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Deal 963: Cats and Pants

That trickster bird will be the death of me yet.

There was beer involved. Perhaps more beer than was reasonable, but it certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. Which might have been the bird’s influence. At least that is what I’d like to think.

Most of the time I’m too much of a gentleman to be tempted by this sort of thing. But this time I was vulnerable. Then the bird showed up and dropped some choice words in my ear. And like a fool, instead of running away from a talking bird, I listened. And then had another beer.

Then somehow it seemed logical to try the karaoke machine. That should have been a clue that there was already too much beer involved. Damn bird again, I suspect.

At some point it became urgent to find some privacy. And that is when the cat got involved. Next thing I knew, my pants were around my ankles, a cat was laughing at me, and I was tipping head first into the oubliette.

I always knew that somehow cats and pants would be my undoing.

I just never knew how. Or that some bird would be egging the cat on the whole time.

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Deal 894: Watching

As the roar of the pub brawl rose, it seemed as if a bubble of calm formed around me. It was as if the noise of the melee just slipped past me without noticing.

Only a short while earlier, it all started as a typical night in the pub.

The knights were at their usual table, comparing the lengths of their swords.

The cutpurses were trying to be inconspicuous as long as the knights were still sober.

The bard was only on his second beer, so his songs were not up to his peak abilities.

The barmaids were delivering steins of luke-warm beer as fast as they could draw them.

And then it happened.

Someone said something unforgivable. I never heard what, who said it, or to whom.

The first punch might have gone unremarked, if it weren’t made with a fist full of darts. The second punch included a barstool. The current occupant of the stool objected to being used as a blunt instrument, and started to speak their mind, somewhat bluntly. And without any concern for how many factions were in the room.

Me, I did the only thing I could do. I sat here and watched. You might say, it is what I do. I’m a watcher. But not much of a listener, since me head is entirely filled with cotton wool. I didn’t see it begin, but I had a front row seat as it flashed from a simple spat over honor to a full-scale brawl.

I am what I am, and it is my fate to simply watch.

And watch, as that lantern comes right at me.

And watch, as the lamp oil splashes and sets my stuffing on fire.

I guess it was my fate to be involved after all.

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Deal 878: Vegemite?

A brewer I will never be. But still, I try.

It seems likely my fate is to spend the balance of my life on the attempt to find a perfect brew, not even to share it with others, just to have experienced it for once.

My last attempt was beyond dismal failure. It was dark and malty, but so thick you could eat it with a fork.

If you could stand the flavor.

Sort of compelling that flavor, in the sense of being so horrible that the sensation of not eating it any more was a combination of relief, and the urge to eat some more so I could stop again and enjoy the relief.

The experiment was going to kill me.

If the spiders don’t. Or the snakes. Or the crocs. Or the occasional drop-bear. I’m sure I saw some drop bears after finishing a previous brew, even though I’ve been assured there actually is no such animal.

Just one more taste, then I’ll see what I try tomorrow.

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Deal 876: Imposter Chef.

I made it this far, without them suspecting a thing. I’m beginning to wonder if I can make it all the way through. I suppose there might be some truth to the notion that “the clothes make the man”, or chef right now.

In the first round I passed off beer can chicken as gourmet. I presented it as “a whole chicken rubbed with salt, pepper and garlic then roasted in a marinade of the finest malted barley flavored with the crushed blossoms of the Humulus lupulus carved and served along with stewed greens and onions family style on a platter.”

So here I am, with that phase in the past, and looking forward to the rest of the contest. My biggest challenge ahead will be to find ways to cook the few remaining things I know how to cook without revealing exactly how little supporting knowledge and skill I have.

I may be an imposter, but that was one damn fine chicken.

All I need now is a damn fine slice of pie and cup of joe.