Penicillium Infernus

Two months ago, Liam had arrived at Nathan's front door and given him a freezer bag of six fat, orange chillies: 'Behold, the Jachuranga Pepper. A hybrid of the Bhut Jolokia and the Strychnine Tree. Grown only in barren nooks amongst the contested peaks of Aranachel Pradesh. Harvested only by the untouchable Panchama outcaste. Watered only by the first melt of snow and fertilised only by lentil-curry diarrhoea of backpacking Yeti. Their tap roots dig beyond man's knowledge. The fruit, used to ward off spirits good and bad alike, is beyond the realm of Scoville. The leaves are used as an organic pesticide.'

Nathan said: 'Uh, thanks, but I'm not making chilli.'

'What? you always make chilli.'

'I can't find any canned tomatoes or kidney beans. And they sound a bit too spicy.'

'That's the point, isn't it? It's always hotter on the way out. You'll be shitting for days.'

'I also can't find any toilet paper.'

'Well, anyway, use gloves.'

'I'm not an idiot. I masturbate before chilli preparation.'

'They have teeth. The Jachuranga Peppers have teeth.'

'No shit, so they do.'

Nathan had put the Jachuranga Peppers in his fridge, behind the pomelo and the yoghurt. Sixteen days before one of the chillies, flank bruised from smuggling by mule, begins to sprout blood-red fur. This is known, by those who tasted the bite of its hydrolytic enzymes, as penecillium infernus. Conidia set forth without pity, releasing mycotoxins with barbarous cruelty. It's hyphae grew, swift and unrelenting, to feast on degraded complex biopolymers. And there it lies still, evermore, in silent... suffering.

Nathan wakes at nine and skolls a bedside bottle of water. Coffee, smoke, shower. Looking for brunch, he opens the fridge - a blood-red mould covers the shelves and, on the fridge's back wall, spells 'Rip & Tear'.

Nathan: 'Damn it, Liam.'

The pizza box on the floor provides three slices of leftover Quattro Formaggio which suffice. Six hours until work. Nathan runs through a mental checklist: dishes done, laundry done, he opens the fridge to check if he needs groceries - the penecillium infernus begins a choir of ominous chants from multiple throats.

'Nope.'

Nathan checks his phone history to decide, by rotating roster, who to call today. Michael sums up the new normal succinctly:

'Booooored. Usually a brick of cocaine would get me and Kristy into some shit and that would keep us busy until we get horny. But shipping has died. Nothing's getting smuggled.'

'How is Kristy doing?'

'I... I'm worried. We're always together, but I think we're drifting apart. She's been watching Bargain Hunt.'

Well. This sends a white-hot blip into Nathan's bowel's. That makes four out of seven mates with COVID induced marital strain. Four out of seven mates wives who may never, upon seeing Nathan emerge from the chrysalis of self-isolation with a four-pack of Captain Sensible, find that huh, that's a nice piece of steak - I've already got mine, but my attractive friend and/or sister is unaccounted for.

Nathan must dwell. He sits on his back steps with a second coffee and cigarette. Three units down, a woman steps out into the strata's backyard with a glass of Riesling. Nathan has only seen this woman a few times over eight months and never really talked to her, but the usual venues of social interaction have been locked down and so he raises a wave:

'Hello, neighbour.'

Magdalene shoots bleary eyes around until finding Nathan, smiles softly and raises her drink: 'I know the time. Been up since eight yesterday.'

Smirking: 'No shit? A bender?'

She approaches to one-point-five metres: 'Nah. Number two. Been in crunch time.'

'Ah yeah. What do you do?'

Eyes briefly up and left as she sips: 'Alchemy. I am Australia's leading trans alchemist YouTube personality.'

Unsure: 'Alchemy? Like, elixir of stamina, draught of invisibility, skooma?'

'More like marital-aid potion and an IPA of invisibility which I call "Wallflower".'

'Marital aid?' Asking slowly. 'Is that possible?'

'Just like a love potion, but you switch the warlock's clove with foxglove concentrate.' Shrugging with another drink. 'Means it requires consent. That. Is. Important.'

'Want. As many marital potions as possible.'

Frowning: 'Ingredients are not cheap. Besides, I'm busy. You may have noticed the epidemic. Every esotericist is trying to cook their own cure or prevention. Hence the crunch time. Fuck, there's a mechanical vampire already making bank by dealing blood with COVID antibodies.'

Nathan stands: 'What do you need?'

Exhaling through nose: 'Something lethal. Something which has developed its lethality through the need to kill shit which is lethal in its own right. Like, uuuh, a poison, an enzyme, a fungus or a toad, but most of that really unnecessary overkill is controlled by, because it was made by, The Department of Very Bad Ideas.'

'Perhaps you'd like to look in my fridge?'

'No, not really.'

'Come on. Come onnnnn.'

Magdalene furrows brow.

Nathan: 'I have some mouldy chillies. The Jachuranga Peppers, a hybrid of the Bhut Jolokia and, um, some sort of flower?'

Interested: 'You let Jachuranga Peppers get mouldy? That's a wasted opportunity.'

'I was told I'd shit for days.'

'That's the point.'

Magdalene stands one-point-five metres back while Nathan opens the fridge. The penicillium infernus calmly throbs a purple glow. Nathan lobs a banana inside and, before it touches walls or shelves, it disintegrates with blue flames and a squealing shriek. Magdalene maintains poker face and holds an eager te-he-he within her kidneys:

'OK. Brass tax. How about six bottles of marital aid potion? And I will do all the extraction.'

'Throw in some canned food.'

'I have two cans of dices tomatoes and one each of kidney beans, black beans, chickpeas and lentils. Wait. Now you want to make chilli?'

Shrugging: 'I don't trust my fridge.'