A Dalston entrepreneur is set to beat Amazon in the race to develop a viable drone-based home delivery service.
Speaking to the Mercury from his prison cell in the special nonce wing of Wormwood Scrubs, Mr Benny Enteritis told us about his exciting plans this morning.
‘Yeah, like, the thing is, when you run a high quality comestible provisions enterprise like what I do, speed of delivery is of the essence. That’s what I told the rozzers when they picked me up.’
Mr Enteritis is the proprietor of Dalston’s popular Kenlucky Fried Chicken Shed. He has already trialled a scheme in which a box of hot wings, a can of Diet Pepsi and a side order of coleslaw were delivered with speed and utter discretion to the back garden of Ms Alabasta Slinki, a well known proponent of nude sunbathing.
‘Obviously, the trial run had to be carried out under a veil of utmost secrecy,’ said Mr Entiritis, ‘as these developments are commercially sensitive, what, with Google and Amazon being in the game. And, as is the way of these things, there are still a few problems we have to iron out.’
‘For example,’ he continued shiftily, ‘we was unable to land the drone effectively because of a technical issue, which is why it was hovering silently above Ms Slinki’s garden for over an hour. The high-definition camera is just a navigation aid, as I explained during my arraignment.’
‘Much has been made of the fact that Ms Slinki did not actually order any hot wings, being a vegan, and that. But if we went round waiting for the customer to take the initiative, these exciting technological advances would never take place, would they?’
‘As I told the magistrate, did Albert Einstein wait until someone needed a black hole before he invented them? Of course not. My internment is the cost of human progress, and one which, as a man of science, I must bear. But it’s a right liberty, all the same.’
Ms Slinki told the Mercury that she was alerted to the presence Mr Entiritis’s drone when 300 grams of tepid coleslaw landed, uninvited, upon her mons Venus and a rogue hot wing, thrown from the exploding aircraft, lodged itself between the creamy expanses of her heaving embonpoint. We asked if she’d show us where, exactly, but she just said ‘in the back garden’ and closed the door looking a bit sick of men.
The case continues.