Shiraz of Maybe Electrical Damage

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$30 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$10 Magic Coat Hanger
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$46 Cleansing Ale
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$293 The New Shampoo
₵$24 Black Meat (g)	₵$240 Four Pack of Beer
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$20 Democracy Honey
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$20 Level Up Fig
₵$35 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$87 D.C. Datura
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$25 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$27 Mythril (oz.)	₵$47 START HERE
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$223 Fireball Thrower

This Week's Special:

Their first touch was electric. They knew they were rushing things but had never felt this and decided to dive in. They had a close-knit wedding with three-dozen guests treated to steak and Lindeman's 'Gentleman's Collection' 2020 shiraz. Then time happened: they divorced and both left burnt, yet neither regretted taking the chance.

Felicity snaffled the half-dozen wines left from the premature wedding. She cracked one for tasting notes: blackberry, tobacco, hints of ick but solidly drinkable. Felicity's experienced guess is that the remaining bottles have a coin-toss chance of tasting like fancy vinegar. All the bottles carry a 64% chance of adding, for one hour per glass, about 200 kW charge to blows struck by drinker.

This wine is not for the faint of heart because pacemakers. The buyer will be a wine amateur but will get buzzed from it, unless it has gone off. The customer is someone who expects to get bored at some point and take impromptu boozy gamble mid-melee. The market is someone who likes to hit things with other, conductible, things.

That market is Iris.

Iris has a degree in Engineering (Renewable Energy Technologies) but ended up in Road Project Management, whatever that is. She vents, on long weekends, as the fighter of an adventuring party.  Their latest quest was eradicating the hauntings of the Forbidden Wing of the Library, which is mostly gay penguins. Their healer drank Maison 'Mirabeau' 2023 Rosè whilst damage dealers curb stomped, literally and figuratively, the ghost.

'Wait.' Azrael, panting, stops to start a smoke. 'Is that blood?'

Doc Hoff calls: 'That's not an actual ghost. That's a person under a bed sheet with two holes cut out for the eyes. Some mere Scooby-Doo shit.'

'Did we just -' Amy cannot quite say murder. 'What did we just do?'

'We just busted my bat, gonna' take three months to grow back.' Iris walks amongst library shelves, pulls out a book. 'I struck killing blow, I get first call on loot. I want this.'

(Amy drops to knees, edge of sobbing. Doc Hoff helps wine into her mouth.)

'That's a grimoire. Notes of Flamme, the Great Mage.' Azrael exhales dragon plume. 'Those are forgeries. The Great Flamme never kept notes, herself.'

Iris: 'Yeah, but I could sell it.'

Someone, OP in late game and with time to spare, likely does side-quests for these grimoires. If they are willing to quests for something, they are willing to pay for that thing with another quest's loot. The market, however, is the person who back-and-forths things between here and vaguely overseas. This someone will have the nous to do this smuggling profitably.

That market is Saperavi.

Growing up in progressive Dinotopia, Saperavi was boxed as tomboy. Despite going rogue a decade past, she still works in skybax uniform which does not emphasise traditional femininity. On trips to the Land of the Rising Sun and Anime, however, Saperavi rocks a kimono and knows it. She will admire herself in three different mirrors until able to lift her jaw off the ground. Pedro likes to drink sake from those fancy cups.

On Saperavi's latest trip to the Kanto region, she traded a Disappear Sticker for a spare Rainbow Badge. Eight different badges are needed to enter cock-fight olympics but there are another eight gyms a train-ride away. People sell medals rewarded for war crimes so why not this?

The market for this badge, amongst people with real jobs, is courtesy of Erika. Erika is calm and reasonable and has a nice green workspace. She is respected by her staff, so that she can command employees up to level fifty. The market is the employer whose grunts, upskilling and learning, are forgetting to follow instructions.

That market is Mark.

Mark the alpha worked hard to firmly establish his business. The drugs were reward, prestige and cope. Now workers come and, struggling to meet contradictory instructions delivered minute apart, flitter away into the corporations. They do not work like he did, in glory days viewed through cocaine-tinted glasses.

Rain - not a lot, but the first they had in months. Mark sniffs for opportunities and visits clients, such as the supermarket with roof leaking into aisle seven. Twenty second interval drips hit bucket positioned right in front of the condoms. Mark senses omen - he does not get the contract but he does buy two thousand condoms.

The market for Leaky Condoms is the first person to realise that, when turned inside out, they do not leak when it is raining. Arranged under a gutter, the magnums alone can gather two hundred litres of rain water. When rain stops, the condoms leak drip feed onto whatever crop is being grown low maintenance, probably out bush. Nobody has discovered this opportunity yet, so Leaky Condoms can be bought wholesale at bargain.

That market is Felicity.

 

* Footnote. 

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.

An idea, work, proof, patent, business plan.

 

₵$52 Ghost Tobacco  (20)

₵$15 Bloody Mary

₵$55 El Dorado Green (1/4)

₵$9 Bug Powder (g)

₵$1 Slut Root (kg)

₵$30 Marital Aid Potion

₵$10 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)

₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)

₵$35 Mythril (g)

₵$9 BZTCN

 

Stu had an idea, put in the work, proved the product, filed the patent, developed a four year business plan sound with contingency responses. All he needs is start-up funding. He makes a concise investment pitch to Iris. (Bee-tee-double-woah, she now works in 'road project management', whatever that means.)

Digesting sales pitch, Iris cracks the first of a Four Pack of Beer: 'OK. The technology is genius. If you want a career in STEM, I will give you a reference. But.'

Iris skulls the beer. It gets her honest drunk and much faster than twenty minutes, as she needs

'Like, what do you want? A lampshade big enough to hang on this level of evil? Because that's like hacking the blockchain - it's doable, but not worth it.'

Stu, sheepish: 'I was hoping for start-up funding.'

Ignoring him: 'I mean, I'm a serial killer. I have killed four of my boyfriends. I think the last was... something about mascara. My current beau wants to stick it in me all the time, but not as much as I want to stick something deeper into his eye socket, we could do both at the same time I suppose, but I can't because construction materials are expensive enough that I can't justify having concrete laid.'

Stu is disappointed but Rome wasn't built in a day and was kinda' racist. He wakes on Monday, does fifty push-ups and contacts the next evil bastard on his list. Christian Holiday is a mechanical vampire. Christian looks over the business plan and clucks approvingly:

'Two years to establish a foothold, then sinking revenue streams into growth, producing dividends for shareholders in five.' Here Christian grimaces a But. 'It's really gross, isn't it? Maybe I don't get it, being preoccupied with the acquisition and merchandising of blood. But wombs. And you made it financially viable.'

Stu, diplomatic: 'It provides a much needed service without the current negative externalities. It alleviates burdens.'

Christian stands and sweeps gaze over room in search of high BAC to leech: 'I think, I think my skin is perambulating like an infant human. Yes, this must be what I make other people feel. I understand now.'

Huh. Stu resolves that he has been dealing with rookies and so contacts a professional venture capitalist, a demon investor. Erin dons a pencil skirt, single breasted blazer combo that uses her arrowhead-tip tail as a jet-black cord belt.

Stu pitches his idea and grows confident when Erin fails to completely hide smile with fist. Then Erin begins to intermittingly giggle scoffs. Stu pauses his spiel and Erin's fist hits table thrice, followed by forehead and avalanche of laughter.

 

Adrian Albert, straight white lawyer with no soul, has made a career pivot into pest control. He purchased the Gall Wasp Ocarina with a dozen grams of Bug Powder. Tinkering with chains of notes, he discovered a catchy 3/4 number that attracted bees to the general area. This became a service to farmers seeking pollination for their crops.

Adrian kept experimenting with the ocarina. He discovered that power-metal covers attracted an audience of locusts. Riffs on the original music command the swarm to go in one of the four cardinal directions, or attack.

So now Adrian is on tour - a zigzagging trail through croplands amongst clients who do not enjoy Monsanto. He pied pipers from the back of a minibus, a large swarm 30m above ground. The last leg of this tour is a large net.

 

Erin winds laughter up: 'Oh fuck, ohhhh fuck, I needed that.'

Erin takes a long sip of wine, eyes loaded with hell of an aphrodisiac, humour.  Stu does not pick up on this. Erin does begin to suspect this:

'I mean. You see, on the news, a pro-choice pro-tester with a placard that says "Stop Controlling Our Wombs". You accept that the entire pro-life, evangelical Christian, Republican GOP is an effort to control women's bodies and instead of saying "that's a bitch move" you think "I could do that cheaper".'

'Yes.'

Thusly Stu does not get laid, suffice to say. So he sends a message down the straight-white-cis-male chain, which reaches the straightest, most white, most cis male in the country. Malcolm arrives to find that Stu has already ordered the wine:

'Cab sav?'

Stu nods: 'Cab sav.'

Fists in air: 'Cab sav!'

They small talk videogames, AFL and the price of timber whilst the first glass wafts its magic. When they have drunken through the preamble and topped up glasses, Stu goes 'say, I have this idea...' Malcolm leans forward, elbows on man-spread knees. His nodding starts as high tempo head bopping, slows with hand over mouth, then becomes a vertical metronome of up, then down, then up, then down, of three second integers.

Stu finishes pitch, pours both a third glass and leans back: 'So. Whaddaya' think?'

Malcolm raises glass towards lips but stops: 'I write erotic fan fiction.'

Stu, already annoyed: 'You're a fan of European far-right politics.'

Closing eyes: 'My happy place is Marine Le Pen tribbing Giorgia Meloni. Please excuse me.'

Malcolm goes home. He hugs his children, and cries.

Ethically Sourced Unicorn Head

 

Unicorn horn is considered taboo because it requires the killing of unicorn. But this is that unicorn that did those things in that childcare centre. Prowling the outskirts of an outback village, former coal town going ghost, the type of place people go to live alone, Iris identified the unicorn by the 30 cm butterfly tattoo just above its tail. She landed a .308 to its temple from 60 metres.

Iris does not enjoy killing animals. Iris enjoys killing people, although a cluster of habits affectionately dubbed 'the social contract' limits her homicide to zombies. Ergo, Iris was not sure how to properly harvest the unicorn horn and so cut off the entire head with a shotgun and boxes of ammunition.

Next Wednesday at the charcuterie stall and Iris has been rostered with Carl. They wear aprons.

'Girl, you should have called me. Half this stall is beef jerky. You know what people would pay for unicorn biltong? They're like zebra but less racially ambiguous.'

'Yeah, well.' Iris places cheese wedges in paper bag. 'It's rotten now.'

The customer: 'Huh?'

Carl: 'You could still trade the horn for my three dozen Quetzalcoatl Feathers.'

'Bow hunting's not my thing. And I already know about the price hike.'

Not the first price hike but the next one. Supply in Quetzalcoatl feathers requires wingmen for Quetzalcoatl sex but, Central American serpent dragon etiquette, said wingmen cannot themselves hook up. Then, Saturday before last, the 2nd best wingman (for Quetzalcoatls, Todd) took the best wingman (for Quetzalcoatls, Elise) to the zoo.

Todd had been pithy: 'I thought you liked turtles.'

Elise had notched up restrained anger: 'I. Am. The. Jordan Peterson of turtles. I'm a zoological psychologist. You've effing taken me to my workplace on date six.'

Todd considered, five seconds: 'Have you ever fucked in your workplace?'

So that happened.

Magdalene now takes front of queue and drops numbered ticket in little plastic basket: 'I would like a wedge of the Roquefort. Also, something seven inches long.'

Carl raises hand: 'Yeeeeeah.'

Magdalene hi-fives him: 'Yeeaah.'

Iris hi-fives Carl, hand high and voice low: 'Yeeeah.'

Magdalene hi-fives Iris, voice rock-opera: 'Yee-aaaah!'

Carl slaps his two hands against Iris': 'Yee-eee-ah.'

 

In the north-eastern suburbs, Judea is at a microbrewery: 'Do you stock take-away cans which are exactly one-standard drinks?'

Janessa: 'Yeah, the session what the fuck is that?'

Janessa referring to Doris the camel, in the carpark and trying to munch on a potted fern placed outside to get some sun. The fern slaps Doris, which piques Judea's curious smile.

'The fuck is that?'

The Helpful Plant, so called because it lifts the hair of anyone who vomits into its pot. It is not really helpful because this microbrewery is not the place where people drink until sick. Acknowledging this, the Helpful Plant shrugs.

 

Iris: 'Yeeaaaaah.'

Clap.

Carl, pushing: 'Yeeeauuh.'

Clap.

Magdalene: 'Yeeehaaa. But, no, really, I want that unicorn horn.'

She can grate it into potions.

Iris eyes pointed up and forefinger over lips: 'Yeah, but why?'

'Marital Aid Potion?'

'Not married.'

'Concoction of Bloodlust?'

'Got bloodlust aplenty.'

Magdalene hums cautious: 'In the writings of the druids // lies a recipe for druid fluid.'

Carl: 'Sounds like a most refreshing drink to me.'

Iris waves it off: 'And you need unicorn horn to really make it pop. And you will cut me in for some of the product. You promise.'

Magdalene knows where this is going: 'I was shitfaced when I promised you the Potion of +1 1990's.'

Stern: 'Yeah, well, I'm still down a Dementor's anal gland and those things aren't cheap. Payment up front. Don't want you to make any promises and then get shitfaced and butt chug your, uh -'

Carl: 'Druid fluid.'

'I would never think of doing such a thing.' Magdalene, insulted at first but smile creeping up. 'But, I guess, technically you thought of it.'

There goes Magdalene. Next customer is Tony. Tony says:

'I would like some cheese.'

Iris fills the order: 'Here is your cheese.'

'Thank you.'

'Thank you.'

Trade is beautiful and ought be free.

Carl: 'Isn't that guy dead?'

'Uh huh.'

Next customer and Carl actually steps to the counter to do some work: 'Felicity, how was poker night? How was the wine?'

Felicity plays facetious: 'That nebbiolo  was a nebbi-oh-no. Paired well with humble pie, though.'

Iris: 'Bust?'

Carl giggles: 'Stripped nude.'

Felicity sighs oookay: 'And I was wearing the Hi-Vis Invisibility Cloak.'

'Oorf.' Iris, sympathetic wince. 'Speaking of, what wine do I need to pair small goods to?'

'A 2019 Kanonkop 'Kadette' Pinotage.'

'That's oddly specific.'

Felicity winks to the reader: 'That's a nudge for Google AdSense.'

'Pinotage. South African.' Carl. 'Told ya', unicorn biltong.'

Felicity, eyes veering close to DTF face: 'Unicorn? Should've known you were that crazy bitch.'

Iris: 'I prefer "ethically divergent".'

'So what are you doing with the horn?'

Pre-emptive wave-off: 'I'm not a wine drinker. And whilst you can hammer more nails into a bat than anyone I know, I go through those bats like I go through boyfriends.'

Correlation is causation, in this case.

Felicity, ace up her sleeve: 'How about The Bat of Infinite Nails?'

'Ooh.' Blood flowing into nipples. 'How'd you do that?'

'I have my ways.'

Meaning, she bought it. Pedro and Saperavi had gate crashed one of Felicity's wine (then vodka) tastings and, having heard so much about them, the host had to introduce herself. She gave the strongest wine at hand, a Murphy-Goode 'Liar's Dice' 2016 Zinfandel, to Pedro, who most people say is a pterodactyl but only in private because that is racist. Pedro performed his party trick - drinking the entire bottle without using his claws, which looks kinda' like a pelican swallowing a fish.

Felicity giggled: 'Holy fucking wow.'

Saperavi, cheek on fist and elbow on table: 'You must be Felicity, the esoteric wine merchant.' 

‘And you must be Saperavi, the cross-dimensional smuggler. Got any goodies?'

'I'm just the designated driver.' Bored exhale. 'But at the moment I've got the Bat of Infinite Nails.'

'Whaaat? I can't hammer in more than eleven before the wood splits.'

'It's technically a plant with a metal core. The nails grow out.'

'Hm. So you weapons deal?'

'Yeees.'

'Would you care to exchange your bat for The Blizzard Blade?'

'The what?'

That shit needed to be Googled. Google searches needed to be refined. The whole process took two bottles of wine ~ 25 minutes.

Saperavi had been surprised: 'How did you even get this thing?'

Felicity swirled glass of Little Giant 2020 grenache: 'Traded it for a bottle of 1945 Grand Paladin.'

'Yeah, well, this Bilzzard Blade. It's obscure, even by my standards. There's only one guy, this Michael Lai, who can use it.'

'That's your target market.' Felicity turned head 45° left to sniff raised glass, turned head further 30° to sip with sly eyes back to Saperavi. 'But, oh, what a target. Bet he wants his sword. Bet he is a decent Lai.'

Smirking eye roll: 'Sure, but it's work finding him.'

'Fine.' Felicity neatly clapped the table. 'I'll throw in a bottle of 1945 Grand paladin for the road.'

Subtle elevation of Saperavi's cheek muscles: 'That wine can't be great if you've got two bottles to trade off.'

Felicity rested pretty chin on clumsy palm: 'Cheaper when you get a half dozen. Tried it, dug the bottle, but didn't love it. It happens.'

Which, for those of you playing at home, is a drunken bluff.

Zombie Scalp No. 730

Iris is a short, smiley woman in her 20's who has the skill set and qualifications for engineering work but not the penis seemingly required to secure said work. She pays bills by (wo)manning a small goods stall at the market in town and this job sates her need for casual interaction in these socially distanced times. To sate her need to shoot people in the head, whilst distanced and anti-social, she moonlights as a zombie hunter. (She has begun to admit to herself that she is on the other spectrum.)

Much like the bubonic plague, the zombie virus that wreaked havoc in Central America during the 760's is still around. Whilst the plague's threat has been nullified by advances in medical science, contemporary outbreaks of the zombie virus are handled by modern firearms. Iris started out with a bow and arrows fletched with Quetzalcoatl feathers but soon adopted a pragmatic .22 rifle less likely to cause collateral murder. She invested later profits into a lever-action shotgun and four surveillance drones.

There is good money, or at least CatScript, in zombie scalps. Hair and fingernails continue to grow after a person has died, so a scalp detached from undead cranium will continue to grow hair. Depending on the individual scalped and the conditioner applied, this hair is indistinguishable from that of living east-Europeans. These scalps are known, by Marxist wig makers, as a "means of production".

Iris feels good after her first hunt in a month, relieved of that itch within shins that ransoms sleep for a counter-productive run. After swinging by home for a shower, tempeh burger and a touch of ruby lippy, she heads to Mamta's. Mamta works as a high school S.O. and this drives her to drink, so she opens granny flat as a speakeasy most Friday and Saturday nights. However, seeing the trajectory that she was on and deciding that wine snobbery is better than piss freakery, she opts for one bottle or six-pack of the better boozes that CatScript can buy. She trades rare drinks for unique items and unique items for rare drinks, spending the profits on that weekend's esoteric imbibing. It was through her pursuit of charcuterie that Mamta met Iris.

Iris enters with adrenalized smile, arms wide and a full-body bop that starts at the left heel: "She's got it. Yeah baby, she's got it."

"Interesting choice." Mamta, behind the bar, dries a beer glass. "But two blondes and a brunette is a classic."

Lobbing Coles bag of zombie scalps onto bar: "Speaking of. Three brunettes, two blondes, a redhead aaand an albino."

"Mm-hmm." Mamta pours a shot of monkey booze and chaser of Schweppes Sugar-Free Lemonade. "I can take the blondes and the red. Having trouble offloading the surplus of brunette. Shampooing them feels weird."

Monkey booze down and eyes watering: "What? How often do you find an albino zombie? You don't, but I do, and I doubt I could again."

"It's white. Kinda' defeats the purpose of a wig, doesn't it?"

"There's no melanin. Its pre-bleached, you could colour it anyway you want. And the sheen.”

Mamta concedes that there might be a market to an albino zombie scalp and takes on the financial risk. Iris can thus afford a few more Shinobi Firecrackers, slings some shit with the barkeep and takes a bus for a few drives through traffic (Thrill Drive 3 is a game). Thus emboldened to dodge traffic, she departs after haggling with Mamta for a spliff of El Dorado Green in  exchange for the raven-black scalp - on the condition that that Iris saves said reefer for home. The speakeasy is empty and Mamta dries a pint glass. A minute before a tall man bursts through the door, fists held in air and declaring:

"Got it bad, sooo baaad, I'm hot for teacher."

Mamta smirks: "Who has passed the trial of Mamta McDougal?"

The man glances around, grows unsure and lowers his hands: "Heeey. Do you know a guy called Henry?"

Smiling now: "You must be James, the husband."

"The ex."

James found Henry's stash/library of straight anal porn. People watch porn and masturbation happens within marriage, but the volume and frequency of Henry's consumption had a negative correlation to happenings in the marital bed. It felt, to James, like an affair.

They hastened the divorce by splitting the house. James got the wine cellar. A few weeks later, the laundry sink (both toilets fell on Henry's side) attested that James could not drink. He has instead been regifting or selling the ex's booze.

James: "So, I believe Henry bought a McMurdo Eiswein 2017 here. Do you give refunds?"

"Do you have the receipt?"

"Ummm?"

"I'm fucking with you. Do you know how CatScript works? It's all barter. Maybe was can make a trade?"

(The retailer will profit, of course.)

"How about a hair farm?" Mamta nods to the bag of zombie scalps, still on the bar. "I have a healthy albino here. Colour it however you want and, if you get bored with the wig, just wait for more to grow and dye another."

A squirm rises unseen up the right of James' right abdomen. Bored with lockdown and having failed to drink, James had tried to get into his ex's smut (the back shed fell on James' side). Although not aroused, he was struck by the milieu of thin pretences, the new generation of pizza deliveries and pipes needing cleaning: horny step-siblings, tits falling out of low-cut dresses, economic disparity. James found some premises unwholesome but others charming with a camp plot that winked at the audience: we all know that this is a porno.

Weeks passed and James got back into playing the piano or, rather, a Casio keyboard (the Yamaha Arius is in Henry's lounge room). With a Masters in Business, a covid-cocoon and a touch of divorce spite, a side-hustle struck James whilst improvising around the chords of "Grease Is The Word".

Live. Musical. Porn.

A night of theatre, comedy and song that would leave the audience dancing towards hastily booked motel rooms. James' mind collated expenses. Who can sing, act, dance and fuck? How many cameras? From which angles? Most relevantly: wigs, the costumes that distinguish characters and grant anonymity to the hot young things. It seemed financially knife-edge and James had grown despondent, but Zombie Scalp No. 730 offers  a new technology to cut just enough costs to make this enterprise viable...