by Andy Coffey
***
The hour was late and Merlin Crackfoot yawned, as he began clearing up the cutlery, crockery and glasses that littered the tables in Cracky’s Diner. Outside all was now still, and in an inky, star-speckled sky a baleful full moon illuminated the street, casting shadows where you’d expect shadows to be cast and not doing anything un-moon like.
All in all the first ‘Cuisine de la Terreur’ night had been a resounding success. The Beefburger of Dismay and The Fish of Fright went down extremely well with his clientele (and thankfully stayed down). True, sales of the Pork Sausages of Panic and the Beans of Apprehension weren’t quite what he’d hoped for, but he could live with that. And a minor complaint about the Pasta of Disaster was simply down to his exuberance with the garlic and pineapple sauce. But, overall, people had left with full tummies and happy hearts. And so, it was with a deep feeling of satisfaction that he began the washing-up.
However, as the fruity aroma of bubbling washing-up liquid wafted up his nostrils, his contented scrubbing was interrupted by a knock on the front door. ‘Who is it?’ he shouted, without lifting his head up from the sink.
‘Cracky, it’s me, Taff; Taff Thomas. We need to talk,’ the voice from behind the door replied, barely above a whisper.
‘Wait one minute, I’ll just leave these to soak,’ Cracky said, removing his rubber gloves.
The glass front door of the diner was now resplendent with its new logo of a wizard clutching a frying pan. Cracky opened it and Taff Thomas rushed in. ‘What’s spooked you?’ Cracky said, quickly closing the door behind Taff.
‘I’ve heard a rumour that Blacktie’s going to be clamping down on cheese smuggling,’ Taff said. ‘I thought you should know that next week’s delivery may be the last for a while, so if you want to add anything to your regular order now’s the time to do it.’
‘Ah, yes, I had heard the rumours. In which case, can you please add a couple of pounds of Purple Caerphilly; only the good stuff, mind, not that rubbish that causes your bowels to move in a rhythmical fashion. And I’ll take a pound of Spitchcock’s Tintern.’
‘That Tintern could be very, very difficult to obtain at such short notice,’ Taff said.
‘Go on, then, how much?’ Cracky said, with a sigh.
‘Well an extra £20 should cover the sundry expenses.’
‘£20! That’s extortion. I’ll not pay more than an extra ten.’
‘I couldn’t possibly do it for £10, Cracky, what with all the bribery, back scratching and philandering that’s involved.’
‘Philandering?’
‘Oh, yes. Old Gwyneth Evans strikes a pretty hard bargain you know.’
‘Well, £15 and I can’t go a penny more.’
‘Call it £16.50 and I’ll throw in a nice piece of Wolfman’s Acorn.’
‘Deal,’ Cracky said. ‘Next Wednesday as usual?’
‘Aye, no problem,’ Taff said, opening the front door and stepping out into the cobbled street.
‘You know, Taff, there’s something in the air,’ Cracky said, as he stood in the doorway, bathed in the full moon’s light.
‘Yeah, I can smell it! Have those bloody Vikings been in tonight? I hope your farting license is up-to-date, otherwise Blacktie’ll shut you down… and more! Remember what happened to Owen Jones, the confectioner. He’s a shadow of the man he once was, and his cola balls have never been the same since.’
‘No, Taff, I mean I can sense change coming. Can’t you feel it? ’ Cracky said, looking up into the sky and sniffing the air. ‘Mark my words, Taff, change is coming. And nothing and no-one will be able to stop it.’
‘Well,’ Taff said, as he skulked off down the street, ‘the only way we’ll get change around here is if someone gets rid of bloody Blacktie. And who’s mad enough to try that?’