Rotten Crops

“Can we get on with this please? I’ve got tickets to the opera, and I want to go the gym before I head for Covent Garden.”


“Okay, that was a lie. I’m going to sit on the sofa and binge watch Ben 10 whilst eating a whole block of brie.”

“Still sounds nice.”

“The point is, I have much better things to be doing that listening to another one of your inane pitches.”

“Well, it’s a drink.”

“Obviously. I didn’t think it was a bottle of cat piss.”

“It’s probably an acquired taste.”

“It stinks.”

“It certainly has a pungent quality, but that’s the unique selling point.”

“Smells like paraffin.”

“Right, so you only need a small splash in the bottom of the glass.”

“Oh right. Proper thirst quencher this then.”

“It’s a diuretic.”

“Perfect. I’m supposed to knock this back am I?”

“Or sip it. But be caref-”

“Fuck me. Might have warned me. That is foul.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“It burned my taste buds off.”

“But in a moment you’ll get a nice warm glow.”

“Nope. Just feeling the inside of my throat peeling off.”

“Can you not get that hint of peat?”

“Peat? I’m supposed to be tasting mud now? What the fuck are you pitching me?”

“A few more glasses and you’ll be happy as Larry.”

“Larry’s an idiot.”

“You need another really.”

“No thanks.”

“Just the right amount, and you’ll love it.”

“Just the right amount is none.”

“Well, admittedly, too much and you will get violent, then drowsy, then sick, then pass out.”

“Have you poisoned me? Are you trying to kill me and take my job? I knew you were plotting.”

“Yeah, it is a poison, but-”

“Any pitch for a new drink that includes the phrase ‘yeah, it is a poison, but-‘ can catch a bus to fuck off town.”

“Have another.”

“This is disgusting.”

“It is a poison, but a measured dose feels great.”

“For how long?”

“Not that long. And over time, the accumulated effect of it makes you depressed.”

“I feel dizzy.”

“But here’s the thing. Depression just makes you want to drink more of it.”

“I love you.”

“You’ve hit that sweet spot.”

“Have I? Not sure if I want to punch you or throw up on you.”

“Best not have any more then.”

“Give me that.”

“Just a splash. Not that much.”

“Fuck you, I know what I want.”

“Fine. But perhaps you should go home.”

“What? So I can puke up brie all over my sofa.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Alone. Miserable. Take that face off you prick. Judging me.”

“I’m going to go.”

“What’s this stuff made of anyway?”

“Rotten crops.”

“Pass me that bin.”

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