From the Cellar: 17.8.25

 

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$40 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$87 D.C. Datura
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$1 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$49 START HERE
₵$18 Black Meat (g)	₵$258 Fireball Thrower
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$164 Blue Angel Mushroom
₵$15 Marital Aid Potion	₵$144 Bux. Semp X Cannabis (One Plant)
₵$40 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$17 Shiraz of Maybe Electrical Damage
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$141 The Safe of What You Want for Dinner
₵$55 Mythril (oz.)	₵$200 Chocolate Bar
₵$14 BZTCN	₵$72 Bottled Emotions

This Week's Special:

Cameron was doing Albertine and the drug nostalgiaed him to a time when he was huffing Formula 409. He had been absent-mindedly stacking chemical equations and stumbled upon something interesting but - then - was abducted by those velociraptor people. One of said velociraptor people played a mean sax* and Cameron kinda' forgot about hypothesised drug. Albertine having jogged memory, Cameron now-ish gets caffeinated, cooks formula-of-yore and presses a hundred-odd pills. Marketing calls it Substance 666.

It gave Azrael electric zig-zags between gnomes dancing race war and anthropomorphic sheep offering superannuation advice. It gave Magdalene giggling fit inappropriate for birds eye view of hellfire ball sport where rules changed every quarter. It did nothing for Michael. They all tried Substance 666 again and experienced the exact same hallucinations, or lack thereof, as before.

Cameron forgot the chain of chemical equations again so - boom - scarcity. The demands is, uh, well, hmm: everybody is born with a different spawn code, which Substance 666 takes to town. Curiosity may prompt first taste but RNG determines if the trip is worth taking again and how often.

Cameron considered spreading free samples to tentacle potential markets, but then opted to let market do the work. He will sell all the pills to someone who, after trying their privy, may opt to hold or sell on. Cameron estimates Substance 666's shelf-life at three years, so the collection depreciates in value every day every trade. The market, for time being, has FOMO of trips, if they miss it, will be missed by all humanity.

That market is Alexander.

Alexander is a cowboy bureaucrat. He crosses the t's and dots the i's and is not afraid to break a few rules doing it. He butts heads with co-workers or, rather, they dodge his ten gallon hat, worn inside, but nobody denies his results. Lunch is a steak sandwich and line of Bolivian.

A day of work leaves Alexander's hands coated in a sticky yellow fluid. He collects this substance in a basin installed at his desk for this purpose. Anybody who denies the existence of Bureaucracy Honey simply is not bureaucrating hard enough. They could also scrape the inside of a filing cabinet.

A teaspoon of Bureaucracy Honey, ideally stirred into tea, provides a +4% buff to accuracy for twelve hours. 'Accuracy' is a vague term which can refer to:

·         Precision of language

·         Correlation of belief with reality

·         Skill with firearms, or

·         all of the above and then some

There is research underway to develop an inhalable form.

Cameron wants to be the one doing that research.

 

* Clever girl.

Democracy Honey

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$74 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$138 Bux. Semp. X Cannabis
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$68 Bottled Emotions (qt.)
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$50 Self-Cooking Olive Oil (375 ml)
₵$26 Black Meat (g)	₵$310 Brick of Cocaine
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$124 Memory Coffee
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$33 Christian Repellent
₵$50 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$85 Anti-Flimflammatory
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$3 Extrasolar Teas Box
₵$30 Mythril (oz.)	₵$1 Rare Minerals (g)
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$13 Fine MRE Spice (g)

This Week's Special:

Election day. The human swarm gathered at voting booths to deposit their nectar of political opinions. Democracy Honey gathered on the sides of the zip-locked boxes which accumulated the electoral forms. It is treacle like in consistency and the colour which symbolises whichever political party won this particular box.

'And.' Azrael now pauses. 'A teaspoon will give you a +10% Experience Bonus for three hours. I advise stirring it into catnip tea. Any questions?'

Caroline: 'This is not a video game.'

'That is not a question.'

'What Azrael means,' Erin, with legs crossed and hands clasped on higher knee. 'is that your tendency for learning will be increased for that duration.'

'Okay.' Easy hesitates. 'How did you get this, uh, product?'

Azrael had followed a booth attendant as they closed metaphorical shop and carried the 'vote here' sign back into the church. A dozen temp employees of the Australian Electoral Commission turned heads.

Azrael had swung the Sling of +2 Stunning and announced: 'Ladies and gentlemen, fuck with me by any and all means.'

They all raised hands, because this was a safe Liberal seat anyway. Azrael took the boxes to the closest safe-house and scraped out the deep-blue honey with plastic spatula.

Azrael: 'I have six jars of the 2022 vintage.'

'All right.' Emily takes the bait. 'How about a Pimp Coat of Flight?'

Emily tailored the Perfectly Fluttery Dress and traded it for Quetzalcoatl Feathers, which were 50 CatScript (₵$) at the time. Quetzalcoatl Feathers, FYI, are resistant to gravity. Stitching ten dozen into a knee-length coat (with hood!) was labour intensive, using both spare time and hands. Truth be told, that is what she was going for, keeping too preoccupied to hold a smoke.

But anyway: 'It's like a flight suit, but you don't need to jump off a cliff to get momentum. And you can flap, arm strength granting. And it looks technicolour bitchin'.'

Azrael considers, with chin rested on palm. He can see himself climbing gum tree and lunging from limb towards the second storey of his local council chambers. His hand twitches a flame.

'Yes.'

The crowd ooohs gossipy - market as spectator sport.

Next up is Nathan: 'How are you, Azza?'

Azrael's hand clutches around electricity: 'Oh, I'm fine. What are you offering, Nathan?'

'The Rifle of Woopsie-Daisy. I think it's worth two jars.'

The Rifle of Woopsie-Daisy is unique in that it will not fire if the wielder were to later regret the shot. Azrael cannot see himself regretting a shot-out window. Railing shots into the council chambers windows in hopes they shatter, midflight and hurtling towards them. Oh, yes.

But: 'You've been trying to offload that rifle for a couple of years, now. One jar.'

Gasps of shock and the crowd murmurs excitedly. Renee faints and Paul catches her: 'God speed, man, someone get her a one-hitter.'

Erin raises and lowers her hands in front of her, that thing people do when they want to lower the crowd's energy: 'Calm down, calm down.'

Nathan shrugs: 'Sure.'

Nose to the ground, Alexander follows a line of cocaine into the room, landing in front of Azrael: 'Coulda' sworn there were another - why are you people in my - who stepped on my - ah, yes, the auction. I'll buy a thing. What am I buying? I have the Clogs of +3 Blunt Damage. Would you like to try them on?'

Azrael does. The crowd holds their breath whilst Cinderella tries on footwear - which, maybe splinters, but not a deal breaker. The Clogs fit and Azrael's daydream is complete:

'Peeps and peeplets. The exits have been chained shut. I am now your mayor, your treasurer and your secretary.'

There is always an upstart: 'The police will be here at any moment.'

'This is a coup. The police don't deal with military affairs.'

'The armed forces, then.'

'The army doesn't give a shit about local government.'

And Azrael will defenestrate the upstart with a roundhouse kick.

'First order of business - we change policy to allow construction of Tiny Houses.'

*Mandatory footnote. 

Clogs of +3 Blunt Damage

Australia was feeling left out of Operation Market Garden and so sent a team of commandos deep-cover into Nazi-occupied Netherlands.  They had been outfitted by the props department. When accosted by German troops at a checkpoint, one of the commandos said:

‘Awh, vwe are just poisant farmers of Deutsch Neitherlands.'

Nobody is sure what accent he was going for but it was the English that gave them away. In the resulting kerfuffle, a Nazi skull was beaten in with wooden clog. Said bloodstained clog was returned to the props department.

The cold-war director of the Props Department had an eye for enchantments and so detected that the clogs had accrued +1 Blunt Damage. When ASIO put in  a request for a formal-but-high-stakes outfit for a party in a Shanghai penthouse, the director had the clogs polished. The +1 blunt damage came in handy when Agent Valentina roundhouse kicked Mouth Bone into a loft wall. The clogs gained another +1 blunt damage when Agent Valentina kicked Mouth Bone's head into the wall.

The Clogs reached +3 blunt damage when the director spent a quiet day doing some inventory. Standing tippy toes on step ladder, fingers did not quite grasp the top-shelf box. Alas, clogs fell out and scored lethal concussion on their own. Nobody has been brave enough to sign out the Clogs of +3 Blunt Damage until Alexander snorts a line of cocaine and shrieks 'Yeee-haaaw' before waving ten gallon hat whilst filling out requisite paperwork.

Now: where the foothills become the hills. The plant nursery is pretty but pretty lacklustre. The attached restaurant, requisite for all retail nurseries since about 2015, is actually good. In a private room, wait staff carefully place a porcelain toilet between Alexander and Carl. The plastic seat is laid with teacups on saucers, steeped pot of peppermint tea, cucumber sandwich slices, five cut lines of cocaine for both parties and a mound between the two. This is known as high tea.

'Thank you for inviting me out.' Alexander takes off his hate before a line goes up slobbery nostril. 'But I suspect you have ulterior motives.'

Carl also snorts, the pinkie raised on hand pushing in left nostril: 'Bitch, I heard you got clogs. Are they your size.'

Alexander concedes that they are one size too small: 'Commerce. Love it.'

'Perhaps you would like to trade -' Carl skulls the tea. '-them in for something one-size-fits-all.'

'I still have those Condoms of +4 Bureaucratic Efficiency.'

Carl is mute, potential responses traffic jammed in doorway, before he returns to line (with nostril): 'I meant the Perfectly Fluttery Dress.'

Cucumber falls from Alexander's mouth: 'But I'm a boy.'

'Bitch, you ate that cake that makes you menstruate.'

Alexander laughs before throwing toilet to the side and rushing Carl. This is not an explicit 'no'.

Buxus Sempervirens X Cannabis Sativa

Tonight's venue is the twelfth floor of a commercial building which has an elevator that only reaches the eleventh. Moving in had been a bitch. Access is granted by climbing the last flight of the fire escape then, if one is without swipe card, banging on the door and saying the password.

Nathan does so: 'Azza. I've got two bottles of wine.'

Waiting, Nathan lights catnip to check the markets:

₵$50 Ghost Tobacco  (20)

₵$15 Bloody Mary

₵$55 El Dorado Green (1/4)

₵$1 Bug Powder (g)

₵$1 Slut Root (kg)

₵$30 Marital Aid Potion

₵$10 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)

₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)

₵$35 Mythril (g)

₵$9 BZTCN

Azrael opens the door. He is a short man made 8% taller with alcohol. He wears a trench coat diagonally cut between grey and black, undies and Steel Blue work boots.

Nathan waggles a Jacob's Creek 'Double Barrel' 2020 Shiraz and a Hentley Farm 'The Marl' 2021 Shiraz: 'One for you, one for me.'

Azrael glares: 'Two shirazes. You called me "Azza". Bitch, I can summon lightning.'

Nathan waggles the bottles again: 'But we're inside?'

Azrael selects the Marl. Tonight's venue used to be the property manager's residence. Of 18 guests, a dozen are gathered in the lounge room. From the kitchen, music:

 

Snippets of chitchat:

'What is a thought with no meaning? Like, what's the name for those?'

'That's why Pornhub doesn't have an amputee category.'

'Bleeeurgh. Bleuuurgh-ooo. I, feel, like a Disney Princess.'

Azrael raises left fist to chin, stretches index and middle finger to left and right tips of his lips. He casts spell with three rapid flicks of the tongue and a wine glass flies from table to his hand, which he hands to Nathan.

Nathan sez: 'Cheers bruz.'

Tonight's venue is technically the property of whatever legacy-money conglomerate owns the building. Then Azrael found the place and declared: 'I do not step shyly back from your property, but look upon it as my property, in which I respect nothing. Pray do the like with what you call my property! And, bitch, I throw fireballs.

Azrael has leased the 12th floor to Erin tonight, in exchange for one potted buxus sempervirens x cannabis sativa. Being a personal assistant to one demon after another, Erin has developed a network of unconventional entrepreneurs seeking to contact said dark lords. This milieu provided her with peculiar investment opportunities - start-up funding for profits, an allocation of products, or products successful or otherwise.

It is not the former or the latter but, um, the middle one, that is of tonight's interest. A botanist had approached Erin with the intent of propagating a hybrid of the marijuana plant with the box hedge. The propagation was successful but not the business model. Weed, true to its name, is everywhere - the hybrid did not find a market edge in either yield improvements or cost reductions. The enterprise went bust and Erin received a dozen juvenile plants in lieu of financial returns.

Erin has kept the plants in their pots for two years - they do make a nice knee-high hedge along the pathway to her unit. She makes a charming figure in ebony dress that would be considered modest but which now, as she sits on couch arm, has risen to just above the top of thigh-high stockings, her arrowhead tipped tail swishing like a snuggling cat's. Peeps of certain proclivities find it charming, at least. She makes sales pitch:

'In times of inflation and looming recession, people cut out waste. Like their dealer. The problem with growing their own dope is Neighbours. The Brits love that show but Home and Away has a following in Israel.

Also, people can see over your fences.'

Everyone laughs politely to cover the sound of vomiting.

Emily is first to raise her glass because her glass is in her hand: 'And what about the smell?'

Erin nods concessively: 'The hybrid has adopted the smell of the box hedge. Some people can't stand it, but no one smokes dope for the taste.'

Emily agrees: 'How about one of your pots for a Kevlar Sleeping Bag Onesie?'

The Albanese government's recent pivot in military policy towards missiles disappointed a lot of defence-industry start-ups, each hoping to break into the military industrial complex. A number of prototypes were deemed lost causes by their designers and so floated onto the informal market. That number is one. Emily found a sleeping bag made of Kevlar hanging in an op-shop and thought a cut there, a stitch there, a mythril sewing needle and that would make a nice onesie.

Erin disagrees: 'That looks like a khaki Michelin man. I wouldn't be caught dead in that.'

Emily winks: 'And you won't, because its Kevlar.'

'Still.'

'If it's not quite your style, perhaps accessorise with bitumen?'

Alluding to how they met, when Erin made the rookie mistake of smoking a joint before crossing the expressway. Erin clicks her tongue - fashion runways are yet to cross active motorways. (Idea for another blog post.)

'All right. One.'

The audience members paying attention chuckle politely, the other half start whispering adjunct conversations.  Nathan senses an opportunely warm crowd and zigzags to the front.

'Another petition for your curiosity?'

'Hey Nathan. Shoot.'

'Or.' Smiling. 'Don't. Are you interested in the Rifle of Woopsie-Daisy?'

Nathan manages a pizza shop because he likes the people and the work, but he side hustles as a negotiator for mortals seeking contracts with demons. As he advertises: 'I put the "bargain" in Faustian Bargain!' These demons and their contracts operate with Chainsaw Man mechanics. The demons are personifications of humanity's fears and their power is caused by how deeply and widely they are feared. Their contracts usually involve a human sacrificing something in exchange for the demon's assistance. Nathan received the Rifle of Woopsie-Daisy after haggling with the Parental Responsibility Demon. The demon wanted half of the client's future income, but Nathan haggled it down to a quarter.

But Erin is like: 'I'm not in the market for a rifle, nor do I see resale profit.'

Which is awkward but less so than the 'uh uh yeah yeah uuuh' that the speakers blurt. Someone has taken their phone to watch porn and forgotten that they are tonight's stream jockey. The speakers are silenced and glassware shattered when the kitchen explodes with completed paperwork. Alexander emerges from decapitated centrelink applications falling like autumn leaves, running left index finger under his nose: 'The only thing thicker than my Out Pile is my dick.'

A quick scan of the room reminds Alexander where he is and he darts sidestepping to the front of the crowd: 'Hey. Hey. Hi. How are you? Are you interested in a Slice of Lady Cake? It's in the fridge but I put my name on it so it's mine.'

Azrael calls from back of crowd: 'I dibs cake if you kill him.'

Erin: 'What is Lady -'

'It's a cake that causes menstrual cramps.' Alexander sniffs. 'Someone needed to license a minotaur. There's only one guy they call.'

Erin glares but curiosity demands: 'And why would I want this cake? It better be orgasm flavoured with fairy-bread icing.'

(At the back of the crowd with pizza and wine, Nathan whispers to Azrael: 'If she had bought the rifle, you would have cake.')

'Because the cramps happen once a month. And you get to decide when.'

Elbow on knee, chin on fist: 'And cake only keeps for, what, a week? These fine people don't need to know if I'm done or if I'm due.'

'You could freeze it.'

'No deal.' Frown becoming smirk. 'But. I will give you two plants, right here and now, if you eat it. I want to see what happens.'

Alexander runs left finger under nose.

Brick(s) of Cocaine

 

The south of Australia was hit by an arctic front in late May, early June. Through kitchen window, through blanket of 4mm/hr rain, over corrugated fence, Michael watched Ryan kneel amongst vegetation wilted to sodden ground that Ryan pounded with fist:

'My tobacco! My tobacco!'

Michael's focus withdrew to his reflection in kitchen window, sipping glass of water:

'At least he has something to do now.'

Kristy rolled sardonic eyes hidden behind unfolded Weekend Australian. Michael plonked onto couch with glass of Puratap and flicked through a dozen television channels at ~10 second intervals, settled on Bargain Hunt. It was a Natasha Raskin episode and Kristy bristled invisibly. They needed something to do. Lo, on page 3:

 

So why not cocaine? Kristy's heels itched as she broached the subject with a 'Heeey schmorkel poos?'. Michael read the article and Kristy recognised her own epiphany in his eyes. Hence followed an afternoon of brisk pacing, chins in palms and fingers caging smiles, imaginations accelerated by a Concha y Toro Casilero del Diablo - Reserva Privada 2019 Carménère, hands tumbling mid-air to unspool trains of thought.

'What if we _______?'

'Then we could ________.'

'Then we could _______.'

Kristy and Michael had their three months couple's project. They shelved the idea of applying the Japanese scientists' methodology directly to the coca leaf because the coca leaf does not refrigerate well. They instead sourced cocaine from various suppliers and tested said bricks for additives. Each particular additive suggested a different pathway of chemical reactions to create a substance, of weight and tactility similar to construction bricks, which can also be ground and rehydrated (and then dried again via microwave) to make a passable cocaine hydrochloride. Michael and Kristy then figured out what food colourings replicated fired clay. They used the Japanese scientists' lacquer because fuck mice.

 

Now it is October. Michael and Kristy share smiles over brunch and dozen Bricks of Cocaine. Said bricks could technically be used for construction but are more suitable for discrete storage - instead of a drug stash in the space behind the loose brick, the drug stash is the loose brick. Also: 72% purity and a five year shelf-life.

Kristy sops egg-yolk with toast: 'So now what?'

Michael mangles grapefruit: 'Keep a couple, I 'spose, and sell the rest.'

Finishing Bloody Mary: 'Who do we know would pay the best price?'

'Hm.' Drying sticky hands. 'Maybe we put a rumour out, like on the local k-pop scene or something, see who comes to us.'

'Not here.' Crunching celery. 'We need a venue.'

Nathan's voice: 'Maybe I can help with that.'

'Fuck's -' Kristy clenches fists and teeth. '- sake.'

Michael turns wide grin: 'That shit never gets old.'

Nathan appears in the dining room entrance by shedding the Hi-Vis Invisibility Cloak that he won in a game of strip poker. Safe to say that Felicity has a woeful poker face.

Nathan has discovered a discrete location in which to commit black market dealings, within this realm but something of an Easter egg. Each Bunnings Warehouse, specifically the door handle aisle, usually has a sample line of door handles attached to a rail, so that customers may see and test said door handles as if they were installed, such as on a door. Pushing down on these door handles in a specific order (Satin Chrome Bailey Set, Matt Black Square Angular Passage Set, Stainless Steel Leno Passage, Satin Chrome Bailey Set, Satin Chrome Gala Passage, Satin Chrome Gala Passage, Satin Chrome Olive Passage Set) will open a door to a two metre by four metre courtyard which is on Bunnings' property but is not Bunnings' property, by Common Law. Nathan leases this courtyard to Kristy and Michael in exchange for a Brick of Cocaine.

So word is slipped to the street (or, rather, granny-flat speakeasies) and a long desk moved to the far end of the courtyard. Michael stacks a three long, three high cube of bricks on the table before standing right and behind Kristy, seated, with hand on her shoulder, all very family portrait. They hold this position for a minute and 43 seconds before their first customer arrives - a middle-aged man in trench coat and jeans that give him an almost neo-western aesthetic.

(An aside regarding the mechanics and origins of enchantments. Some enchanted items, such as the Fiery Pool Noodle of Mark, are the product of an enchantress transferring magical properties from one artefact to another. Other enchanted items, such as the Driver's Licence Photo of Todd, acquire their magical properties through esoteric energies channelled via ritual. Other artefacts, such as The Metal Chair, are the result of feats catching the attention of higher powers who need material for water cooler conversation. The last is relevant to the following product.)

Kristy: 'And you are?'

'Alexander Wong. My details are on the form I submitted.'

Michael pats pockets: 'So that was that thing.'

'Do we even -' Kristy, brief goanna eyes. 'Nuh, whatever, what are you offering?'

Alexander: 'A 10 Pack of Condoms of +4 Bureaucratic Efficiency.'

Michael unfolds paperwork: 'He, uh, he pleased the God of Bureaucracy by, uh, doing bureaucracy?'

Alexander spits tobacco: 'Two metre "In" pile. Two metre "Out" pile.'

Michael: 'How?'

'I'm good.' Smirking cocky. 'Also, cocaine.'

'Checks out.'

Kristy: 'So you pleased the God of Bureaucracy and they...'

Alexander, paperwork: 'Bestowed a +4 Bureaucratic Efficiency on the next thing I purchased. Condoms. Again, cocaine.'

'Checks out.'

Kristy looks to Michael with glance loaded with meaning: I can't use condoms, for obvious reasons. Michael returns loaded glance: paperwork makes my dick limp. But, like, if bureaucrats are a thing of yours? Kristy scrunches face: Ummmm. Nah, we're good.'

Michael raises apologetic hand: 'Sorry mate, we're going to have to pass.'

Very well, Alex spits bemused tobacco and leaves. Kristy and Michael doodle around on their phones for thirty-two minutes. Standing perpendicular to table with eyes down on the Wikipedia page for the 2021-present global energy crises, Michael catches new customers in his peripheral vision and texts Kristy: Them peeps gone fucked in turtle enclosure? Kristy snorts, covers it with a cough.

Indeed, it is Elise and Todd. Their Quetzalcoatl Feather side hustles brought them together and their being together, very publicly, shunned them from the Quetzalcoatl Feather game. They continued using their networks and skills to produce goods exchangeable on the esoteric shadow market - Todd is a cryptozoologist and  Elise is a zoological psychologist. Their own couple's project of late has been nursing a scaff gremlin alpha back to health.

Like the fire chicken, the scaff gremlin is the sterile cross breed of cryptids that only meet in Australia. On the mother's side is the skunk apes that stowed away on cargo containers of Floridian palm heart. On the father's side is the yowie, Australian native also known as bunyip, pangkarlangu or Greg, because it is just the one individual with the inclination and suave to sire an entire generation of creatures that look like gravelings.

Scaff gremlins are so named because of their nocturnal habit of assembling unattended scaffolding, which helps them catch moths. Todd had been remotely viewing this practice when an amateurishly secured transom fell on top of one of the scaff gremlins. Elise, standing right and behind Todd with hand on his shoulder, all very family portrait, suggested responsibility. Yeah, fair enough, it was Todd's drone that buped the scaffolding. They Ubered there and carried the thrice-swaddled scaff gremlin to their home.

It took three months for the scaff gremlin they named 'Mary' to heal a broken leg. Elise and Todd took turns in taking Mary out for short walks. They discerned that Mary is the rostrum's alpha and that it is the alpha's urine that marks scaffolding for assembling and gathers the usually disparate rostrum of scaff gremlins. By the time they released Mary back into the wild, a very 'get the fuck out of the cage it's been half an hour already' affair, they had a litre of Scaff Gremlin Alpha Urine.

Kristy: 'And you're hoping to trade this litre of urine for a brick of cocaine.'

Todd: 'We'll throw in a spray bottle because you can dilute it at ten-to-one. Then you just liberally spray scaffolding and leave it for the night.'

Michael: 'Yeah, uh, we don't want or need this urine.'

Nathan's voice: 'I want that urine.'

'Fuck's -' Kristy clenches fists and teeth. '- sake.'

Michael turns wide grin: 'That shit never gets old.'

Nathan appears at the far end of the table: 'Would you like the Hi-Vis Invisibility Cloak?'

Elise: 'No, we want a brick of cocaine.'

Michael sulks: 'I wanna' Hi-Vis Invisibility Cloak.'

Nathan: 'I have a brick of cocaine.'

'Wait.' Kristy's eyes pop hopeful. 'How about we give you guys cocaine for the urine and give you -' turning to Nathan '- the urine for the Invisibility Cloak?'

Michael: 'It's ok, porky-schmoos, I don't really want -'

Kristy ignores him: 'Deal?'

Everybody shrugs ok and goods are exchanged. Michael giggles and throws the Hi-Vis Invisibility Cloak over his head. His feet are still visible as he waltzes around the courtyard going 'woo-ooo, woo-OOOooo'. Todd and Elise leave discretely.

Nathan says to Kristy: 'Should I...?'

'How about you go dilute your urine?'

Exit Nathan. Michael gets bored with playing ghost in twenty-four minutes. Kristy kinda' wants to bone and laments that they did not buy those condoms, +4 Bureaucratic Efficiency or otherwise. Well, onto the next customer.

Liam saunters in with long steps matched by sways of arms bent 90° at the elbow. Folded over his shoulder is a brown faux-mink blanket.

Kristy frowns: 'There's a story here. There always is.'

'Yeah.' Liam's smile widen and he tilts his head back slightly. 'Last Saturday, I had a bottle of red and two stouts. Went to bed feeling ok and woke up vomiting in an hour. Most of it landed on the floor but also the curtains, walls, quilt, pillows bed sheets. But not this blanket. It was on top of the quilt.'

Kristy: 'Sooo blanket is magic? Stain dodging blanket?'

'If it wasn't before, it is now.'

Michael: 'I doubt magic. Just a fluke.'

Liam: 'How about I also throw in -'

Liam pulls, from within blanket, a clock. The hands move backwards, what would conventionally be called counter-clockwise. The numbers on the clock face are also reversed - the 11 is just right and below the 12. This clock therefore tells accurate time.

Kristy: 'That's fucking stupid.'

Michael is fascinated.