Chef
Stinks and I were in the kitchen sharing some sort of pate he had
fashioned from goose fat, seasonings, and an unknown meat.
Bainwarble burst into the room in his purple waistcoat, wearing
sleeve garters and latex gloves. He was carrying a garbage bag and
had a spray bottle of air freshener dangling at his pocket. He
glanced at the table, screwed up his nose and grunted, “Oh! I
thought I had forgotten to empty the trap behind the stove. I see
the smell is coming from another culinary catastrophe, Wiley.”
“Well,
we have to do SOMETHING with the things the lady of the house shoots,
Glass-shard.” Wiley always pointedly pronounces Bainwarble's first
name as two separate words.
It's
a blessing and a curse, I thought, having a crippled sense of smell
due to all those sinus surgeries. From the unpleasant look on
Bainwarble's face, I judged that at this moment I was enjoying a
blessing.
“Some
day she may accidentally shoot you,” Stinks continued. “I've
been thinking if one minds the prevailing winds, you might make a
good scarecrow for the garden!”
“No
need,” retorted the Welsh giant, “Since you've arrived, they all
come to the kitchen window and faint dead away.” He grinned and
sat down as I pointed to an empty chair. “Deal me some crackers,”
he said, “and a non-lethal dose of that pate.”
“No worries, Mate,” Wiley said in a heavy accent. He brushed the
underside of his nose with his forefinger and added, “If it kills
you it'll make you stronger!”
Cruelty to carrion!
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