This is my entry for the Australian Writers' Centre's Furious Fiction contest
in August. This month was a tough one and my head really wasn’t in it at all.
Still, I managed to put it all together on the Sunday and tried something different
by stepping outside of my comfort zone, leaving the science fiction and
weirdness on the stove for this month.
As a general rule, writing under pressure, or forcing myself to create
something rarely yields a good result for me. But this didn’t turn out too bad
at all and I still quite like it.
The rules:
In addition to the 500 word maximum and a three day window to write it,
the rules for August were:
Each story had to contain HUMOUR/COMEDY of any kind.
Each story had to include the words: DIZZY, EXOTIC, LUMPY, TINY, TWISTED.
Each story had to include a SANDWICH.
CATERING
TO THE RICH
I used to work at that fancy hotel in the city. The
big joint with the exotic banquet hall. Fancy events were nothing new if you
worked there – movie premieres, political fundraisers, celebrity wedding
receptions and, one time, a presidential banquet. The night in question was some
kind of high-end fundraiser and the money was fantastic. The security clearance
alone took three months.
My boss, Mr Allison, was making some noises about my
taking on more responsibility, but to be honest I was trying to nip it in the
bud. Catering was not my dream, you know? I play guitar. Anyway, I’m hardly
through the door when he approaches me. He’s wearing a tuxedo and he’s looking
pretty swish, but you could see the stress pulsating behind his eyes. Looked
like he was going to blow a gasket at any second.
“When everyone is seated I need to you take that
platter in and be *extremely* careful
with it,” he gestured to a benchtop nearby and large silver dish, covered with
a glass klosh. Packed underneath it were a multitude of small, precisely cut
sandwiches.
“Sandwiches?” I asked. “These hoity toity bigwigs are
gonna eat sandwiches? They’re tiny!”
“These aren’t just any sandwiches, kid. These are the
most expensive sandwiches in the world. Each one of ‘em costs a thousand
dollars.”
“A thousand dollars? What, are they made of gold?”
“Actually, yes. Well done,” he said. The sarcasm in my
reply bypassing him completely.
“They’ve been made with edible gold leaf and vintage champagne bread and
caviar and, apparently, the most expensive cheese in the world.”
“Expensive cheese, huh?”
“Yes, so please be extra careful when you take them
out.”
And I *was*
extra careful. Honestly. But not before gastronomic curiosity got the better of
me and I did what any one of you would do in the same situation – I ate five of
those tiny suckers. And since you’re
probably wondering, I can say with more than a hint of irony – they tasted very
rich.
Too rich, as it turns out.
I wasn’t more than five metres into the hall when I
realised something was very wrong. It started with the sweats. Mild at first,
but gradually increasing with every step until I arrived, drenched and weak, at
the centre table. I started to feel dizzy, like something had twisted my
intestines into a fist, which was now trying to punch its way out of my
stomach. The back of my throat tasted like electricity.
I vomited.
I projectile vomited, to be exact
Several thousand dollars’ worth of lumpy, half-digested
sandwich, strafed around the room in every direction, raining down upon the
assorted CEOs, politicians and dignitaries in attendance. Partially eaten
caviar sprayed like buckshot across the walls and the world’s most expensive
cheese, liquefied in my stomach, now dripping off the mayor’s toupee.
To nobody’s surprise, I lost that job.
Eat the rich, they say? Take my word for it, it’s far
more fun puking on them.
