There are any number of good sandwiches. That's a really stupid statement that demands an answer to the question that arises: what in the nameof Nero's Blistered Balls is "any number"?
Well, 3, at a guess.
Anyway. I got lazy the other day, and suggested to the Redhead that we have a Kinky sandwich for our evening meal. She knew what I was talking about, immediately. For those among you who haven't heard about Kinky friedman, for shame. Go to your local Library and get a Kinky or two.
From the Kinky cookbook (our most bedraggled cookbook, by the way): Ratso's fried Egg Sandwich.
If America has done nothing else, the nation should be praised with cries of Hosanna, simply because of this sandwich.
YOU WILL NEED:
Cheddar cheese (I use Edam).
A simdgin of French-style mustard.
Salth n' pepper to taste.
First, set your bacon on to fry 'til it's nice n' crispy.
Then start your eggs to frying. You'll want 'em over-easy.
While it's frying, toast some decent bread. I use Mollenberg's finest, but I'm informed this works well on white toast, too.
Spread one slice of the hot toast with butter, a thin scraping of peanut butter, and then a thin layer of your favourite red jam. I prefer boysenberry, Jenny breaks my legs if I don't give her strawberry jam.
Upon this exotic (unless you're American) misture, drop a tablespoon-fullof thinly sliced spring onion, and spread it around 'til it's even.
Pop on a thin slice of cheese.
A couple ofslice of beetroot get popped on around about now.
Slip on your fried egg, and enough bacon to make a pig look at you bitterly.
Top with the other slice of toast, upon which you've spread butter and aslodge of French Mustard.
You may need a toothpick to hold the thing together.
LISTENING TO: Jimi Hendricks, "Experience". All Along the Watchtower's blasting my eardromes apart right now. I'm hearing that goat's jawbone* clacking away... the man was a fucking genius.
READING: James Rollins, "The Doomsday Key". James Rollins writes the literary equivalent to the Big Dumb Action Movie, but with a higher body count. More fun than Tolstoy, I can tell you.
WATCHED AND RECOMMENDED: "Alice". A two-part offering from the SciFi Channel, broadcast on Prime. The special effects cost about 73 cents (US), and it made Tim Burton's recent "Alice in Wonderland" look, sound, and seem stoopid. Brilliantly written, reasonably well acted, and I'd watch it again. And i am finding it difficult waiting for the new Doctor Who.
WORD OF THE DAY: Death. I lost one of my old people today, and within a week I'll lose the young Pommy joker with the brain tumour. This job has its highs. These aren't among them, but.. well, I'll talk about it on Thursday.
*Yeah. Apparently only a clacking goat's jawbone could make exactly the sound Hendrix wanted. And yes, you can hear it.
And, a few short weeks later, a plan was made by a dozen insane people.
7.50am, June 17, 2385
Robert Singh, a prosperous textile agent living in a tidy suburban street in Calcutta, wakes to the sound of his alarm-cat purring. He smiles and pats the animal, which stretches luxuriantly and yawns.
“Hello, Biggsy,” Robert murmurs to the cat.
“Ten to eight, Robert,” purrs the cat. It sounds like Marlene Dietrich.
“What? I asked you to wake me at 7.30!”
“Angelique asked me to give you another few minutes,” replies Biggsy, her voice gentle. “She and Indira are preparing your favourite breakfast to celebrate your forty-fifth birthday.”
In three minutes time the alarm- cat, Robert’s wife Angelique Singh, and their daughter Indira will be dead, and Robert will not know or care why and how it came to be that he killed them. Robert Singh will be quite insane.
Robert gets out of bed, and makes for the en-suite bathroom.
“The first piss of the day is the best piss of the day,” he says to himself, as he has done every morning for the past thirty years.
Life has been good to Robert. By the age of 22, he had gained a Master’s degree from New Canterbury University graduate, majoring in bioscience. His specialty, monomolecular filaments, had been well used by the Calcutta textile firm, which had offered him a partnership in exchange for his research. The offer had been made possible purely because of the Eneribbon, which had made energy plentiful, affordable, and clean. The firm’s founder became a friend, then father-in-law. Life was, indeed, good – especially when he could take the first piss of the day in peace.
Sometimes it took a moment for the flow to start, and this morning is no exception. He aims carefully, relaxing his shoulders – and is distracted by his tooth-glass vibrating on the bathroom vanity’s marble surface.
Earthquake? Surely not.
The last earthquake recorded had been over 70 years ago, when a Persian canton had been decimated.
He ignores the glass as his flow starts, and the splash of his water is music to his ears when the startling pain explodes behind Robert’s eyes. The pain is so intense that he falls against the wall, his urine arcing up to splash back against his chest. Another sabre-slash of pain bursts in his skull, and he screams with the agony of it all. Blood bursts from his nose, jets down his chest.
He reels back into the bedroom, to see Miss Biggs in a frenzy, scratching and tearing at the door. The cat is screaming, and has fouled herself. Robert, whose gentleness is legendary, picks the cat up, and ignoring the swipes of razor-sharp claws, rips its head off. Blood from the claw wounds splashes onto the wall to mix with the cat’s blood. As Robert reaches to open the door, it shakes with a blow from the hallway. He rips the door open, and instinctively throws out a hand to deflect the axe-head. Three of his fingers fly from his left hand to lie twitching on the floor. The axe cracks into the doorframe, and his daughter, dear sweet Indira is tugging at it, trying to free the blade from the aluminium frame’s grip. She, too, is screaming, and blood is pouring from her nose and ears. Robert’s good hand, bunched in a fist, smashes at Indira’s face, and she is flung back against the wall. He wrenches the axe free from the doorframe, and with a single brutal chop he cuts deeply into his beloved daughter’s head. Bright blood splashes, and the pain comes again and again, nauseating waves that coruscate through him, buckling his knees and blinding his eyes.
A scream from downstairs mingles with Robert’s own cries of pain, and it seems that he can hear the panicked, pain-and-anger-filled cries of his neighbours. No time to think of that. His mind is fogged with red, and the pain slaps at him again, and again. The bellows from his throat are tearing at his vocal chords, and his face is now a horror of blood and snot and crazed eyes. He reels to the stairway – where Angelique attacks him with a spoon.
A tiny part of him is still capable of rational thought, and cries out in protest against his actions, while also shrieking in laughter at the thought of being done to death by a spoon. But the voice is swamped, is buried in the reality of the pain and the rage and the terror and the horror and the lust and the anger and the need to kill, and to kill, and to kill.
Angelique has slammed the spoon into his left eye-socket, and the eyeball pops out and dangles on threads down his cheek. He swats her aside, over the balcony. Even above her shrieks and his inchoate screams, he can hear her legs snap. He races down the stairs, and she crawls toward him, screaming obscenities and inarticulate shouts of rage. He picks up a heavy glass vase and smashes it into her head then kicks into her body, feeling his own toe bones snapping under the fury of his attack.
The pain stops.
Robert looks at what he has done, and faints from the horror of it.