Back once more – and still sticking rigidly to his optimum 637 word limit – is Trenton Babbage with his epic tale, The Bacon Smugglers…
able to get the lifeguards involved too, and complete the holy quadfecta. Until that blessed day we make do with linking up our various explosive devices and saunter out the tradesmen’s entrance. Via the half price milk chocolate hobnob stand.
Outside the air is thick with freshness, one can chew on it, literally; not like in that stupid advert. So we do, we stand together taking great big bites out of the air, chewing greedily on the concoction, drooling almost in our childlike glee; in fact, if there hadn’t have been a local co-op exploding at this very moment, showering the surrounding area in three for the price of two own brand butter, people woulda thought we were a right coupla nut jobs! As it is they are conveniently indisposed to paying us any mind, so we make our way back to the train station … you know the route.
On the train I disclose my experience of the buffet car bacon sandwich to Perl, and its subsequent treatment and allusion to the work of Pannerberg. Oddly enough she’d had the same ordeal with her purchase – or perhaps not odd at all; pick any random person who’s eaten a bacon sandwich, or anything bought from a train’s buffet car, and defy them to wax lyrical upon it, or even border on as good as slightly dissatisfied – what may be odd though is how certain people deal with these below par food stuffs; not many I imagine use them to recreate the victims of a serial killer active on the Danish island of Zealand during the latter half of the 1800s…though I could be wrong. Perl’s killer of choice was of course Dagmar Underhål, who was perpetually perturbed by the constant lies people told each other. Not the big ones; the affairs, the fraud; it was the little ones; back in two seconds, I’ll do that in a minute, sarcasm. Her literal understanding of the words people used left no room for nuance, sarcasm, metaphor. She used to roller her victims, render them transparent essentially, using one of the first cricket wicket rollers brought over from England by the rail engineers. “I never go anywhere without my little roller, Manfred. So I placed my one sixth eaten bacon sandwich on the buffet counter, looked the server in the eye and began to roll. All the while explaining to him how and why Dagmar used to do this to members of her community; she was squeezing out all the bullshit, all the layers becoming one, nothing else left to hide, just a pure human spirit.” “Bloody hell, Perl; I just pinned the bits of mine to a chair, I didn’t mess with a poor bloke’s mind!” “Who is reading your notes? Who now thinks that there might be some crazed bacon sandwich fetish psychotic on the loose?” “Touché.”
“I feel readers are going think it strange that we, self-professed top quality bacon lovers, would eat a buffet car bacon sandwich in the full knowledge that it will be severely sub-par.” “What do you mean, ‘readers’? we’re not supposed to know about the readers; we’re characters in a story, unaware that we’re characters in a story.” “Yes I know, but it just seems weird that we would eat bacon we know to be crap.” “I assume the author was more concerned with introducing the work of serial killers in a way he thought was humourous, than he was with character consistency.” “Insulting to the reader?” “Not necessarily, a bit lazy possibly. The explanation may come later.” “I don’t think the author should leave it too long; it will start to niggle in the readers’ minds.” “Not yet though; we’re here.”
Sitting on a great South West Trains train arriving at the international hub that is Southampton train station, can only