the tales of sodor's engine

James in a fucking mess

(Warning the following may trigger some readers. If things such as foul language, law breaking and sexual jokes this is your only warning ⚠️)

The roads on the Island of Sodor were shit! There were lots of potholes and some sections had completely fallen into the sea! Cars and buses were having fatal accidents, but the Fat Controller didn't give two shits. Faced with certain criminal prosecution, however, he decided it was best to repair the roads after all.

The widespread repairs meant that more tar would need to be transported by rail. So much was needed that all the engines were expected to take tar wagons with them wherever they went. They resented the extra work, especially James the Red Engine, who hated tar.

James scoffed as he saw the tar wagons littered around the station yard. The sheer number of them was really quite ridiculous. He was scheduled to pull a train of tar wagons to Thomas' branch-line, where Bertie had recently smashed through a cottage after the road gave way beneath him.

"Fuck tar!" he said as he coupled to the wagons.

"Fuck you!" said the Fat Controller. "If we don't repair these roads, I'll go to prison! Now stop complaining or I'll send you to the fucking scrap yard!"

James did as he was told, but he complained the entire way.

"This sucks!" James cried. The tar wagons were old, squeaky, and smelled of shit. Not to mention, they were very heavy and there were many of them, nearly 69! In fact, all the engines had been pulling more tar wagons than was feasible - a possible oversight made only because the Fat Controller wanted the roads to be fixed as quickly as possible to avoid annoying litigation.

James approached Gordon's Hill, made it up about 5 feet, and stopped dead in his tracks, only to slide back down to the bottom.

"God damn it," James' driver fumed. "There's no way we can pull this many wagons! We'll have to phone for help."

James' driver began to climb out of the cab and promptly had a heart attack. As he fell, he pulled the regulator wide open. James shot forward, broke the coupling to the tar wagons, and darted up the hill! The fireman, knowing nothing other than how to shovel coal, gripped a handrail and held on for dear life.

It was not long before James crested the hill and sped down toward the junction. There, sitting in the station platform was another gratuitously long train of tar wagons being pulled by Henry. James shut his eyes, but it was too late! He smashed into the wagons, sending hot, smelly tar splattering in all directions.

"Oh, my fucking god!" screamed the passengers on the platform as the tar melted their skin.

"This is awfully familiar," said James sulkily.

Soon, the Fat Controller came to see what was the matter.

"What the fuck happened?" he boomed.

"Err, my driver had a heart attack and-..."

"Silence! Your faux pas has really turned the spotlight on me, James. Now the police think that I'm a murderer and a torturer."

"You are, though, sir. You make us pull over 69 tar wagons every day. It's madness!"

The Fat Controller looked as if he could kill James, but his face softened as blue lights could be seen in the distance.

"Ah, fuck it! Nothing matters anyway. It's all over. Everything!" the Fat Controller said as the police screeched into the station yard, handcuffed him, and led him away.

"Ah," James sighed. "All's well that ends well, eh, Henry?"

The two engines, still thoroughly covered with tar, smiled to each other and waited for the breakdown crane...and the ambulance...and the coroner.