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.

Sandwich de Mayonesa de Machu Picchu

A phone call.

Colin: 'Holy fuck.'

Stu: 'What?'

'Holy fuck.'

'What?'

'Guess who's coming to town.'

'Holy Fuck?'

'What? No. That's not a band. Is it?'

'It is.'

'Dick Valentine is coming to town.'

'Who, or what, is that?'

'Lead singer of Electric Six? Not bringing the whole band over but, shit, his solo acoustic stuff has to be the next best thing. Hasn't been here in years. Not in my listening years, anyway.'

'Electric Six?'

'How young are you?'

'Where's he playing? Gay bar?'

'So you have heard of them.'

'No?'

A moment: 'You're an idiot.'

'But you called.'

'Yes. Well. I'm new to the live show scene. I need to get that night off work.'

'Say no more.'

Two days before the show, Stu dons a clown mask, a gaudy sky-blue shirt, zebra print skinny jeans and a purple cape. After dark, when Colin's shift has just finished and the workers exchange car park small talk, Stu star-jumps from behind a she-oak and strikes Colin in the back of the shin with a padded minigolf club. Someone yells 'What the shit?' and Colin lands a surprised jab into Stu's shoulder. Stu drops the minigolf club and makes his escape over a fence. Another someone throws the  minigolf club, striking Stu in the ass. Stu goes 'fuck' and Colin is briefly wide-eyed, realising for the first time that the clown is Stu and that he has a plan. There are enough witnesses that Colin can play shocked and rattled to his manager, getting a few days of personal leave off work.

The story of the random clown attack spreads around, a bit short of going viral. It trickles through most departments of government, most of which dismiss it as an oddity outside their respective jurisdictions. The Department of Very Bad Ideas (DVBI) acts instantly and their advice, to list the Juggalo subculture as a Declared Criminal Organisation, is passed through parliament that day.

The night before the show, Colin and Stu has a couple of drinks at their local.

Colin: 'This is bad.'

Stu: 'The new law? Don't tell me you're into horrorcore now.'

'No. It's a fascinating mythology, though.'

'So what's the problem?'

'It opens the floodgates. More musical subcultures will be banned.' Colin skulls beer. 'Electric Six fans call ourselves "Crazies".'

'Shit.' Now Stu skulls. 'OK. We need a cat. There's that cat that sometimes visits the small beer garden next to the pokies.'

'I'll buy the next round.'

So a couple of beers becomes nine. A bartender eventually comes out to collect empty glasses. She says, stern:

'We're calling last drinks.'

Stu, swaying: 'Awww come one, we need to drink until the cat gets here unless, unless, we need to save music.'

'I'm cutting you two off.'

Colin spills beer: 'Shit, shit, cat's there do the thing do the thing.'

Stu, in one motion: the Catnip Page unfurls with a flick of the left hand, catching the catnip-and-tobacco cigarette with right and raising said cigarette to mouth whilst the left hand, moving parallel, raises lighter from pocket to mouth, flicked on the way to instantly inhale. Tom pushes the door to the beer garden open with his foot, carrying three pints, says cheeky:

'Hello Andrea. Clocking off soon?'

She plays cute: 'Twenty minutes.'

Placing beers on table: 'Plenty of time.'

Andrea the bartender concedes an arrangement with a puckered smile before glaring a warning at Colin and Stu. She exits, putting on a bit more wiggle to her ass than usual. Tom turns to Colin and Stu with a disappointed frown:

'Poor form.'

Meaning that the Catnip Page caught on fire during Stu's cigarette-lighting flourish. Half is singed beyond readability before they dowse the flame with beer.

Colin, a bit embarrassed: 'So, uhhhh Juggaloes?'

Tom raises an eyebrow: 'I heard. What you want, if you could read my catalogue, is Sandwich de Mayonesa de Machu Picchu. An international coven, or convention rather, has a stockpile of catchy songs with stupid corresponding dances. They pull one out whenever the wider public gets a bit burn-the-stake-y. Remember the Macarena? That was one, saved tens of thousands of wiccan lives.'

Stu starts bouncing: 'Gangnam Style? Wop? Wop wop?'

Tom: 'No, nooo stop that, that was just South Korea out-capitalisming the white man. The coven, or convention, well it turned into a hell of a party, cast a great communal spell that brought these songs into existence. A lot of spiritual energy spent. I think four died but -' Tom mutters to himself now. 'My insemination rate is... two percent? Soooo... six born? Yeah, that sounds right.'

Stu has finished his beer: 'So whadaya want?'

Tom: 'I supplied the drugs in exchange for a surplus song - Sandwich de Mayonesa de Machu Picchu. It will distract everyone and stop this persecution of musical minorities in its tracks. Comes to six hundred CatScript. Now, a suggestion, I'm buying, for sixty CatScript a pop, Marital Aid Potion. It's like a love potion but it requires consent. That. Is. Important. There's an alchemist a few suburbs over. She's able to cook it.'

Deal struck. Colin and Stu walk to the alchemist's, swinging by Colin's to pick up a quarter bottle of Jack Daniels. They find Magdalene Jones, Australia's leading DIY-alchemy YouTube personality, sitting over a large rat cage with chin in left hand and sipping grain alcohol from a beaker. In the cage, a dozen rats stand on their hind legs and squeak in angry, unified rhythm, holding miniature placards with catch calls such as 'Daily Wage for our Daily Booze', 'No Higher Intelligence Without Union Rights' and 'Cocaine'. Magdalene is unfussed when Colin stumbles in and, bumping the kitchen counter, collapses onto the floor. He asks:

'So what's your problem?'

'Look what Tom dragged in.' Magdalene pours two more beakers of grain alcohol. 'I seem to be having trouble finding test subjects to trial a potion I've been tinkering with. Instant sobriety.' She sips. 'How about you? Do you consent to be experimented on?' A bemused glance at the rats. 'That. Is. Important.'

Stu, having taken a piss on roses out front, enters now with a broad grin and takes a beaker: 'Oh, I consent.' Giving Magdalene sex-eyes now. 'We need ten wuv potions. Not for personal soos, sosisould seem.'

'Marital Aid Potion.' Magdalene corrects him, a little taut because she is a touch insecure about how well she passes but, well, she can smell the grog on both of them so, thinking about her Patreon supporters, she flashes a smile. 'We might have a deal.'

Magdalene sets Colin and Stu on stools in front of a video camera and hands them both a mug of dark green liquid: 'List of ingredients. Organic centaur hoof, activated wolfs bane, sodium capryloamphohydoxypropylsulfonate from coconut, Jӓgermeister, warlock ash and, for taste, sugar-gum honey  from Kangaroo Island. Please support our bushfire affected regions.'

Colin: 'Coconut?'

Stu: 'Jӓger!'

Stu raises the mug and begins gulping. Colin slowly follows. A minute passes before Magdalene, kneeling forward with hands on knees, asks:

'How do you feel?'

Colin: 'I feel like a yiros.'

Stu proceeds to scream.
Magdalene: 'Hmmm. A hangover cure for next video?'