his neck, jumping up and down and crying, 'woo woo woo woo woo!'
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he muttered.
"Nonsense," Mrs. Featherington smiled, patting his arm. "Just think- once we've got you settled in your new home, you'll never be troubled by those idiots again. Won't that be nice?"
Moe and Curly's irate figures were getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Moe threw a balled up rag onto the road and stomped on it. Larry put his hand to his face and rubbed his cheek. He knew that if he were with them now, he'd already have been slapped at least a half a dozen times, and that was just for starters.
"Yeah," he said, forlornly. And then the penny dropped and he grinned widely. "Yeah!" he announced, punching his fist in the air. "I'll never be troubled by those idiots again!"
