On the Price of +3 Skipping West Coast IPA

 

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$28 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$49 START HERE
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$285 Fireball Thrower
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$213 Blue Angel Mushroom
₵$26 Black Meat (g)	₵$150 Bux. Semp X Cannabis (One Plant)
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$14 Shiraz of Maybe Electrical Damage
₵$25 Marital Aid Potion	₵$102 The Safe of What You Want for Dinner
₵$50 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$125 Chocolate Bar
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$90 Bottled Emotions
₵$67 Mythril (oz.)	₵$17 Beard Cobwebs
₵$19 BZTCN	₵$69 Tofu Which Pairs Perfectly with Your Wine (350g)

This Week's Special:

Henchpeople caught a secret agent sneaking around the volcano lair on Friday night, which was not a good time. Dr Woke was in between evil plots but super-villainy is a perpetual grind. Usually early to bed and early to rise, Dr Woke was still awake (ha!) courtesy of Samuel’s Gorge 2023 Mourvèdre. Once secret agent was chained above tank of groupers, it was technically Saturday and Dr Woke was on the beers.

Dr Woke lost notes in his pockets, so he had to improvise: 'Well... you... yukon stop me this time... you... With your feet'nt yaw walking. 'lways take your time at the crossing, whadonchoo. Got shit to do. So I'm arma make shoes. Every-in move faster. Just Do It, amiright? Yeah, that's is good one.'

The secret agent responded: 'Your ego got the better of you, Dr Woke. I just tricked you into revealing your nefarious secrets!'

The secret agent was pulled up by AI powered bootstraps and he escaped from chains and lair.

'Hmph, fuck.' Swaying, Dr Woke looked at beer in hand. 'Aright, arma hit the sack, wank out these carbs.'

The secret agent reports to his superiors in the Straight White Cis Male network's intelligence services. Malcolm intends to pre-empt Dr Woke's Social-Justice-War-Crimes and so orders engineers to develop the shoes described. The Crossing Shoes are brandless, non-descript red. They detect when wearer is crossing the road and flash them across with one electric step.

Dr Woke's plot will never eventuate because you were paying attention. Malcolm will come to sell the Crossing Shoes to someone with an eye for magical fashion. This someone may dislike the social fracas which road-crossing can become or, more likely, just want to show off.

That market is Esmerelda.

As Esmeralda is an upper-middle class white fem-profesh, we may deduce three things. First, she cares about the environment. Second, she doubles snarling down when anybody accuses her of cultural appropriation. Third, she dabbles in the esoteric - unlike most, Esmeralda successfully charges her crystals.

These factors converge in a product that Esmeralda will craft on order, if payment can give her a fuck. She can evoke voodoo-doll magic and write the client's enemy's name on reusable coffee cup whilst scrolling target's narcissistic Instagram. The Reusable Coffee Cup of Revenge can be taken to environmentally-conscious cafes and refilled, again and again. Doing so transfers, instantaneous, any caffeine-induced bowel movements to the individual named on the cup.

Caveats limit this product's market. The coffee must be black and cannot be sweetened with sugar or stevia's ilk. (For reasons unknown, the exception to this rule is date syrup.) Also, grabbing coffee with nemesis could be awkward if they spot their name on somebody else's cup. Conversely, if there is mix-up, if heavens perfectly align, a nemesis may inflict bowel movement on themselves and, maybe, all the risks are worth it if this infinite-loops impact to bowels.

That market is Yvette.

Yvette was emptying bins into wheelie-bin when she overheard:

'It's some sigma-male cringe. It's anti-social.'

'I contest that. Cold showers are uncomfortable and therefore brief. They save water, and time that can be used socialising.'

'But what if someone joins you? Surely you don't want that to be brief?'

'That's fucking in the shower, not showering. Once both parties are satisfied, they both still have to clean. And water is bad lubricant. And, eh, can we help you?'

Yvette, caught eavesdropping, smiles: 'No, but I can help you.' before moving onto next bin.

Because Yvette is a sex goddess, a side-hustling performer of divine interventions in bedroom/dungeon/handicapped toilet. With promises of greater satisfaction, Yvette acquires test subjects for trial-and-error. She consults with all manner of STEM. Yvette develops instruction manual for the Sudsy Sally.

The Sudsy Sally, actually triplicate of positions, props soap within bodies' grinding to clean both parties to fucking. The manual includes variations accommodating different body types, queer couplings and shower parameters. Yvette only produces the one copy because markets love a scarcity and printing is expensive. The market for the Sudsy Sally is a couple, or someone looking to couple, rather horny but wary of time.

That market is Shane and Janessa.

Shane and Janessa continued to expand - a beer garden, a kitchen, a relative concocting gin under spin-off brand. Their blog is still woeful, so that is one thing I have over them. They do (unwittingly) have a small but lucrative livestream following amongst various gods of beer and/or brewing.  Said celestial drinking hall once granted them a boon, of which they may have a carton or two left.

There is no image more wholesome than grown man skipping with carton of beer on his shoulder. The initial release of +3 Skipping West Coast IPA confirmed this. Merely skipping with carton spreads good vibes by product association, but drinking is usually necessary for skipping. A certain element of ambiguous markets glommed onto wholesomeness.

Skipping hits the perambulation sweet spot of ne'er-do-'ells between criminal points A and B. Walking is too slow but running invites suspicion. Anyone who briefly glimpses man skipping against traffic will forget to consult their dash cam. Skipping burns of the calories of beer and alcohol fortifies confidence over the shorter journey.

That market is Malcolm.

 

* The price of a Four Pack of Beer is ₵$10 for every beer I had the previous month, including non-alcoholic and cooking.

Danger Bong

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$50 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$30 Christian Repellent
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$105 Anti-Flimflammatory
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$6 Extrasolar Teas Box
₵$12 Black Meat (g)	₵$3 Rare Minerals (g)
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$16 Fine MRE Spice (g)
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$10 Magic Coat Hanger
₵$20 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$46 Cleansing Ale
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$292 The New Shampoo
₵$31 Mythril (oz.)	₵$410 Four Pack of Beer
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$20 Democracy Honey

This Week's Special:

Frankie is relatable. She likes babies because babies are cute. When she sees a 'baby on board' sticker on car ahead of her, Frankie wants to see the baby. She will lean on car's horn in long honks:

'Hiiiii baby. Hiiiii baby.'

When higher-ups sent her for drinkware to make good first impression, Frankie sourced the Curly Straw of Social Discombobulation. If a 'room' can be 'read', this artefact can start a fresh page. Drinking long neck with this straw is social equivalent of flash-bang. The magic really leans into the impact made by beer through curly straw.

This is not what the higher-ups wanted. The market for the Curly Straw of Social Discombobulation is someone who cannot be fucked assimilating motifs of plethora subcultures. There may also be application for those who fit long neck in cup holder and are liable to be pulled over.

That market is Fika.

In order to improve herself, Fika has become a weed dealer. She has been meeting new suppliers and, of course, testing their produce. Her latest contact provided disappointment: the buds were milder than bragged and the batch half-stemmy. Fika sold at discount and burnt the rest as incense pyre, tribute to the gods.

The relevant gods noticed but, for reasons, granted her a boon meant for somebody else. Lo, a Danger Bong. Smoking with fingertip on specific point of bong transfigures exhale into dense metre-wide smokescreen projected ten metres ahead. The magic is in the cone piece.

'Assuming I believe this exists,' which Fika's sister certainly does not, 'Who would be interested? Nobody is going to think "I need to defend myself, time to sink a cone".'

Fika scrubs dishes: 'Somebody who is already sinking cones'

'In which case, they're already high. What if they get the paranoids? Drugs and guns don't mix.'

'Which is why a non-lethal smokescreen is primo.'

'And what sort of stoner is going to remember a special, magic way of holding bong?' The sister dries bong. 'No, I don't see a market.'

That market is Adrian.

Adrian sold his soul for music virtuosity but not his ego for social media presence. This is like being a chef who makes really tasty burgers, in that people prefer McDonalds. The market does not want flavour, it wants background noise, comfort zone, screensaver instead of 'switching off'.

Adrian always was too proud to read the room and, instead of giving people what they want, made good music. So Adrian made the Attention Commanding Song, which commands the listener's full attention because the soul thing. He got chops and music does not need soul to make feels.

The market for the Attention Commanding Song is a peculiar one. It is weird few will let their soul rise if that means not scrolling. A daily rotation of Song on Fresh FM would put nationwide construction work, cumulatively, back years. There could also be deaths.

That market is Dr Woke.

Dr Woke funded the design and successful trial of a dual gender-reassignment and organ-transplant surgery.

He threatened world leaders over Skype: 'If you do not meet my demands, I will leak this information onto the straight-white-male network. Trans women are women and also cock donors. A lot of old, powerful men will become allies, or at least mercenaries, if that offers them a functioning member. No homo. Validation equals virility and interest in intersectionality will surge.'*

World leaders capitulated and paid Dr Woke's ransom: money and many things that money cannot buy. He wants an island but he knows that asking for one will get said island nuked. For now, Dr Woke strolls through his trophy chamber, amongst furniture removalists arranging his new collection. He stops in front of mannequin wearing the dress that Princess Diana died in:

'Oh shit. Oh no, I didn't, did I?'

Dr Woke was blotto on Serafino Wines' 'Orenji Project' 2022 Orange Wine when he added this item to his wish list. He is already planning to resell Princess Di's Death Dress and, more pressing, take a month off the booze. He wonders: who, exactly, appreciates the people's princess' timeless fashion sense yet can ignore this artefact's brazenly poor taste?

That market is Frankie.

 

* I feel like this whole idea has been done before.

A Case of Syrah Syrah

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$27 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$220 Four Pack of Beer
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$21 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$122 Bux. Semp. X Cannabis
₵$20 Black Meat (g)	₵$55 Bottled Emotions (qt.)
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$30 Self-Cooking Olive Oil (375 ml)
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$255 Brick of Cocaine
₵$35 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$62 Memory Coffee
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$17 Christian Repellent
₵$31 Mythril (oz.)	₵$75 Anti-Flimflammatory
₵$9 BZTCN	₵$9 Extrasolar Teas Box

This Week's Special:

In a golden age, long ago, there lived a precursor race known as Boomers. A sect of this people engaged in a ritual known as 'swingers parties'. They would hang their coats in something known as 'parlour', a decadence since lost to subdivision, before swapping their jollies. Magic happened in one such parlour, of the wholesome dick-on-clit variety.

Magic Coat Hangers happened. Two went to the Dunbars, who brought a wine to drink and a wine for the host. Two went to the Murphys, because he was nice but batting above his average. Two went to the Hands, who had moved into the cul-de-sac two days prior and excused themselves as best they could.

Thirty seven Magic Coat Hangers were created because Tinder and its gay prototype tapped into certain markets. Two have since been destroyed and three are unaccounted for. North Korea has one.

Why should anyone give a shit? If someone hangs clothing on a Magic Coat Hanger in closet, said clothing will be in any closet which they open. This is useful for people inclined to wake up in other people's beds and make hasty getaway in clean clothes. Such people often leave Magical Coat Hanger in their haste, which leaves it with their snoring host.

'I've come into ownership of three Magical Coat Hangers.' Mamta tastes Syrah Syrah. 'Through barter.'

Felicity does not quite hide jealousy: 'Sure. Speaking of barter, gimme' a coat hanger?'

Felicity is offering a Case of Syrah Syrah, which she does not recall buying but found in her cellar. Or, rather, five bottles, because one has been cracked for tonight's sampling. Notes of plum, tobacco and wine. It is the most syrah of syrahs.

'Which,' Felicity reminds, 'really makes someone appreciate our unique Australian shirazes.'

Mamta does not disagree but silently weighs previous offers, eyes behind glass of blueberry, anise. Tonight is not the grand opening of Mamta's new bar - that is pending. This tree house is built in the commons of a commuter town (population: village). The car park was once used for a small primary school. A light drizzle arrives and smokers cluster cigarettes under branches.

'I have a spirit level. And a string level. And a laser level.'

            'Everybody knew that Mr Squiggle was a coke head.'

                        'Which is why Pornhub doesn't have an amputee category.'

There is no roof, so Mamta considers Marks offer of Impossible Ceiling Tiles. Mark had hung T-Bar as part of a restaurant fit out, using a laser level for precision of height. The ceiling tiles were not forced into rails but they gave that impression. Straight rows became zigzags, the flat surface curved in waves, competing centres of gravity dragged gaze this way and that. The relativity of Escher was not part of this contract.

Mark replaced the tiles until the ceiling looked like a ceiling. He boxed the offending tiles until because they were still clean and someone may want easy psychedelic decor. Mark offering this box for three Magical Coat Hangers, which Mamta thought a bit steep. But Mamta loves the market and if you love something you should let it be free.

Dr Woke has also expressed interest in the Impossible Ceiling Tiles, having grown bored with his lair's plain volcano cavern roof. He cannot justify any new renovations after a complete refit earlier this year. Unless he has something to celebrate. Like money.

Dr Woke's most immediate path to money is Protocol: Microscope. This involves threatening world leaders with the release of a patent into the creative commons. This technology can reduce the cost of microscopes by 90%, so it will be commonplace in a generation. The caveat will not be obvious until commonplace: these microscopes glitch at 400x to 1100x magnification. Nobody will be able to see chromosomes, a disaster for certain genetic-disease specialists but super-villains will super-villain.

'And, World Leaders,' Dr Woke has rehearsed in mirror, swirling prop glass of S. C. Pannell 'Dead End' 2021 McClaren Vale 2021 Tempranillo, 'it is biological fact that Woman is cross and Man asks "why". No historian can locate the concepts "male" or "female" earlier than the 1880s. No child has differentiated the genders before learning of chromosomes. Those non-westerns on that island, firing bows at visiting helicopters, are a culture of polyamorous bisexuals.

That is my threat. A world that does not know its chromosomes will not know its genders, sexes, pfft. Extra flesh on chest may make extra flesh between legs turgid but not lead to fucking, because half chance gay. And gaybos won't fuck straights.

Only the bisexuals will comfortably fuck, once they fumble into a decent position. You best hope the stereotypes are true if there is to be anything resembling a birth rate. Is that what you want? A generation raised by frisky bis?'

World leaders will not. Magdalene feels otherwise.

'Fuck yeah fuck yeah fuck yeah do it. I'll be in your debt. We'll do an indentured servitude - ingredients in, potions out.'

Yvette had shown concern with Magdalene's enthusiasm: 'Could I put in a counter-offer for your future?'

'Eh? Sure.'

'So I've recently come into possession of a bathroom.'

This time it is a handicapped/family toilet. It had been graffitied overnight, tags on the fold-out changing table sticking out like trashy navel tattoo. Yvette sprayed Muck-Off and wiped with microfiber. A faint stain remained on the changing table in the graffiti's shape. Yucky.

The next tag was on the hand dryer. She sprayed, she wiped, then she sprayed water and wiped with a second microfiber. Most of the graffiti was removed but what remained mixed with the hand dryer's paint, becoming sky blue against the wall's PSU. Hm, well, Yvette fished white paint from the shed and applied layer of cream, make of that what you will. She hung a 'wet paint' sign before returning to her rounds.

Yvette emptied the shopping centre bins and cleaned miscarriage off the ladies toilet floor.* The handicapped/family toilet was hit with different tags: the changing table, the door, the 'wet paint' sign, which felt personal. Whatevs, Yvette Muck-Offed the graffiti as best she could and rolled the door fresh.

Yvette had lunch and watched a nutrition tier-list video during her cigarette.  Fresh tags appeared on those faded. Fucking school holidays.

Yvette finished the Much-Off and texted before-and-after photographs to the boss, who charges for this work. She binned the microfibers and kept the graffitied 'wet paint' sign as souvenir. Yvette's shift was done.

The process repeated the next day.

Something happened, of the Ship of Theseus variety. The freshly painted bathroom remains at the end of the breezeway, convenient for anyone's pooping. Piece by piece, however, the graffitied bathroom discretely stepped outside reality. Whoever carries the 'wet paint' sign owns the paradox bathroom. Whoever owns the Paradox Bathroom steps into it upon attempting to access any conventional bathroom. This is not useful for someone who needs to access toilets, plural, for their work.

Now, Yvette finds Syrah Syrah overrated: 'And you could do with more space for your alchemy.'

Magdalene growls agreement through her drink. Potions have spilled from her overfull shelf. Through tactical postponements the rental agent has not seen the kitchen glow swamp green during a waxing gibbous moon.

'What, I propose,' Yvette continues, 'is that you use this personal bathroom to make a certain potion.'

Said potion fundamentally alters the drinker's appearance to that of the DNA (gross) added. By applying CRISPR-Cas9 to a piece of drinker's own hair, the potion can fulfil certain aspects of the drinker's appearance. For reasons beyond Roland Barthes, however, the potion which fundamentally alters appearance is brewed in a female's toilet.

Magdalene is cross about this problem. Why? Never has man been able to sate his oh-so-desperate bowels in the sacred ladies' shitter. No man may enter to clean shit off those temple walls. Yvette herself cannot enter the gents  and so must work with a useless man called Aaron. This double-hiring of cleaners, extrapolated for every public toilets, is the sole driving force behind inflation.

(The only unoccupied female toilet that Yvette can recall is on the third floor of her former employers. Said toilet is currently patrolled by Amy, with drill gun: 'Come on out, penis allegory. This is a safe space.')

'But owning this Paradox Toilet will make it yours. A woman's. The ladies.' Yvette continues. Again. 'So you will be able to make Polyplus Potion. And you want to. Maybe for your customers to try out, see if it works. Or perhaps to ease the strain of those earlier, gender dysphoric days. Or perhaps to provide some customers with a lifetime supply, get your own indentured servants.

It could be done. It could be cheaper than existing options and you could still profit. Profit which you'd share with me.'

'Such enterprise would be non-profit.' Magdalene also finds Syrah Syrah to be so-so, but she knocks back her glass. 'But I appreciate the offer.'

Yvette suspected this possibility. Perhaps her profits lie in added values, such as her dabblings in sex lives. Otherwise, she has shown the Paradox Toilet to Cameron, who remarked:

'I could make drugs whilst shitting.'

And so the night continues in this would-be tree house, drunken chattering:

'But with a potion of Perfect "Eyeballing It" you can look good.'

            'Hardly the worst thing done by an Australian children's entertainer.'

                        'Oh - fuuuuuck.'

Someone has leaned too far on the railing and Mamta pours a shot of Monkey Booze. Everyone hears the oomph, 'that hurt' and the shot goes down. A tractor crests over the hill and Steven is still winded. The last thing he sees is headlights.

'Whoa.'

'Gnarly.

'He was a cunt.'

 Mamta is going to have to shut this bar down and start a new one. She will therefore not need the Impossible Ceiling Tiles and the market vibrates with repercussions. Mamta pours herself a Monkey Booze chaser. This drink is known as a Purple Spark.

 

*Ed: this actually happened, paramedics and all, in the handicapped toilets three months ago. 

Spasming Grandmas 2007 Concert Tour Merch T-Shirt

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$34 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$100 Mud Proof Boots
₵$15 Bloody Mary	₵$24 Fire Chicken Feathers (doz.)
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$7 Fine MRE Spice (p/g)
₵$12 Black Meat (g)	₵$105 Four Pack of Beer
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$20 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$116 Bux. Semp. X Cannabis
₵$40 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$28 Bottled Emotions (qt.)
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$20 Self-Cooking Olive Oil (375 ml)
₵$33 Mythril (oz.)	₵$125 Brick of Cocaine
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$74 Memory Coffee

This Week's Special:

Cost of living is a bitch but bitch has got to live, not merely survive. Emily thought she could keep her hands busy without spending money on cloth to tailor. One week in and her smoking had doubled. Two weeks in and she wrote list of her co-workers, ranked on wearability of their skin.

Emily decided to op-shop for cheap, recyclable fabrics. Looking for interesting patterns to repurpose, she found a men's t-shirt with green Day-Glo skull behind faceless rockers. She thought: that would be neat to fuck in.

The Spasming Grandmas 2007 Concert Tour Merch T-Shirt went into her drawers. It was one of the few articles randomly spared the scissors on a night, frustrated, drunk, with lack of inspiration. She needed asparagus the morning after, so Emily wore it (with pants!) to the supermarket. A passing gentleman cast gaze, slowly growing in worry, onto the green skull:

'Oh. You were there.'

The man one-eightied and fled. Tradies were dollying  a mirror into a cafe fit out, because this economy is weird like that. Emily saw: the regularly faceful man's reflection had no face. Nipples hardened, beady eyes bulging from empty sockets.

Seeking market deets, Emily wore the shirt whilst buying (sneaking) a round (flask) of drinks (moonshine) for musicians (snob wanks).

'We share fans.' Adrian obliged. 'They like me because I have no soul.'

'Mhm.' Less about yourself, please. 'You've seen them live?'

'No luck. They are out of this world, or dimension. The band, and fans, aren't human. They doppelgang good but will eat your healthcare without blinking.'

'Thank you.' Emily pours the last of her flask into Adrian's  glass. 'But I'll take my leave.'

'You wouldn't be looking to sell that shirt? I'd display social capital to soulless fans, and wear it better.'

Aghast: 'I was looking to sell but you, mister, better pay the right price.'

'I have crickets.'

One of which chirps into silence.

'Is that your best offer?'

'It's just a shirt, stranger. Merch is always overpriced.'

Very well, Emily decides to spend her shirt elsewhere. Dr Woke's lair is in an active volcano, because housing shortage. The road ascending the mountain is very smooth. Emily waits outside Dr Woke's office because he is in a Skype meeting:

'And so, gentlemen, if you do not meet my demands within forty-eight hours, I will teach pandas missionary position.'

On one of the eight screens, Keir Starmer raises curious hand: 'I'm new to... this. So, this is a woke-themed super-villain?'

'Oui!' Macron massages brow. 'Mais oui!'

Starmer continues: 'But he's a straight white man?'

Dr Woke affirms: 'And cis. And neuro-typical.'

'Uhhh.'

'He's the villain.' Biden's got better shit to do. 'He's woke, so he avoids queer-coding. It's obvious, even I understand it.'

Agreement: 'Da.'

Starmer continues: 'And he's one of yours?'

'I'll never live this down.' Anthony Albanese cries into second bottle of Tenuta 'Sassoregale' 2021 Sangiovese. 'I'm still getting shit about the shiny wool.'

'And why don't we just assassinate the pandas?'

Dr  Woke chuckles: 'And how would world peace fair without panda diplomacy?'

Xi Jinping laughs manic. The screens go blank. Dr Woke scratches his balls before noticing Emily.

'Oh hey you.'

'Hiii. Just popping in, seeing how you're doing.' They hug. They went to high school together, in adjacent groups. He was shy in those days but they kept crossing paths and, upon recollection: coulda shoulda woulda. It is a whole thing. 'Well, by the looks of it.'

'Yeah, got a reno done after the Sparkly Yarn campaign.'

She knows, but: 'That's right. How did that go, again?'

Flashbackery: Dr Woke heard on a podcast that times of economic pressure caused society to lean towards heteronormative heterodoxy, heterocetera. Correlation is not causation but Dr Woke looked into it. He discovered that four stripes* are inclined to figurative gay bash unless distracted by shiny things of economic prosperity.

With opportunity discovered, Dr Woke developed cheap technicolour wool that sparkled in light of moon or sun. He threatened world leaders with the release of Sparkly Yarn and they paid him a handsome ransom and then some. They feared a world where people had better shit to do than decide who or why other people fucked.

Emily smiles but her foot is tapping: 'So what did you do with the Sparkly Yarn? You made a prototype hundred balls?'

'This was not just a pop in.' His smile adopts a touch of smirk. 'And what were you willing to fork out?'

She points both hands at her torso but Dr Woke gets the wrong erection.

'She meant the shirt.' Iris is here now and gives Dr Woke a clipboard. 'Please sign the thing.'

Dr Woke does so: 'Iris, Emily. Emily, Iris. Iris has been managing a road project. Emily is trying to convince me to buy a shirt.'

'It was a nice drive up here.' Emily claps and holds hands. 'And the shirt makes extra-dimensional beings panic.'

'That does not sound inclusive.' Dr Woke declines. 'I do not want to have to wear a jumper carrying trigger warning for inner layers.'

Iris: 'Panic?'

'Yeah. They sprint off. One ran through a mirror, sliced open their throat. They don't bleed, funnily enough.'

'That is funny.' Iris claps and holds hands. 'If they're not human, do you reckon it's all right to murder them?'

Cost of living is a bitch but bitch has got to live, not merely survive. The dating scene is a bit thin at the moment so Iris sought other means of scratching itch. Her side of the phone call:

'Hi, this is Iris calling. I heard you organise people-hunts... Mhm, people hunting other people as blood sport, all very consenting... Yes, and how much do you charge?... The fuck, who can afford that?... So how much do you pay to be hunted?'

So Iris was flown to a private island off the coast of Victoria. In the hunting lodge, Iris shook hands with the dozen gentlemen who would be hunting her. They gave her five minutes head start. She found a humble cudgel, got bored, returned and smashed two hunter's heads into urinal wall. Hunters were hunted and, with fourteen bodies piled before her, post-blood-nut clarity set in.

Thinking out loud: 'They paid me... they're allowed to hunt me... I didn't pay them... I didn't give them my BSB. Fuck!'

Iris stripped the hunters' clothes and bundled those into two suitcases. There were larger suitcases but the two chosen had wheels. She hitchhiked a lift home from a passing narco sub.

Iris, in salesman mode: 'And they're rich people clothes. Cravats, scarves, the sweaters you only wear with arms tied around your shoulders to boat club. I'll give you a suitcase for that one shirt.'

Emily's scissors are ready, but: 'A small closet's worth of clothes stolen from upper-crust murder victims. I'd say I'd launder them, but the wordplay eats its own tail.'

Ooh, velociraptor.

Iris farts: 'Uh, both suitcases?'

'Mm. If you insist.'

Whilst Dr Woke hopes that this swapping of clothes happens in front of him.

 

*Types of straight.