the deli should have taken some of the blame for the incident but in the court case that followed they denied that their lavish spread of meats, cheeses and other bits and bobs was incitement to madness. the deli remains open, the court case rumbles on and a moustachioed gent remains under lock and key for his own safety, recovering slowly.
the moustachioed gent who found himself at the centre of events was an unfortunate innocent, caught in the spider’s web of temptation that was the deli. he passed it every day and would press his nose against the glass and lick his lips at the sight of the glistening cuts of meat and crumbling cheeses before baulking at the prices, thinking to himself, ‘maybe someday, as a treat,’ and then carrying on his way. maybe someday. maybe someday. maybe someday. as a special treat.
the moustachioed gent finally gave in on a sunny yet windswept march afternoon when he had five pounds in his pocket and a hunger. he entered the deli and surveryed the counter, trying to pick the tastiest thing he could for his one purchase. just one thing mind, he knew how these things could go.
“could i have some of that tender blindspot of beef please,” he asked, and watched as the lady behind the counter took a knife and began to cut slices of deep dark meat onto a piece of grease proof paper.
“blindspot beef aaannnndddd,” the moustachioed gent fought it but the word was squeezing it’s way through his mouth, “aaaaaaaaannnnnnnnddddddd…” the lady behind the counter looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes, “aaaaannnnnnndddddd…” he lost the battle and his defences crumbled, “some cubed cubist ham, powdered peppered gherkin, a jar of rhyme and reason banana chutney, some of that stinky hag vicar blue cheese…”
the moustachioed gent had lost it and from his mouth flew a stream of requests, a manic culinary rap which swept the whole of the counter. soon there were five deli hands behind the counter, chopping and slicing, fetching and packaging. as the words took over his body he fell to the floor and began to fit as he continued to shout out demands.
“…mustard-scale baked pork, a bag of roasted wondernuts, hundred grams of the level seven guacamole, a loaf of fresh colliery bread, a minteorite, four squirrel ears…”
there were now seven people behind the counter, hastily packaging food and the manager quickly arranged an interview for an extra member of staff on a temporary basis. someone phoned the moustachioed gent’s bank to arrange an extension to his overdraft. a queue formed behind him and a river of saliva flowed from their desperate mouths and out into the street, making the surface of the road slick and dangerous. the moustachioed gent carried on, his appetite unstoppable.
“…a cherry-fed ginger cake, leopard steak, chewy coleslaw, limed artichokes, brambly salad, senseless chicken and fruit mash, cashew nut encrusted-”
the moustachioed gent’s demented list was stopped by an enraged customer who had finally had enough of being kept from buying his long-overdue lunch. the incensed man reached into the display and grabbed a hunk of swiss-rolled lamb and mint and then shoved it straight into the moustachioed gent’s mouth. in the quiet that followed customers and deli hands alike stopped and waited, having forgotten what life had been like before. ten seconds passed before the customer’s hungry bellies took over and the deli was subject to a stampede of lunchtime connoisseurs.
the poor forgotten moustachioed gent, broke and lamb-stuffed, was trampled in the rush. it would be four days until he came around and soon after began the long process of deli arbitration.