Tales of the Gobi Desert
Diocesan Boys’ School Primary Division, Marcus Du, Fiction: Group 2
W
HAT DOES THE FOX SA……” The rest of the phone’s unique yet annoying ringtone
was drowned out by the roaring laugh of a pudgy man who was having too much
beer in his dotage. A well-built hand reached for the iPhone 5 in a neon yellow case.
“Hello?” said the young man, albeit in a pessimistic tone. He was not used to being
disturbed during his daily, or to be specific, nightly alcohol consumption period. Dave Halfaway was
half finished with a bottle of expensive champagne, while his father, Dennis Halfaway, was way
past his tenth bottle of beer. The caller was one of millions of Halfaway Logistics users, requesting
cargo to be sent from one destination to another, sometimes to exotic places all around the world.
But this call would be the most exotic place ever. “Allo?” The caller replied in a thick Asian accent.
“Ish thish Halfaway Loghishticsh? I need a pakagesh deviviered to Mongolia.”
“Sure,” said Dave, “what do you need shipped”
“It ish shtricty confidenshial, I jusht need it shipped to a shertain place. I will give you the
direcshuns now. When you get to Ulaanbaatar, head 76 miles Shouth, and follow the dirt path for
another 3 miles. There will be a village there. Shay the package ish from quasar and someone will
take it. That ish all.”
And so the caller hung up.
“Da!” Dave cried. The pudgy man slowly stood up, and tottered over to where Dave was sitting.
“What ish it?” Dennis said before regurgitating onto his own belly.
“Da, I think that we should talk about this tomorrow.” Dave said, only then noticing his dad’s
snoring. Dave slumped into the poorly upholstered chair and tried to enjoy whatever was left of
the champagne.
Two days later, Dave finally had the chance to sit down and have a chat with his father. “Da,
we have to ship a parcel to someone in the middle of the Gobi desert.” “Then ship it there”
“But none of our couriers have enough brain capacity to get it to that little hut in the middle
of Mongolia, Da!”
“Then we’ll deliver it ourselves” blurted Dennis.
“Fantastic idea!” said Dave, sarcasm dripping out of his mouth; typical of a conversation
between father and son
After five days of Dave procrastinating, father and son hobbled into Ulaanbaatar Domestic
airport. On account of Dave having “texting cramps” and Dennis being too lazy, they ordered a
porter to carry the parcel the size of a soccer ball to the Avis car rental. “Hello.” said Dave to the
lone concierge, “We’ve rented a Ford Terrain, with four wheel drive, a navigation system and the
whole kaput via online. Is this where we retrieve the keys?”
“Yes,” replied the person, in a surprisingly accent free voice. “But I’m sorry, it broke down
yesterday. We have a replacement in Bay 4.”
The hand of the concierge reached over the table and placed a single key on the table. “Have a
good time!”
“Good time my foot!” grumbled Dave.
In Bay 4, a weather battered Toyota pickup was waiting for them. The interior was bare
except for two seats. Dave groaned and flung open the door. The door then proceeded to fall off
“
