MR. BEAN DRIVES LUXURY CAR

  MR. BEAN DRIVES LUXURY CAR

 

On a sweltering hot Monday morning, the relatively quiet streets of London were suddenly rudely awakened to life by the sight of a small luxury car weaving its way erratically through traffic. At the steering wheel was Mr. Bean, a thin, comical character with protruding ears that wagged slightly in the wind. His attire was odd: an impeccably pressed kurta pyjama hugging his thin, slender frame, topped off with traditional sandals that adorned his feet.

 

Inside the car, a pungent smell of cigarette smoke filled the air. Mr. Bean puffed furiously as if his life depended on it, a haze of smoke twirling around his head like a berserk halo. Between deep drags of the cigarette, he took generous swigs of Grey Goose vodka from a flask hidden in the glove compartment, each gulp causing a further shaking in his deadly hazardous driving. “This is my energy stick”, he muttered as he took another long puff of his cigarette.

 

“Ah, another gorgeous day for driving”, he mumbled to himself, eyes bloodshot from the effects of the Russian vodka and his appearance bedraggled yet gleaming with a mischievous glint. “Just me, my car, and the open highway. What could go wrong?” he wondered. He started humming Limp Bizkit's “My Way or the Highway” song.

 

As he navigated a sharp turn, he muttered, “Easy now, old boy. You’ve negotiated tougher turns in your life before. A few cigarettes and strong vodka can’t deter me.”

 

Early in the morning, the streets were relatively empty, except for a few pedestrians who leapt out of their way. Mr Bean’s small luxury car was surprisingly flexible, given its rough handling and several dents in its hood. It swung crazily to avoid imaginary obstacles, each manoeuvre accompanied by Mr. Bean’s monologue.

 

“Ha, look at them; they think I’m drunk and have gone crazy. But I’ve invented the art of controlled chaos.” He took another swig of the Russian vodka, narrowly avoiding a lamppost, “Driving is a dance, and I taught moonwalking to Michael Jackson. I’m Michael Jackson of the road.”

 

Suddenly, his attention was caught by his reflection in the rearview mirror. He adjusted his hair. He was very proud of his hair, which his mom used to comb for him until late in life. He then adjusted his kurta pyjama, nodding approvingly, “Debonair as always, Mr. Bean, Debonair as always.”

 

Just as he was overboard in praising himself for his excellent attire, he heard the siren of a police car behind him.

 

“Ah, the cops”, he whispered. “Time to put on my government official persona and charm offensive.”

 

He pulled over, fumbling to hide his flask of vodka and stubbing out his cigarette butt. The officer, a Sikh, approached and did a double take at the sight of him.

 

“Good morning, officer”, Mr. Bean hollered, attempting to sound as sober as possible. “Lovely morning for a drive, isn’t it?”. The Sikh officer, struggling to keep a straight face, replied, “Sir, you’re aware you are driving haphazardly and on the wrong side?”.

 

Mr. Bean nodded. ”Of course. Just testing the depths of my talents in driving, but safety always, first and foremost.”

 

The officer took out his notepad and started jotting down the details. “Sir, I must ask you to step away from your car.”

 

With a dramatic sigh, Mr. Bean played his trump card. He flashed open his government identity card and said, “Have a look, officer.”

“Well, at least I didn’t puke or spill my drink”, he muttered under his breath, looking at the officer sheepishly.

 

With a punchline that is so characteristic of Mr Bean, he announced in a nicotine-induced, raspy, drunk voice, “If I were a cat, I’d say I’ve just used up another luck. But then I’ve always had luck on my side, or maybe it is my ethnic kurta pyjama”. He mused while doing Michael Jackson’s Moondance in his head.