The Domesticated Moustachioed Gent

Winding his drone way down a spiralled witch’s staircase, a Moustachioed Gentleman pushed and shoved a hoover back and forth across each carpeted step.  He balanced and swept the flex from under his feet, keeping steady above the elaborate ominous of the long way down.  He thought of the postcards he had seen of men in oldtime America, building skyscrapers and stopping to eat their sandwiches with their feet dangling miles above the city.  Or those men who live on railway bridges, painting and only coming down to stock up on fresh sandwiches.

Sandwiches.

The Moustachioed Gent estimated he was halfway down the witch’s staircase, not bad at $3 an hour.  He turned off the device and picked up the machine.  It was warm against his stomach like a baby, the nozzle twisted and swung with a mind of its own – a baby elephant perhaps.  At the bottom of the tower he searched for sandwich ingredients, knowing that there was no way he could become a domesticated daredevil without sandwiches.  The witch was sat at her kitchen table, counting out dollars bills and staring at a clock.  “Would you like some umami pie?” she asked the Moustachioed Gent, no hint of sinister witchiness.  He shelved his sandwich plans and accepted the offer, the witch making a careful note of the time before cutting him a slice from her short crust creation.

“It tastes wonderfully homemade,” the gent noted.  “Just what I needed.”  The pie was filled with a strange mush of ingredients, almost as though everything had been grown in a fertile pie ground.  The stock seeped into the meat and the vegetables grew around into a strange organic intertwining jungle of tastes.  “Umami?”

A witchy trick of the mind.

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