RIP Pooba McPooby

I have some sad news to share with you. Our apprentice chef, Pooba McPooby, died today. He was murdered by a blind man who complained that his gumboot was undercooked. Pooba, as I trained him to do, told the man to shove it up his cunt-hole if he didn’t like it. Sadly for Pooba, the blind man pulled a 34cm hunting knife from his eye socket and stabbed Pooba in the crotch 895 times. There was a lot of blood to clean up.

But anyway, I’m looking for a new apprentice to start in the Bistro as soon as possible. Please address the following erection criteria:

 1) Must have had experience in giving fellatio to corpses, preferably in the advanced stages of decomposition.

2) Experience in castration and genital torture techniques, particularly with instruments such as tooth picks, golf clubs and muffin trays.

3) Knowledge of how to operate on a cancer patient and save remove tumours.

4) Advanced dimploma in Penis Archaeology is necessary (although a certificate in Bowel Movements can be substituted providing the candidate has a large dick)

5) Candidate must be at least 45kg overweight.

6) Prior experience in executing annoying and rude customers. (A full range of weaponry, including knives, pistols and C4 will be provided to assist in this task)

7) Most importantly: A cheerful ‘can-do’ attitude and great customer service skills.

Previous applicants need not apply. Blind applicants can apply, but I will shoot them dead if they turn up for an interview. Gay or homosexual applicants are welcome to apply, as long as they have HIV.

Please post all applications to:

The Bistro Manager,
174 Chopcock Lane
CUNTEVILLE 4223

Applications close 42/32/07. You will be contacted by phone if you are successful in gaining an interview. If you do not receive a reply, it is because you are probably gay and have small balls.

Waiter at the checkout

“Pooba!” I called, “Where’s all the gumboots!?”

It was 5:30pm on a busy Friday afternoon. I was standing in our meat fridge. Normally it is filled to the brim with thick, juicy cunts… cuts rather of gumboot sirloin. Pooba joined me a stood speechless, staring into the fridge. Every shelf was empty!

On the bottom shelf was a piece of flesh looking suspiciously like a scrotum. I picked it up and held it in front of Pooba’s face.

“Look at this! This is all the meat we have left. In about 15 minutes, we’ll have 93 paying customers in the bistro ordering gumboot sirloins! And you expect me to feed them with this!?”

Pooba shrugged. “Sorry boss, I went down the supermarket today to pick up some gumboots but they just looked at me like I was an idiot”

I resisted the temptation to suggest that the staff at the supermarket may have assessed Pooba correctly. Instead, I instructed Pooba to hold the fort and the bistro, and headed off in the direction of the Poopquick shopping centre.

It was 5:45 by the time I got there, and the Poopquick supermarket was nearly closing for the day. I grabbed a trolley and dashed in, just before the entry gates were closed and locked by a big, thick, gay looking employee.

“We’re closing in five minutes” the big fag said. “You better be quick.”

I stared up at the giant pansy. “Don’t worry, I’ll be in and out before you know it!” I said, grabbing a broom handle from a nearby display and penetrating his inner rectum with swift hand-over-hand motions. The giant gay guy died from internal bleeding in his anus in hospital three days later.

Having dealt with the large poofter, I pushed my trolley through the fruit and veg department, throwing random vegetables in as I went along. One of the displays in the department featured watermelon stuffed with kerosene. I thought these were rather cute and tossed a couple into the trolley. One of them rolled off the top of the trolley and disappered into the deli department, coming to a halt underneath a chicken oven. Three staff members carrying a fire extinguisher converged on the melon but they were too late. The explosion sent chicken wings, jarlsberg cheese and singed gall bladders flying into the air.

As I approached the dairy case, I heard a message on the P.A.

“Attention shoppers, the time is now 6pm, and this store has closed. Please proceed to the nearest checkout immediately. Failure to comply will result in immediate castration and testicle torture, followed by an anal exam performed by a 9,000 pound man. Thank you and have a nice day”

I was shocked! Not wanting to have my anus examined by a tubby geezer, I proceeded quickly to the meat department, hunting for the elusive gumboot sirloins. Imagine my surprise when I discovered row after row of the prized morsels. Even better was the price: At the bistro, we charge $50 for approximately 100g of gumboot. Here at the poopquick, they were charing $2 for as much as you could fit in your trolley! Bargain!

I loaded up my trolley with the gumboot and headed over to the checkouts. The checkout operator at the last remaining terminal was the 9,000 pound man! He was already wearing rubber gloves! I gulped as I approached.

“Hello sir!” he said warmly.

“Hi tubs” I said, worried my anus was about to be probed.

The fat man proceeded to scan the gumboot sirloins as I passed them along his conveyor belt. He helpfully seperated the cold products from the warm, and bagged them up for me.

“That comes to a total of $3.20″ he said. I paid him with my company credit card – a chocolate bar wrapper Pooba left in the bin. He handed me a receipt.

“We hope to see you again soon, sir” he said, still smiling.

I suddenly realised there was something wrong about the 9,000 pound man. He sounded a bit artificial. I took out my .375 magnum and shot him 5 times in the head. Pieces of flesh flew off, but he didn’t seem fazed. Underneath his face were metallic objects and computer chips. He was a robot!

I ran as fast as I could with the robot in hot pursuit.

“You killed my lover!” he cried.

“You mean that big gay guy?” I yelled back.

“He was my inventor” cried the robot, big robot tears streaming down his face.

“Oh sorry bro” I said, running even faster and pushing my gumboot filled trolley.

As we approached the bistro, I called Pooba on his cell.

“Pooba, I want you to get the electromagnet from underneath the bar and charge it up” I yelled.

“Ok boss….. Done!” replied Pooba.

“Ok, power up the magnet” I said.

Behind me I heard the 9,000 man approach, with his finger positioned to insert itself deep into the hole where poopy comes out. All of a sudden, I heard a whirring noise. I turned around, watching the 9,000 man lift up into the air.

“NOOOOOooooOOO!” he cried, as the beam of magnetic energy caused his circuits to fry and his robotic penis to shrivel up.

“Haha” I said, turning to push my trolley into the bistro. The trolley was gone!

I then realised the electromagnetic beam had teleported the trolley to a parralel dimension.

“Aww shit” I said, but then I realised all was not lost…

***30 minutes later***

“Ah, this was the finest gumboot ever!” said the blind man seated at table 4.

“Ah yes, thank you sir, we changed the recipe somewhat today” I beamed proudly.

“Tastes somewhat like…. metal” pondered the gay blind dude.

“It’s robot, actually” I replied.

“Robust? Yes, rather” he said, returning to his meal.

Blind people… I have no problem with them. But deaf people… They piss me off.

I grabbed my magnum.

The massage chair of doom

It was 8:04 pm. I had been working at the bistro for 34 hours straight, after Pooba – our apprentice – and Pedro – our sous chef – both called in sick. I was the only employee at the bistro, and I was doing everything. Chopping and peeling vegetables. Seating customers at their tables. Pouring drinks at the bar. Preparing meals. Washing dishes. Jerking off blind men. It was killing me.

My back was very painful. I had hurt it the other day playing tennis with Pooba. Pooba used to play internationally, and had once beaten Lleyton Hewit after he fired a 190kph volley right into Hewit’s ball sack. His scrotum was found two days later in a neighbouring suburb. But I digress.

Pooba had lobbed a high ball at me, and I was twisting around to return with my back hand, when I fell down a deep pit on the tennis court. The court we were playing on had been abandoned since WWII, after it was bombed by Nazi fighter planes. There are still unexploded munitions covering the court, and you have to be careful to avoid them if you want to finish the match with two legs. Anyway, I fell down the bomb crater and felt a sharp pain down my spine.

‘Are you ok?’ called Pooba, standing over the hole.

‘Yes, can you help me out?’ I asked weakly.

Pooba bent down and lifted me out of the hole carefully. He gasped as he saw the state of my back. My entire spinal cord was gone, ripped out by a sharp jagged piece of nazi shrapnel embedded in the hole!

‘Holy shit!’ said Pooba! ‘You must get medical attention immediately!’

I tried walking around, and though it hurt a bit, decided I could avoid medical attention for some time.

‘I’ll be ok’ I said ‘Let’s just finish this game’.

That was two days ago. Now my back was very, very sore. I decided medical assistance was necessary, so i decided to close the store.

‘All right, it’s closing time. Last person out of the bistro gets to play with the testicle torture machine!’ I cried.

There was pandemonium as all the male customers converged on the exit at once. The female customers weren’t paying me much attention, so I took out the cunt torture machine. They too converged on the exit immediately. Lucky for the customers I was just joking about the torture, although I have been known to pop a few balls in my time.

I reached for the yellow pages under the bar and looked through the advertisements for back injuries. This one caught my eye:

Lost your spinal cord?

Feeling terrible back pain when performing everyday duties?

You need the Massage Chair 9000!

Just $5, plus delivery*

 

There was some small writing below the ad regarding the delivery fee but I couldn’t make it out. Still, I figured $5 for a massage chair was great value, so I called the number.

Moments later my chair arrived by parachute in the alley outside the bistro. It was black, and looked vaguely evil.

I decided that I ought to test it out, but I was reluctant to be the first person to do so. Normally the alley is full of blind men engaging in homosexual relations, but tonight it was nearly empty, with just two blind men.

‘Hey!’ I called out to the blind men. ‘This chair is a sight-restoring chair! It only works once, for the first person who sits in it. Give it a go!’

The blind men didn’t need to be asked twice. They both leapt up and ran for the chair. I couldn’t help but laugh! One of the men nearly got in the seat, then the other one punched him.

‘It’s my chair, I want my vision back!’ one of the cried.

‘No, you bastard, I lost my sight when I fell in a vat of acid! You became blind through excessive masturbation! I deserve my sight back!’ the other replied, punching the first man.

This struggle went on for some time. Finally, the masturbator kneed his opponent in the balls, temporarily stunning him. The masturbator leapt into the chair, applied the restraints, and pressed the ‘on’ button.

The machine started to make weird noises, and the masturbator started to vibrate. The chair clamped his feet down so they couldn’t move. The chair was quite loud, and it appeared to be performing a nice massage to the guys back. I was about to stop the demonstration when the other blind man got up off the ground and proceeded to start kicking the control panel at the back.

‘Stop you blind bastard! Stop!’ I cried, but the crazy blind man had gone troppo, taking off his shoe and pounding the console. Sparks began to fly and pieces of the control panel started to break off.

The chair began to make louder sounds, and the masturbator started to scream. I held my hand over my eyes, then realised I liked seeing this kind of thing and watched intently again.

All of a sudden, the noise changed to that of a chainsaw! I watched as a buzzing metal saw started to rise out of the middle of the chair and head towards the blind man’s balls! His screams became louder as the chainsaw edged closer towards his testicles.

The testicle torture machine paused right before his pants, and then made a tiny incision, just revealing the blind man’s scrotum. Then, with vicious accuracy, it began to randomly slash the poor guy’s balls! Pieces of ball meat flew everywhere. My face was covered with a yellow brown liquid, which could have been urine and poopy.

Then three more chainsaws sprung forth from the chair, and proceeded to hack of the limbs of the blind man. He died.

I was devastated. The chair would not help my back problems after all! I took out my .375 magnum and shot the other blind man dead. Then I went home.

Be alert, not alarmed.

I arrived a bit late to the bistro today. I was meant to start at 11am, but I took a wrong turn down an alley filled with gay blind men and arrived at work just past 6pm, my buttocks covered in red bruises. The bistro was already packed with the usual assortment of homosexuals and senior citizens, so I proceeded to eject anybody not meeting the strict standards of our dress code.

This left customers sitting at just one table. They looked to be foreign, and were wearing rather suspicious clothing. They also had a large bag that looked like it might have an anti-tank missile in it.

I went into the kitchen and spoke to Pooba, the apprentice.

‘Have you seen the suspicious diners at table 9/11?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘Yeah, they asked if we had any ricin, but we were fresh out so I offered anthrax instead.’

I was very suspicious of the group. I decided that I should be alert, but not alarmed, so I proceeded to the table to interrogate the men. When I arrived, they were holding a tourist map of Athens and were studying it intently.

‘Hello gentlemen, how has your evening been?’

A tubby looking guy wearing a turban stared at me. ‘Terrible. This meat is not halal’ he said, pointing at the uneaten gumboot sirloin on his plate.

Another turban clad pansy piped up. ‘Yeah, this is a disgrace. Look at this sheep’s head! Someone has plucked the eyeballs out’.

This prompted a chorus of complaints from around the table. I started to add the clues up in my head: foreign appearance, anti-tank missile, complaining about their food… they were Terrorists!

I apologised profusely to the terrorist bastards and retreated to the kitchen, where I enlisted the help of Pooba and Pedro. We decided that the best thing to do would be to build a small bomb, take it to the table stuffed in a chicken, and then detonate it after they had all eaten their fill. Pedro set about gathering the ingredients for our bomb, and Pooba went to grab a chicken from the chicken coop in the alley next to the kitchen. I drank some pepsi max.

A few hours later, our chicken bomb was complete. On the outside it resembled a chicken – complete with beak and feathers – but on the inside lay a bombmaker’s dream. 2000kg of semtex plastic explosive attached to a detonator connected to a mobile phone transmitter. When we were ready to detonate, all we had to do was dial the number! I carried the piece de resistance out to the terrorists.

‘Allah Akhbar!’ they cried in unision, cheering to the prophet for their halal meal. I served the dish on the table and provided the tubby one with a carving fork. Pooba and Pedro peered out from the kitchen as the terrorists began devouring their explosive meal. There was a moment of worry when one of them noticed the mobile phone transmitter, but I explained by saying ‘It’s ok, it’s just stuffing for the chicken!’. ‘Allah Ahkbar’ they cried again and the mobile was devoured.

A short time later the terrorists came to the register and paid for their meals, leaving a large tip in Iraqi currency. Even though the value of the notes was probably around negative $20, I thanked the gentlemen for their patronage and wished them well. I then began to climb up the stairs to the top of the restaurant with Pooba and Pedro close behind.

At the top of the bistro we have a lookout tower which allows us to see all over the city. It came in use as we could chart the progress of the terrorists. We wanted to detonate the bomb when they were near one of our rival restaurants, so that we could blame the execution on them.

Sure enough, the group headed down Tinee Peniz street where the ‘Micro-prick bistro’ was located. The Micro-prick was one of our worst rivals, and Pooba began to chuckle as he typed in the phone number to detonate the bomb.

Just as he pressed the final key, we saw a school bus come down Tinee Peniz street from the north. Approaching from the south was a bus load of blind men. Intersecting from the north east was a boat carrying illegal immigrants and Steve Irwin.

‘NOOOOO!’ I cried. But it was too late.

A moment later the 2000kg of semtex detonated. The shockwave burst all our eardrums immediately. Pooba’s eye balls popped out, with the optic nerve slowly sliding down his shirt. Pedro’s anus ruptured, and poop flew out of his pants. My penis split in two, and required 45 stiches to sew back together.

The tubby terrorist’s left testicle landed on our lookout tower with a thick ’splat’. We looked up at the sky to see pieces of the 5 terrorists and the 366 bus passengers raining down over the city. In the distance were emergency sirens, but we couldn’t hear them on account of the fact that our ear drums had popped leaving us permanently deaf. 

We decided to head home and rest, having saved our city from a serious terrorist attack. We all knew we would never get the credit for saving so many innocent people, but the thought of having done good was enough to satisfy us.

8 companies, Zero testicle

I could tell the customer was going to die the minute he walked into the bistro. And I knew instantly that I would be the one to kill him. But I digress…

It was around 8pm, a fairly busy time at the Bistro, two nights ago. I was preparing a few desserts in the kitchen because Pedro, our sous chef, was diagnosed with the ebola virus the day before. The doctor gave him almost no chance of survival, and ordered all the people he had been in contact with in the last 48 hours be placed in quarantine. Luckily for us, Pedro lied and said he was a recluse and hadn’t seen anybody for years. If the doctor knew he’d prepared meals for over 345 diners in the past 48 hours I think the quarantine ward would be somewhat full.

 But anyway, I was making a gelato with nuts. Now most restaurants skimp on the nuts and use peanuts, or sometimes pecans. But we don’t mess around. We use real nuts. I’m talking fresh juicy testicles, just plucked from the bull. The only problem was, we’d run out. I knew that Pooba, our apprentice, often liked to snack on them. I was considering firing him when I heard a loud voice from the dining room.

 ’I demand to be served… NOW!’

‘What a faggot’ I thought to myself, and strolled out to meet the angry diner. What I saw disgusted me.

There was a hugely fat man, wearing a very cheap and nasty business suit and a horrible spotted tie. He was holding a cheap imitation plastic briefcase and was wearing a Pooplex watch (a cheap rip off a rolex, clearly). What made the fat man worse was his escorts – he had a gay man on each arm with both of them wearing less material than the miniscule napkins we provide our diners.

“I demand to be seated immediately, and brought a menu. Three menus actually. I’m important you know. I own eight companies and I’m a very big man”

“I can see that you’re a big man” I said, watching his fat belly wobble. “Very well, you may have this seat here”

I ushered the man and his two gay lovers to a table overlooking our fishtank. I brought three stools from the bar and placed them upside down on the ground.

“I hope this is to your liking?” I asked.

It was. The fat man and the gay men lowered their pants and allowed one leg of each stool to enter their anus. They began to bob up and down in pleasure. I was disgusted, but a plan to get some nuts for the gelato began to formulate in my head…

I returned to the kitchen and summoned Pooba, giving him a sharp knife. I selected a toothpick from a jar. We also enlisted the help of a blind man who was conveniently taking a piss in the alley outside the bistro. I armed him with a spoon. Together we strode out into the dining room, in search of nuts.

I walked up to the fat man who owned eight companies and quickly tied him and his companions to their stools. Pooba, the blind man and I brandished our weapons. “Strip” I said.

With great difficulty, the three men removed their clothes. I laughed at the size of the fat mans organ. It was about the size of this full stop. Smaller in fact. Luckily his testicles were about the size of small peas, so we could use them.

“Ok lads” I said “Let the torture begin”

We began to attack the three men. Pooba and the blind man started to rape the gay men with their respective weapons. I took my toothpick and began poking out the fat man’s eyes. He started to blubber.

“I was only joking.. OWWWW… I don’t really…. AHAHH own eight companies… I don’t own anything, i stole this pooplex watch from a beggar”

“Honest won’t save you, fag” I sad, pressing the toothpick through his spleen, and then rupturing his digestive tract.

“I’m sorry, i won’t be gay again, just don’t kill me’ he screamed

“OK” I said. The fat man looked up in hope. “But first, I need to take your balls”

I slowly, painstakingly detached his balls with the toothpick. Pooba and blind man did the same on the gay escorts.

I plopped the fresh nuts into the gelato and took them to table 14. The customer had left.

“Dammit” I said, and ate the gelato.

Rough Cuts

‘Waiter, come here right this second!’ came the angry shout.

I glanced over at the far corner of the restaurant where I had just seated Bret Weston Elice the Second. Sighing, I turned to Kooper, the head waiter, and told him that I would be right back.

‘Is anything wrong, Mr. Elice?’ I asked politely.

‘Yes,’ he sputtered. ‘This steak is a piece of shit.’

I put my finger to my lips and hushed him. ‘Shh, the sous chef is in a foul mood today. You don’t want him to hear you now, do you?’

‘I don’t care if he hears me,’ Bret shouted. ‘I ordered gumboot sirloin and this is most definitely not gumboot! If I’m not mistaken, it’s poop!’

I peered closely at the charred brown lump in front of him. ‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘I think you may be right sir. I’ll conduct an investigation to see whether speed or alcohol was involved.’

The plate of sirloin in hand, I marched towards the kitchen. Inside, I called out to the sous chef, who was slumped over a counter stroking a weiner. ‘Chef, I’ve had a complaint about your gumboot sirloin. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.’

‘Vas te faire foutre,’ he replied.

‘Fuck you too. Now, Chef, were you drinking when you prepared this gumboot?’ I asked carefully.

‘Non.’

‘Did you use excessive speed?’

‘Non.’

‘Well then, I declare this investigation to be over,’ I announced cheerfully. ‘I rule out speed and alcohol as contributing factors to this botched gumboot.’

Chef stood up, his face as red as his inflamed testicles. ‘Eh, who said my gumboot was a botch job?’

I pointed out into the restaurant at Bret, who was stirring his straw through his glass of mineral turpentine and staring wistfully out the window.

With an angry roar, he charged through the swinging kitchen doors and made a beeline for Bret. Bret’s mouth dropped open when he saw Chef storming towards him. My god, he thought. His face is as red as my inflamed testicles.

Chef stopped abruptly before Bret and waved his weiner in the air. ‘You don’t like gumboot? My gumboot not good for you?’ he raged. ‘You eat my weiner, here!’

Without another word, Chef grabbed Bret’s head and stuffed his weiner into Bret’s mouth. Bret’s eyes watered at the meaty taste, and his throat constricted as he choked for breath. Chef released Bret’s head and then whisked his meat cleaver from the sleeve in his apron. ‘No gumboot for you,’ he said sternly, and brought the cleaver down onto Bret’s right knee.

Blood gushed everywhere. Bret tried to scream but the sounds were muffled by the weiner, still wedged in his teeth. Chef yanked Bret’s leg, and had to chop at it a couple more times because the first blow hadn’t gone straight through. When the leg was finally free from its adjoining body, Chef hurled the leg onto the table. Amazingly, the leg was sporting a pink, calf-length gumboot.

Chef pulled the gumboot off the leg in one swift motion. ‘No gumboot for you,’ Chef repeated.

Revenge of the blind men

Today was one of the worst days of my life. I was raped. By two blind men.

 Let me start at the beginning.

Just before closing time, a blind man wandered into the bistro, tapping his cane all over the place, dunking an old lady head first into a bowl of boiling soup. Her face and eyes melted away after contact with the hot liquid. The blind man kept patting his cane around wildly before finally prodding me in the crotch with it. Maddened, I grabbed the cane and snapped it in half, hitting the man in his balls. I heard a loud ‘pop’ and then the man fell over, dead from a massive heart attack.

Pedro came running out of the kitchen.

‘Senor! You have done a very bad thing! You have killed a blind man. They will not like that’

‘Quiet Pedro.’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to kill the bastard, I was just making sure he would never be able to reproduce’.

We shooed the rest of the patrons out, taking the woman with the scalded face to the meat freezer where she could be used for future gumboot sirloins. Pedro and I then began our nightly task of cleaning up the shop, which involves taking a piss on the tables and pooping in the kitchen sink. We were taking a nice dump when we heard the sound of breaking glass in the male restroom. I went to investigate.

As I entered the dark room, I felt a hand grab my dick tightly.

‘OWW!’ I cried out in pain.

 ’You killed our friend’ said a voice.

‘We’re gonna rape you’ said another.

All of a sudden, I felt a small but hard object slide past my anal walls and deep into my inner rectum. I tried to scream, but there was another hard object thrusting into my mouth. I was being raped by two blind men! The blind man fucking my arsehole came first, and then the one pumping into my mouth spooged down my throat! I heard one of the men take out a flick knife.

‘Ok, time to slit his throat’

I closed my eyes and feared for the worst! Then I heard an awful scream behind me.

‘You idiot, you cut the wrong person!’

The blind man behind me slumped to the floor, dead. I laughed! Blind people can be dumb!

Famous novelist at the Bistro!

Today we had a celebrity (or so he claimed) pay a visit to our humble Bistro!

I was laying a couple of cockroach baits around the restaurant when I saw a pair of sharply polished shoes appear in front of my eyes. I looked further up to see a rather small bulge around the pubic region. Looking up further still revealed a rather gay looking character with a cheesy expression, clad in a warm looking coat.

‘Good day, sir. Would you like a table?’

The gentleman sneered at me.

‘I would like the best table in the house. Bring me the wine list immediately!’

I quickly showed the man to the worst table in the Bistro. It hasn’t been cleaned since 1984 and there are plates and bowls filled with congealing food scraps covered in maggots and small rodents. Also, there is the skeleton of a long deceased patron – a blind man, if I remember correctly – sitting in the corner. Mr fancy coat looked at the table in disgust but took a seat anyway.

I returned bearing a copy of our wine list. We only sell two wines at the bistro: mineral turpentine (06 vintage), and Pepsi max. The man ordered the max after some consultation with the wine list. He was starting to get at my nerves; everybody knows that Pepsi is a cola, and not a wine.

I brought a wine glass filled with Pepsi to the table (and a large globule of poop kindly provided by our sous chef). Mr fag took a long drink and sighed with pleasure. I was disgusted, but politely took his order for lunch. He ordered the house special – gumboot sirloin – and a chef’s salad. I couldn’t help but smile – the chef’s salad is simply a piece of green paper with salad dressing made out of my urine.

I returned with the man’s order in a cardboard box. He attacked the gumboot with joy, not knowing it was actually made from a fried turd I had just scooped out of the sewage pipe in the alley opposite the bistro. He then ate a generous amount of the salad before turning green and throwing up all over the table. He wiped some of the vomit off his face and made a dash for the male bathroom. I followed closely behind.

When I opened the bathroom door, I saw the customer enter a stall with Pedro, our sous chef! This greatly disturbed me. I entered the stall next door and peered over the roof. The customer was doing unspeakable things with a salami! Poor Pedro seemed scared. I left the pair to their own devices for a few minutes, before returning with a mop and bucket. I opened the stall door and dunked the customer’s head into the bucket until he drowned. Then I took a potato peeler and peeled off all his skin, giving this to Pedro for use in our soup of the day.

Finally, I took his wallet out of his pocket. The blood stained driver’s licence read ‘Brett Weston Elice’. The name sounded vaguely familiar. I dragged the corpse out into the alley where it was set upon by three blind men. Then I went home.