So you’re off to El Towno for a rave up?
El Towno. Rave up.
Why must you always speak in riddles, Wes?
Passes the time.
Yes, I am going to Casino to shop. Again. Alone. Again.
That’ll be fun then.
Will it? Will it really?
Oh, well, you know… out and about.
(energetic hand gestures) Out and a…? Fun? I’ve got about as much chance of having fun grocery shopping, alone, as I would of joining the Amsterdam and District Mountaineering Club.
Haha. Amsterdam. Mountaineering. Very droll, Allie.
I’ll droll you! You could come and give me a hand for a change.
Sorry, got to say the ‘Nay No’, I’m afraid. That busted trailer isn’t gonna fix itself.
Of course not.
And, frankly, I’m unequal to the task of sticking to your rigorous protocols regarding aisle sequence and checkout deportment.
You could try.
Beendone, therethat. Epic failery.
What? What? Why must you speak in riddles?
Isn’t that where you came in?
So help me, Wes Piddens, If murder was just a leetle bit more fun, I’d…
Oh, look at the time! ‘Bye, Allie. Drive boldly, Dear, and never fear the spills. (gets on the tools)
After epic, sparky and bashy efforts, Wes gets the sway-backed trailer re-functional. He is overcome by smug pride and gnawing peckishness.
Halloumi! Let’s cheese it up, Baby!
Have you tried halloumi? They call it a cheese, although I believe its chief ingredients to be salted rubber, cereal and tripe. Wes loved nothing more than frying the bejeezus out of a few slices and serving them up on bread with a bit of apple and coriander. He only cooked it when batching, because Alice didn’t like the texture (“Why does it squeak when you chew it … like wetsuit stewed in sea water”) and detested coriander (“Deadly nightshade and only slightly less fatal”). Alice would prefer being trapped with an elevator fartist than have halloumi or coriander in her kitchen.
‘And today we’re going for Extra Crispy!’ announced our kitchen exhibitionist dropping seven slices of halloumic heaven into a frypan throbbing on max heat.
The phone rang. Someone calling him “Sir” and wanting to speak to, or who maybe was in fact, Chango Mutney about a “substantial tax incredibation overdue immediately”.
I think maybe you’re a scammer, mate.
I am not a scammer, Sir.
You sound like a scammer.
Your mother sounds like a scammer, Sir.
Scammer or not, he sounded like a hard dude to love. Wes had cheese to flip, so he wound up the conversation, pronto.
You’d be a hard dude to love, pal. Chango Mutney to you and yours.
When flipped, Halloumi Side One sat revealed as a golden triumph, tempting Wes to hook in on the spot, but he stayed strong and left Side Two frying away while he googled ‘How to make your own halloumi’.
Pfft. This is all too complicated. Doesn’t even tell you what sort of rubber to use.
So, he gave up and googled Chango Mutney instead.
There were a couple of hits for The Divine Church of Mungo Chatney. “Hillsong-inspired; Thetan-informed; Wellness-manifested; rooted in sacrament”.
‘Rooted alright,’ muttered Wes.
Peee peee peee pee! The manic chirping of a smoke detector snapped Wes back to the here and now.
Oh no! The cheeeeeeze!
Oh, the smoke! All through the house! Oh, the stench! Oh, the trouble he was in!
The incinerated halloumi had reverted to raw carbon, but the smell was that of rank billygoat.
Drown the frypan and scour it. Ventilation. Fans. Sprinkle vanilla essence like holy water at ExorcistCon. Still, still, the stench lingers, pervades and assaults.
I am so, so, dead!
Wes frantically gathered and sliced every orange, lemon, grapefruit, lime and kumquat he could find. Every skerrick of sugar, honey, old lollies. All heaved into a big pot to boil.
Marmalade! The marmalade smell will hide the billygoat! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!
An hour later, Wes licked the jam spoon and sniffed the kitchen. It smelt pretty damn good.
Phew! That was close.
Wes, Wes! Give us a hand to bring in these groceries. The frozen stuff is… what’s that smell? What have you done? Eeeeeeughhh! You’ve, you’ve murdered a billygoat, haven’t you? Prepare to die!
A lesson to us all,