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.
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