The boy swallows and looks around his mother, stealing a glimpse of the Doctor who is happily chugging away at a cigar while he lounges forward in his leather upholstered leather chair, finalising notes from his previous patient.

It is late morning, fast approaching lunch and the Doctor is interrupted by the smell of something more desirable.
There is a smell that has cut a path through the acrid scent of unwashed bodies and sickness that floats in the air. It has reached his nostrils. They flare slightly in welcome. His eyes fix on the biscuit tin. And he follows it to the table where it comes to rest unassumingly.

“Mrs Jamison”, he says, licking his lips, “please sit down.” His eyes still on the tin.

“I see you have brought your son ...” he fumbles for a name.

“Yes, I have, Doctor. This is William Jamison, The Third.”

“Yes, yes, William. You have brought William… and the smell of a picnic lunch.” His eyes address the Bottles of wine ready to be added to the lunch. “Beautiful day for it.” His eyes now go to Mrs Jamison.  “I wish I could join you.”

The young boy nuzzles into his Mother trying to hide.

“I hope you have had a good morning, Doctor.” Says Mrs Jamison as she removes her gloves and places them neatly across her leather handbag.

“Oh pleasant enough, thank you, but tell me what brings you here today?”

“My visit, Doctor has to do with my son, William Jamison the Third.”

The boy nuzzles even further into his mother, burying his face which has now become quite red with embarrassment. Mrs Jamison breaks off and pulls her son up in his chair.

“Please sit up, William.” She says with stern frustration. She takes a deep breath, faces the doctor and continues.

“William Jamison the Third has a problem, Doctor and I don’t know how to explain it.” She stops and looks directly at the biscuit tin as if her finger was pointing out a culprit.

The Doctor follows her gaze and sees no evil, just bottles of wine and that distinctive smell that is driving him mad. He doesn’t know why but words just come out of his mouth: “Are you saying William Jamison the Third is allergic to roast chicken?”

He laughs at his joke, but it falls on the serious face of Mrs Jamison. Her eyes fill with water. The Doctor takes on a consoling expression, with thumb and forefinger hooked across his chin. The boy once again burrows into his mother trying to hide.

“William, please”

The boy straightens back up in the chair. His back straight, his body still. The surrounding humidity surrounds him.

“I apologise for the callousness of my comment. Please, Mrs Jamison, continue.”

Mrs Jamison looks at the tin. “It’s ... not ... roast chicken” she blurts out over muffled cries.

The boy looks into the deep red of the carpet wishing it would swallow him up whole.

“Not chicken?” questions the doctor, trying to keep the conversation bright. He was never good with women, particularly when they started crying.

“Is it a duck?” I could have sworn it was roast chicken, but duck, as difficult as it is to get in Melbourne at this time of year, is what it could be.”

“No”

“No? Not duck…mmmmm. I suppose it could be rabbit. I love rabbit and ....”

“No, doctor; it’s not rabbit, not duck, or beef ....”

“Well, Mrs Jamison, I knew it wasn’t beef, you see roast beef has a distinctive ...”

“It’s poo! There I’ve said it!”

“Pardon?”

“Doctor, it’s poo! Excreta!”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that about roast ...”

“Doctor, please,” Mrs Jamison again took the liberty of interrupting. “Try to understand, because I certainly can’t. In the biscuit tin is a sample of William Jamison the Third’s poo. Freshly created this morning.”

Silence.

“I don’t know what to call it.”

Slowly, she pushes up the edges of the biscuit tin lid. The scent, now even more pungent, envelops the musty room. It was unmistakeable to the Doctor. It was a smell that made him dream of Sunday lunches.

Roast chicken was the one thing he looked forward to most of the week. After all the blood and sickness and pain of Monday through Saturday, the Sunday roast chicken gave him renewed hope and willingness to continue.

He closed his eyes and savoured the aroma and all that it promised.

“Doctor, I don’t know what else to call it. There; it’s his poo that is making that smell. “

The Doctor looked into the tin. There lay a couple of what could only be described as turds. Thin, long and a dark healthy brown in colour.
This can’t be right thought the Doctor. Can’t be, just can’t be.

As he brought the tin to his face the smell became even more concentrated and delicious to his senses. His mouth was now watering uncontrollably. The clock struck 12 noon.

“Doctor,” Mrs Jamison lowered her head, she was at her witsend. “I don’t know what to do.”

He pulled the tin closer and closer. His eyes still closed.

“Doctor, it has always been like this. I know I should have brought him in earlier. But how do you ...?” She looked up at the Doctor. “How do you explain this?”

She stopped stunned at what she saw. The boy watched the Doctor bring the tin even closer to his face. He heard his mother’s voice surprised. “Doctor?”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“Doctor?  I wouldn’t.”

The Doctor’s eyes still closed. His nose smiled.

“Doctor?” Mrs Jamison’s voice now louder “Doctor? It’s not ...”

Suddenly there was a tremendous gasp of disgust from the Doctor. The tin fell to the floor.  The boy couldn’t take his eyes off a small brown stain on the Doctor’s chin as he watched the Doctor splutter and spit and gag.

“Ahhhhh, it tastes like shit!!!”

“My God, save me. Doctor, it is shit, if that’s the medical term for it then let’s call a spade a spade.”

“Oh, my Lord, Oh, my Lord, it’s disgusting, oh, it’s disgusting.”

The door opened and the Doctor’s receptionist popped her head in, here face a question asking what all the noise was about.

“Sorry, “she said, “I heard a commotion. Is everything all right?”

She sniffed the air. “It smells like lunch in here. Have you been eating?”

The boy looked back down at the carpet and if you could you would have seen a huge, delicious smile spread across his face.

“What is it you had?” continued the receptionist. “My goodness, it smells like roast chicken.”

The mother burst into loud, sobbing tears.

The Doctor’s name was Winston Chalmers. The incidence was reported in the renowned Medical Journal, Lancet. It was an item in the Medical News section of Lancet, Vol 235, Issue 6088. It became quite a celebrated case for Dr Chalmers.

After a few Sherries at his Club, he would often refer to it as the Case of William Jamison the Turd. In more formal settings it became The Unusual Transformation of Faecal Matter into Roast Chicken.
I first heard the story at a friend’s birthday party. Jeremy Chalmers was a school friend and it was told by his grandfather.

Jeremy’s Mother and Father listened in horror as the faces of the children scrunched up in disgust, “… and then I stuck out my tongue and licked it.” He had a guttural, croaky laugh that was common to most old people.

The children at the birthday party responded as only kids know how: “Ohhhh, oooo, ahhh yuuuk,”

“I even got a bit stuck on my chin”, the guttural laugh followed, “The boy was just a freak of nature. No explanation.”

I saw a girl dry reach.

The party food was barely touched that day, particularly the chocolate rolls Jeremy’s mother had spent so long making.

What also intrigued me was the life of William Jamison. As an adult I found out that William had often accompanied Dr Chalmers to conferences in Sydney and Melbourne. The intensification of the Second World War put a stop to this. And the story and the notoriety fizzled out except for birthday party stories fuelled by Sherry.

William grew up and worked at various jobs, a labourer, a kitchen hand, a brickie, a tram conductor. Just a normal life really. However, he never married and it seems that he never actually had a long term relationship of any kind. When he died only one person attended.

He died in 1972. It was suicide from an overdose of amphetamines. On his bedside table was the newspaper. It was open to an account of the death of Doctor Winston Chalmers who had passed away peacefully in his sleep a few days earlier.

I spoke with Winnie Fallow, who lived in the apartment next door to him. William finished work around 3.00pm and so would be home at the same time as Winnie’s children from school. She would wait outside on the balcony and they would often chat about the weather or some current TV show.

She described him as an intensely shy man, the smell of after shave ever present. She said he never spoke about anyone; not his family, friends, lovers, anyone. She never knew of any visitors.

In fact, she knew something was wrong when she hadn’t seen him in a couple of days. She knocked on his door, but there was no response.

After a week, the smell that was coming from William’s apartment was the sign that made her contact the police. She remembers the intense, acrid smell of death when they opened the door.  He was lying on his bed.

She had never been inside before. It was clean and tidy. Nothing out of place.

“I felt so sorry for him. I never knew he was so lonely. To go that far. Horrible, horrible.” That was her summation of her time living next to William.

“Did he leave a note, or something?” I asked.

“No, but the funny thing was that in amongst all the smell of death was the smell of food. The poor man must have been getting his dinner when he decided to do away with himself. There was the smell of roast chicken in the kitchen. But all the police found when they opened the oven was a couple of turds in a tray.” She laughed loudly.

“Can you believe that?” She continued laughing. “I don’t know why it’s so funny. Poor bugger. Just a couple of turds in the oven are what he left the world.”

She thought about it for a moment, “You have to admit, that’s a weird thing to do, but funny. It’s like sticking your middle finger to the world.”

It was sturdily built using two thick slices of ‘pasta-dura’ bread, which due to the way they were sliced, could have been left to harden and used as door stops. They were thick. If you had been brave enough to venture inside one, you’d have noticed they were jammed packed with everything but jam.

There was usually a thick slice of meat, whether it be ham or mortadella or home-made salami or left over roast or steak from the previous night’s dinner.

But that’s not all. It may also have included a thick slice of cheese or fried eggplant or half a lettuce or slices from a number of tomatoes. And frequently you got the whole lot at the same time.

We used to envy the Australian kids with their Tip Top sliced white bread which contained a slither of vegemite and a thin slice of Kraft Cheddar Cheese. They could literally eat and talk at the same time. Boy, were we envious.

Every lunchtime, as a thousand kids opened their school bags, there was this incredible explosion of odours. A mixture of Italian delicatessen with the not so subtle blend of school locker room. On this one afternoon, a boy I knew, Giulio, appeased his testosterones by having sex. With a women, no less.

“How many women have you had sex with?”

“Four.”

“Get out, will you. Four?”

“Four.”

I don’t think he noticed the look of surprise on my face because he chatted about it as if he had just eaten four “Italian” sized sandwiches. That would have been surprise enough. But this was sex. The subject you never talked about without looking to your left and right first to see who could be listening. Nonchalantly, he mentioned that one of the women had been wearing a black see-through bra. A bra!

At the time, the only bras I had seen were my mother’s hanging on the clothes line. They were white, sturdy and solid and looked as if they would have stopped a German tank. In fact, I think they were made from a German tank. The thick, wire frame that bound each cup seemed impassable. A bra! I knew our teacher, Mrs Davies wore a bra.

You could see it under her clothes, bunching up her fat and creating furrows across her back and sides. But you never consciously thought about it. Yet, here was Giulio talking about a woman’s bra. And it was exciting. He painted a picture for me. How each breast, though not large, was snugly tucked in. How they jiggled mischievously when she laughed, almost threatening to overflow their cups. And how when finally set free, they just hung there happily. Two soft, fluffy cushions with a big red, erect button in the middle of each. I remember feeling a little hot. I couldn’t understand why, it was after all the middle of winter.

He stopped, deep in thought. He often did this and I found it extremely annoying. “Well, what happened then?” I said, not trying to sound too pushy or overly excited. We were both just 15, this was all totally new (to me, at least).

“Tell me, Alex, what have we got on this afternoon?” He asked. The bastard had totally changed the subject. Had he no feelings? Couldn’t he see the expectant look on my face? What was he trying to do? “English and History, I think. Why?” Who cared. I wanted to get back to the soft, fluffy cushions. With as much sang froid as I could muster I asked “Giulio, what happened then?” He laughed with a very strange expression on his face. Almost shy, a little embarrassed. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. We were both males. And I wasn’t about to tell his father.

Come on, Giulio. “Well,” he started, the warm memory rushing back. “I got into bed while she darkened the room…” He paused. “You didn’t have any clothes on?” “No clothes.” He paused. “Yes, and…?” “And the next thing I felt was this small, silky piece of material drop on my face.” He paused. “It was perfumed and soft and smelt of her.” He looked around and then whispered in my ear. “It was her undies, Alex.”

“Whooo..ooooogh..” I have absolutely no idea where that sound came from. He paused. That smile on his face was really pissing me off. “Then…?” I wished he could just get on with it. “Then, I felt the blankets at my feet rise. A little cold air rushed in. And so did she, but very… very… very… very slowly. Oh, Alex, you should have been there.” Oh sure. “She cruised up the bed, her body hot and soft; carefully working its way up… and up… and up ....” He paused. That smile.

“Yes? ... How far up?”

I probably sounded a little too excited. The words came out a little too high pitched, strained through my tonsils. “What?” He questioned, disinterestedly. I guessed the show was over. I coughed nervously, trying to get a little more depth into my voice. I was expecting it to break any day. Right at that moment would have been greatly appreciated. “Yes, sounded good, Giulio.” No luck with the voice. “Cool! My man! Hey!” Don’t over do it, Alex.

Following that day, I worked hard to form a sort of pact with Giulio. He called it a sick pact, but agreed to be part of it anyway and that’s all that mattered to me. I had always been a bit of a book worm, so with sex book in hand, I would explain to Giulio different ways he could ‘do it.’ I described the ones that fascinated me the most. The ones I thought would have the greatest degree of difficulty. Giulio would then go off and try ‘it’ and see if ‘it’ worked.

It was a form of research, believe me. For example, one of the books we managed to get our hands on was Joseph Weckerle’s ‘The Golden Book of Love.’ It was a genuine sex fest, a sexual smorgasbord, a graphic and well charted maze for young players and, I assumed, for experienced explorers. Amongst its pages were 600 different ways of having sex. Six hundred. I thought Giulio was going to die before we had got through the first handful. I had never said it was going to be easy.

Then I happened to find another book called ‘The Perfumed Garden.’ It was Indian and it had been written at the beginning of the 16th century. Boy, those Indians. The things they got up to. “This was written around the year 1500?” asked Giulio, equally surprised. “Listen, Giulio, believe me, sex hasn’t changed all that much since then, I can tell you.” “Really?” “Sure. Trust me.”

Well, what did you expect me to say? “Anyway, listen to this one. It’s called the Somersault Position. What happens is this: The woman lets her pants drop to the ground. Right?” I looked up at Giulio to make sure he was paying attention. “She then puts her head between her feet so that her neck is caught in her pants. Right?” Giulio was starting to get a funny look on his face. I continued anyway: “Then, the man, facing her, grabs her legs and turns her on her back, so that she performs a ‘somersault’.” I stole a look at Giulio and quickly realised this was going to require written notes.

“The man, then curves his legs under him and enters the woman. OK? Is that clear?” Giulio’s face was contortion-city. “Sure,” he said, unconvincingly. “Look, I’ll write it all down for you, step by step. Then as you’re doing it, you can refer to the note. Easy.” “Oh, sure, Alex. Sure.” “Now, if you lose the piece of paper, just call me and I’ll guide you through over the phone. No problem. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Just the memory of those words make me cringe. But, they were said in innocence, believe me. “Giulio,” I continued, cool and composed. I opened my diary and held my biro prepared, “when do you think you can get back to me with some results?” Giulio just looked at me with that wry grin of his, “Is tomorrow OK?” That’s what I liked most about Giulio, you could always count on him. Well, most times you could count on him.

“What do you mean, you didn’t get a chance to do the Somersault Position?” It was the next evening and, as you can tell, I wasn’t too pleased. After all, it’s not every day you come across a Somersault Position and I was curious to know if it could be done. “Hey, Alex, it doesn’t always happen like that.” Giulio tried his hand at atonement. “It was one of those situations. You know?” Naturally, I nodded my head pretending I did. “There you are tearing each other’s clothes off. Your hands fumbling for buttons and belts and pins and clips. You know what’s it’s like.”

Again, I nodded and added “Yes, of course… All that stuff ... Everyone knows that.” “Alex, what can I say? It took a while to get past the sucking-face bit. Christ, she was so good at it. I finally got her pants down around her ankles. But in the heat of the situation ...” He threw out his arms in despair.

“What was the problem?”

“I couldn’t remember whether she had to put her head between her feet or mine and whether I should drop my pants now or later ... and ... by the time I remembered ... she had taken over.” “What? She somersaulted you?” Now, there was something I had never considered. “Well, not exactly. She had undone my shirt and the buttons on my pants…” He paused, looked up at me and slowed down. “Before you know it, we both had no clothes on. We were on the floor in the bedroom. There I was, trying to think about the Somersault Position, when I saw it.”

“What? What was it?” “There, under the bed, was a copy of the Kama Sutra.”

“The Kama Sutra? The somersault was in The Perfumed Garden.” I corrected him. “Oh, I wasn’t going to read it, Alex. I used it as a prop. It fitted snugly under her soft, white bottom. ...” That pause. “I have to tell you, Alex. It was wild.” “Great, Giulio. But maybe it should have been me with her. Especially seeing that we both have a copy of the Kama Sutra under our beds.” Giulio stood to go.

“That’s one thing I didn’t tell you, Alex. It wasn’t her copy of the Kama Sutra. It was yours, Alex.” He paused, just for a second, allowing the comment to have its effect. Then he leaned into my ear again.

“Your sister didn’t want to do it in her room, just in case your parents came home early. Look, I’ll see you later, ok? And I’ll see what I can do about the Somersault.”

With that he just walked calmly away. I was genuinely shocked. My sister? Francesca? She was three years older than me. And she had been right, my parents hadn’t been in my room for months.

My sister and Giulio? I sat on the bed at home with that copy of the Kama Sutra in my hands. I allowed it to rest only on the tips of my fingers. Here, I could examine it closely under the light, checking for marks and stains. Earlier, I had even noticed a worn out patch on the carpet which I swear I had never seen before. This is where they had ‘done it.’

I imagined them together, in my room ‘doing it.’ Both of them. Together. On my floor. Wearing out the carpet. In my position, for heaven’s sake.

Eeeck.

Disgusting.

I was thoroughly disgusted.

Anyway, over the next few days I just kept right away from Francesca and Giulio. One night, I was lying in bed having just watched some Sofia Loren movie. (Christ she had good tits.) ‘House Boat’ it was called, with Cary Grant and a bunch of dumb kids. I just happened to be thinking how they would have done it on their wedding night, when the phone rang.

I heard my mother from the other side of the door; “Alesandro, it is for you. A friend.” At this hour? I got up any way. “Hello?” “Alex, it’s Giulio.” Oh, no. “Oh, hi, Giulio.” At least try to sound friendly. “What’s up?”

“Alex, I need your help.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but I left my notes in my pocket and my mother washed my pants. Alex, you’ve got to help me with the Somersault Position.”

“Wait a minute, Giulio, is there a girl there?” There was a pause, then a whisper came back;

“Yes.”

There was suddenly this burning question inside my brain. “Okay Alex, now listen, we’ve both got our pants around our ankles. Now who puts what where?”

Slowly, I responded. “She puts her head down between her feet and tucks her neck into her pants.”

“Okay, hang on.”

I stood there, muffled voices explaining instructions. There was a laugh, a giggle. I pushed the phone as hard as I could into my ear in an effort to hear the female voice at the other end of the phone.

“Right, what next, Alex.”

I took a deep breath and continued nervously. “Next, you grab her legs and turn her on her back. In other words, you make her ‘somersault’.”

“Great. Wait a minute.”

More muffled sounds. Was it her? I couldn’t be sure. I wanted to hang up. I wanted to kill both of them. Suddenly, clear, sharp, unmistakable laughter filled my ear.

“Alex, I’m back. Okay, what’s next?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. “Alex, are you there?” I had lost my voice. Nothing.

“Alex?”

“Yes,” it was more of a thin, high-pitched squeal than a response and it had just managed to squeeze out. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Come on, Alex. What’s next?”

“You now curve your legs under you and you ...” I could hardly raise the strength to say it. “… you enter the woman.”

“Of course, that was it. Thanks, Alex.” I stood there frozen. Listening to silence. Giulio had hung up. He was having sex with my sister. And what was worse, they were doing it in my position. As I slowly walked back to my room, I noticed the light under Francesca’s door. Wardrobes were being opened and closed. Relief rushed over me. How stupid I had been. I pushed open the door. The surprise must have showed on my face. “Alesandro, are you all right? You look pale.” It was my mother, putting away my sister’s freshly ironed clothes. “Where’s Francesca?” I asked desperately. “She’s out with a friend. Why? ... Alex? ... Alex? You all right? ...”

It was too late. I rushed off to the toilet where I threw up not only the large slice of lasagne I’d had for dinner, but also the thick home made sausage in between two ‘pasta-dura’ bread door-stops with cheese, lettuce and ... that’s right ... sun dried tomatoes.

Boy, I hate wasting good food.

That happened over 20 years ago and I still have that taste in my mouth; big lumps of soft meat and pasta in cheesy tomato sauce. What brought up that taste? Well, it’s what happened today. You see, after that incident, Giulio and I sort of drifted apart. The same with my sister. Francesca and I were never close anyway. She’d moved up to Sydney as a designer. So I didn’t have to continually try avoiding her. Who could blame me?

But I must say, I never spoke of the incident with either Giulio or Francesca. And neither of them mentioned it. Then today happened. There I was, sitting in the Plaza having lunch when Giulio approached me. We hadn’t spoken to each other in over 15 years. And we did exactly what people do after that length of time. We played that game: “Do you remember when…?” He started. “Do you know what I remember most about you, Alex?” “What?”

“I remember how infatuated you were about sex.”

“Me?” He must have me mistaken for someone else. After all, he could talk. “Giulio, it wasn’t me that was infatuated by sex.”

“Sure you were. Don’t you remember all those sex manuals you used to read. All those different positions. And especially how you loved hearing about ‘it’.”

“Oh, please, Giulio, don’t exaggerate.” He was exaggerating.

“I’m not.” He laughed again as if some memory had just opened a door. “Don’t you remember that position, that you always spoke about? What was it? The Tumble ...?”

“The somersault.” He still couldn’t remember it. “That’s right, the somersault.” More laughter. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t understand what was so funny. “Did you ever try it, Alex?” “Ah, ... no, the whole thing left a real bad taste in my mouth.” “Neither did I.” What did he say? “Pardon?” Did I hear wrongly? “I never tried it either, Alex.”

What?

“It seemed so stupid,” he continued. “The woman puts her head between her feet then ...”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” I had to find out what on earth he was talking about. “You never tried it?”

“No.”

“Yes you did ... You did it with ... with… with .... my sister.” He started really laughing now. “Don’t you remember, Giulio? That night you phoned me. I gave you the instructions. I knew Francesca was with you.” His laughing now became unbearable. People were watching. Even my boss walked past and looked suspiciously in our direction.

“Giulio, Giulio ... stop it,” I whispered under my breath. “What’s so funny? You bastard!” I waved to my boss, smiled broadly and falsely and nodded my head in Giulio’s direction. I wanted to give that tight arse the impression that I was a really funny, highly amusing guy and Giulio was laughing at one of my hilarious stories.

Giulio was playing along perfectly. He was overdoing it a bit, though. “Look, I don’t know what’s so funny. Don’t forget, you had sex with my Francesca, in my room, on my floor, on my copy of the Kama Sutra. And I heard you both doing it that night in my position. The Somersault Position.”

A great burst of laughter tumbled from his mouth. He had to try very hard to get out the words: “We ... didn’t ... do ... it.”

“You bastard, Giulio. I know you did. There was a worn patch of carpet on my floor. And I heard you that night when…” I stopped. I suddenly heard a huge penny drop.

“Can you please stop laughing long enough to explain yourself?” Giulio could only speak in between gasps of air. “We didn’t .... We never did it ... We made it up .... It was a joke ... It was all a joke ... I thought you had realised that. You mean ... after all these years ...?”

I just couldn’t control myself. It started almost spontaneously. At first quietly, then it just got louder and louder. It was laughter. Uncontrollable. It simply engulfed me. We both must have looked like a pair of idiots. Like two drunks teetering from side to side trying to find our balance. Tears were streaming down our faces. Blinding us. I can’t remember ever laughing so hard. Even my boss couldn’t believe it.

He actually edged his way over, a smile breaking across his face as if he was about to join in. “It must be a good joke, Alex,” he said. The comment only intensified our laughter. Giulio swaying, drunk with laughter slapped me on the back.

And that’s when it happened. I threw up right on my boss’s shoes. I could feel those white Tip Top slices rushing up to freedom. Following close behind, was a thin Kraft Cheddar Cheese slice and a slither of Vegemite.

It was lucky, I suppose. Because, as you know, I hate wasting good food.

The Story lives here for download.

To anyone listening in the darkness, it would have sounded like a tyre tube that had just been pricked by a needle. The ecstatic hiss of air escaping from its confinement. However, it is her thoughts you should be listening to as you sit there comfortably in your seat.

Over the past few weeks she had formed a plan and written up its agenda and timetable. The protagonists of this little drama were already known. As was the eventual outcome. That part was clear. Nothing could change that now. It is what she wanted. Desperately.

You see, she was contemplating murder. All the elements to this dangerous little game have already been assembled and set up. All she has to do is put them in motion.

Start the game.

She moved. She raised herself out of the chair and dressed quickly. Careful attention was paid to her clothes. She put on a big, old overcoat which she rarely wore. A wide brimmed hat and scarf were added to help shield her face from straying eyes who may look too closely and later recognise her.

Thick lipstick was applied. But not red. For red she thought would draw attention to her face. She chose a dull pink. A colour that almost made her lips melt into the colour of her face. She looked at herself closely in the full length mirror. “Why the sad face?,” she thought. She held the mirror as if holding herself, tightly.

She pulled it closer and kissed it, kissing herself hard on the lips, her tongue pressing against her own. Then she was gone. A small dull pink, wet ring on the mirror is all she left behind.

He slapped her face hard. It had not surprised her, nor did it make her angry. She expected nothing more, nothing less. A trickle of blood pushed itself free from the skin near her lip.

“Please,” she slowly wiped the blood away, smudging lipstick across her cheek. “Please,” she repeated calmly, “make love to me. Love me. Why don’t you love me any more?”

He slapped her again. This time tears washed the blood away. That memory, though a strong one, belonged to someone else.

The woman in the big, old overcoat and wide brimmed hat you see now walking along the dark empty streets has changed slightly. She takes a deep breath and inhales all the foulness, the stench and the pain which over the years has spilled out on to the streets. She embraces it all, like a mother embraces her offspring. She’ll never cry like that again. Not like that again. Never again.

Ever.

“Hit me again, please.” The whispering coolness of her voice, its quiet sensualness, frightens him.

“Go on, please,” it continues. “I want you to make love to me. To love me. That’s how we do it these days.”

“Stop it”

“Why? It’s all we have left.”

She looks up at him from the edge of the bed, her ruffled hair across her face. She moves it. “It’s all I have left, that’s why.”

He sighs deeply. Moves from one foot to the other.

Uncomfortable. “Oh, go on. I love it.

“Every slap is a caress. Every trickle of blood, the most tender of kisses. A shove to me is a hug. A bruise is an orgasm.”

“What’s that mean?” “The bruise?” She laughs quietly to herself. “It means I get the wet patch.”

“Some joke.”

“Thank you.”

This is the sort of night that sensible people used to stay at home. It is what most writers of fiction would like to call “a bitterly cold night.” On such a night, there’s nothing better than to sit in front of the fire with a hot mug of cocoa and a good murder story. Only from such a position of comfort and warmth would you dare join a poor woman wearing an old overcoat and a wide brimmed hat on a wet night.

Luckily she has an umbrella. He stands there uncomfortable, looking at this woman he no longer recognises. No longer loves. She smiles.

“I don’t love you,” he says.

“I know.”

“Look, it’s probably made you really bitter about me,...”

“Not at all.”

“Well, especially now that you know about…”

“Don’t! Don’t mention her name, please Michael. I don’t want to hear her name. Please.” A tear appears and slides down her cheek.

She pauses. “It hurts,” she says, her voice starting to break. “It hurts to hear you say her name. You no longer call me by my name. Why?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. I just want you out of my life.”

“Dead?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Remember that game we used to play for fun?” she says, a little more composed. “The one about people we really hated. Remember? We’d think of different ways we could kill them.”

“What made you think about that? Stop it.”

“Remember how we’d cuddle up in bed and we’d imagine such and such turned into a wooden statue. We’d then invite them over for dinner and the only cutlery we’d set would be a hammer and chisel.”

“Stop it. It’s over.”

“Remember,... oh I forget her name, we changed her into a beautiful, wild bush bird. Then we put a huge ball and chain around her leg, so it would flap about wildly. Finally, she would just give up and die. Poor thing. Dead.” She laughs to herself. “Don’t you remember that awful game?” She looks up only to see the room empty. Down the hall the front door closes.

“A beautiful, wild bush bird.”

A moth flys through the door into a smoke filled, hotel bar. If it had only taken the time to first properly observe the patrons, it would no doubt have changed course quickly. It is a big, fat moth. A huge fist suddenly reaches up and encases it within its grip. The fist belongs to Tiny Tinston. No one really knows how Tiny got his name, for he was not tiny.

In fact, the term “built like a brick shithouse” would suit him very nicely. Actually, Tiny is the type who dresses with a lot of style, but not a lot of taste. His finger is dressed with a jewel encrusted ring. His double-breasted suit, though beautifully tailored, would look better on someone else. Probably anyone else.

On his head is a toupee` you’d swear is put on back-the-front, but no one has ever dared tell Tiny. He quite likes it anyway. Even thinks his pencil thin moustache makes him look like a mature Clark Gable. If you look at the drink beside him on the bar, you’ll see a Kaluha and milk. His favourite. Though tonight, there’s more milk than Kaluha and there’s only one.

For tonight he has a job to do and right now he’s waiting for a lady to provide the final details. The moth struggles a while and then settles into the warm hand. Tiny takes a last drag of his St.Moritz, menthol cigarette and stubs it gingerly into the ashtray only using his thumb and forefinger. The other three stand upright, elegantly displaying his well manicured fingernails. His attention now returns to the moth.

Carefully, he takes it by the wing. The moth struggles frantically to escape. Forget it. Tiny holds it up to his face and watches innocently fascinated. “Hello, my little darling,” he whispers, soothingly to his prey. “You’re looking extremely beautiful tonight. Just dropped in for a little chat, have we?” The moth, almost as if reassured, stops flapping. “There, now that’s better, isn’t it?” He gently pats the moth with a big finger.

“There, there, just relax. Tiny loves you. Relax.” Slowly, Tiny places the moth on the bar where it sits quietly. Tiny puts his face close, smiles warmly. “Relax.” From the coat pocket, he removes a small knife. “Relax, baby. Daddy’s here.” A knife with a shining silver handle and a pencil thin, steely sharp six inch blade. “Baby, it’s ok.” The knife is poised over the moth’s head. Tiny pouts his lips and blows a kiss. “There, there, my sweet,” ever so quietly, “I love you.”

He drives the knife a short distance through the moth’s head and into the bar where it sticks. Tiny looks on fascinated as the moth dies. He gets as close as he can, trying to see the expression on the dead moth’s face. “Oh, fucking hell, what the fuck. Get that thing off my bar.” Obviously barmen aren’t as fascinated by murder as Tiny. “Terribly sorry,” says Tiny, humbly.

He removes the knife and wipes the moth off the bar.

“Jesus Christ, mate.”

“I apologise” repeats Tiny, more to himself. “It won’t happen again, I assure you, my little darling.”

This is the man a lady in an old overcoat and wide brimmed hat, walks into the bar to meet. They seem to recognise each other straight away. “Mr Tinston?” she asks. “That’s right, Tiny Tinston,” his huge fist reaches out and overwhelms her hand. “Pleased to meet you. And you’re…?” “Never mind who I am.” she says coolly. “I’ve brought what was asked for. Here is the name, address and photograph of the person. There’s even a key.” Tiny accepts the items and studies them closely.

“Mia Burton,” he says reading off the note. “Lovely name. Looks like a nice, respectable lady.” He studies his client closely. The dull pink lipstick is slightly smudged and the eyes are deep blue. They’re like a long corridor with rooms on either side. All the doors are shut. “It should be done tonight.” say the eyes, who notice Tiny’s stare and hide themselves behind the brim of the hat. “She’ll be home tonight. I know for sure.” “Then, my dear lady, it shall be done tonight. Poste Haste. We can’t keep St. Peter waiting, now can we?” “No,” is the cold response.

She produces a thick envelope from her bag. “Here’s the amount promised. I suppose you’ll want to count it or something.” She hands it to him, making sure no one sees the transaction. It matters little to Tiny, it’s just one of the formalities of his game.

Something else, though, takes his attention. He grabs the woman’s wrist and pulls it close to his face. “Very nice, if I may say so. Very nice tattoo, madam. I’ve never seen one like that. Work of art really. Get it done locally,” he inquires. His grip is tight but not painful. She wriggles free.

“Never mind about that,” she says, “you have a job to do.” She leaves the envelope on the bar. “Ah, my work, madam. It is uppermost in my mind, I assure you.” “Good”

“Pardon me for asking, but Mia Burton, you must hate her with a passion.” “Not at all,” she says without hesitation and for the first time looks him directly in the eyes. “In fact, I love her very much. Passionately, you could say, Mr Tinston.” She turns and walks away.

Tiny watches her very carefully, then looks closely at the photograph for a while. When his gaze searches for her again all it finds is the bar room door swinging closed, shutting out the night. He looks back at the photograph.

Mia Burton has not slept well for a long time. Tonight is an exception. It seems that sleep, who until tonight had been on holiday, has now returned and embraced Mia within its soothing grip. Such deep, relaxing sleep. It caresses her furrowed brow and quietly closes her eyelids, shutting out the world outside where footsteps approach her gate. It transports her to a distant shore, where she lies relaxed on a sandy beach as a gloved hand expertly and silently inserts a key into the door.

A waiter, carrying a tray of long, cool drinks and wild, tropical fruit, approaches her. He smiles kindly as he places the tray beside her. His hand, she notices, is wearing a glove. From behind her it slips slowly across her face and grips firmly over her mouth. “Good evening, my sweet,” he whispers like a lover, softly into her ear. “My little Mia. Relax. Everything’s going to be ok. There, there. I promise.

Tiny loves you, my little darling. Mia’s eyes open on the darkness. A gloved hand is planted firmly over her mouth. The smell of leather almost suffocating. “Relax, Daddy’s here.” The voice is so gentle. Mia does not struggle. In the darkness she sees a huge, black shape.

“Oh, you’re so relaxed, that’s good” it whispers. “Very good. I want to love you. I’m going to love you.” She sees a shining, pencil-thin blade emerge from the blackness of the shape. It glitters and beckons her. It comes closer and closer, calling her. “Gently does it now, my sweet.” She feels the cold, steel blade come to rest inside her ear.

It is icy cold, she thinks. So cold. “Goodnight, my love. Thankyou for a wonderful, exciting evening.” says the black shape. The long, cool blade is forced firmly through her brain, killing her instantly.

The blade is gently withdrawn, wiped clean and put away. Only a small trickle of blood emerges. “How was that for you, my sweet?” asks Tiny as he searches for the bedside light and turns it on. “Was it good for you, my sweet?” He looks closely at the face, at the calm expression. Tiny closes the lids over her deep blue eyes.

“Just relax now. Get some sleep, my darling.” He slowly leans over and kisses her on the lips. Just as he expected, he notices the dull pink lipstick slightly smudged. The same colour that’s on the full length mirror next to the bed.

“It’s ok. now, sweetheart.” He reaches for her wrist and sees the tattoo. “A work of art that is Mia.” On her wrist is a beautiful, wild bush bird with a ball and chain around its leg.

This is where you will find the Mia script. I hope you enjoy it. ]]> tag:citizen-joe.com,2004:index.php/2.8 2004-08-25T12:54:26Z 2009-08-25T13:01:28Z citizenjoe joe@citizen-joe.com Cooking or food programs are always centred around a chef or a region or both. The genre is well catered for and very little changes from its recipe and food presentation format.

It is a popular format with various versions of it being shown on the ABC, SBS and food segments of such popular lifestyle shows as ‘Healthy Wealthy and Wise’ are normally amongst the most watched.

The detective, or police drama series is also one of the most popular. Versions of this genre have been around as long as television itself. We know the lead character(s) well. They normally act tough, talk tough, play hard, drink even harder and in amongst all this, still have time to be really good at their job.

As we very soon find out, they all have major flaws in their character. They’re loners with a sturdy backbone built on a highly resistant moral fibre.

‘Waiter, there’s a Dead Man in my Soup’ places both these genres into a large melting pot, adds a touch of colour, spice and a dollop of comedy to create a fragrant, tasty new television series.

Its hero is one Sidney D’Angelo. A Private Detective who doesn’t wake up with a hangover and in desperate need of a hair-of-the-dog. Instead to him, food is the meaning of life. It stirs lovers, it unites families and even hardens the will of soldiers the night before battle.

Not to mention how it also hardens arteries. Sidney is also loner. But maybe not by choice. Born of Italian parents, his birth place was the Ship ‘Roma’ on the day it docked in Sydney Harbour with its cargo of immigrants from Europe.

To commemorate the occasion, Mr and Mrs D’Angelo named him after the city they would call home. Unfortunately, they misspelt it on the birth certificate. Ever since that day, Sidney has been grateful he wasn’t born in Woy, Woy. A little while after, his parents moved to Melbourne and Sidney gained his appreciation for food among the aroma of fine Italian fare and strong black coffee that wafted along Lygon Street in Carlton.

Seeing his father had been in the Police force in Italy, it seemed a good occupation for a young man. However, the overly sweet taste of iced doughnuts was never to his liking. He left the force and became a Private Detective. His clientele is mainly Italian. And his work concentrates on the kinds of deeds you wouldn’t go to the Police for.

Sure, the work can be seedy, but you have to eat.

This mixture of two such diverse genres works well. After all, isn’t food often associated with love, sex, passion, betrayal, violence and intrigue?

Strangely enough, the same ingredients form the basis of the most popular detective or police dramas. And after all, aren’t the best stories, whether they relate to gossip, intrigue or a comic situation usually told over a table laden with good food, wine and company?

In one American State it is against the law to make love to your wife if your breath smells of garlic, onion or sardines.

This is just one of the many strange ways that the law and food have a very strange relationship.

‘Waiter, there’s a Dead Man in my Soup’ is a new form of television that creates something fresh, strange yet very, very tasty.