Peter considered how many pickled peppers he had left to pick. Peter liked his pickled peppers. His mate Jack had climbed off and left him there. Some sort of a plant had burst out of the ground and Jack decided to climb to its natural conclusion. Peter was suddenly distracted – Prometheus has started. Peter loved that film, and widely promoted it to anyone who came within earshot when discussing films … no matter what they thought of the film. He’d plead that the location shots and especially the breathtaking opening title sequence (shot in Iceland) had to affect you in a positive way. It was gloriously rich with an almost “taste it” screen goodness, thought Peter.
Same with the film adaptation of the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams – Peter loved that film as well. The Nordic connection was the books including Norway. In fact “Slartibartfast” the character who’d designed and built the Norwegian fjords was saddened to hear that the Earth had been destroyed and so of course, his beloved fjords. He’d won an award for them.
Any-who, Peter returned to being concerned about his predicament and his pickled peppers. Jack didn’t give a shit, he was busy hiding from some huge bugger reciting some sort of a limerick.
Peter had to prepare to go back to work, he had a day left but still, some serious preparations were called upon. Serious personal grooming, careful washing and ironing of his protective and new modesty garments, shaping, removing and cutting his excessive hair growth and other personal details that even he struggled to think about, let alone discuss. He only had a day in which to do it all, he was under intense pressure. He would have to apply some. Peter worked at a small goods factory and it was his job to fill the long thin Spanish dog poo spiral shaped breakfast sausages. He filled them to their brim with their nearly meaty interior.
He’d be provided with drums of mysterious “food” and after carefully placing it into the feeder drum, he’d press go. He was a master Butcher and a wiz at filling these unique breakfast sausages. He often dreamt of doing more, maybe moving to the salami curing section but that was the highest position on the employee totem pole and was keenly sought after. Peter wasn’t sought after even though he was keen.
His mate Jack was a backyard man and managed the on-site herb and vegetable garden behind the sewage/wastewater recycling plant the company was so very proud of. A mission statement offered the phrase: “You piss, shit and waste your water so that we may turn it into some tasty food.” That rather gross sentiment was only one of the company’s many tedious mission statements designed to motivate the employees.
Peter wasn’t sure if it was to motivate everyone to piss, shit and wastewater, to make great food or simply be happy that the crap had been recycled. Peter was reasonably proud of this outcome, but he was secretly a vegetarian so didn’t put the risk to the taste test. Millions did but they didn’t know any better. The town provided its poop, wee, wastewater and everything else to the factory.
Meanwhile, Jack had been smelt. His heritage identified and his location becoming very nearly found. So near the smell of the huge bugger was becoming overwhelming. Jack hid and held his breath. The huge bugger was suddenly heavily distracted, his goose had walked in and it had a remarkably healthy tan. Your goose is cooked was a saying that Jack had heard of but he’d never seen a man size goose with a suntan. Maybe that’s what the saying meant. Well, it was very fortunate because the huge bugger walked back to his chair and seemed to forget about Jack – for now.
Back at ground level, Peter had been to the toilet and in a number of indescribable ways, added to the production volume at the factory. Vegetarian or not his input was as good as anyone else’s. Strange thought Peter, why would I even be thinking about that? Peter just wanted to think about his favourite films, his music and how he might help Jack. He couldn’t get to do any of that as it turned out because he miscalculated the amount of preparation time he needed and as a result of rushing and stretching collapsed into a number of twisted muscle spasms brought on by this stretching, contortionist positioning he’d forced himself into. Those pesky hairs really did appear in the strangest places.
Jack was fine, he leapt off the huge buggers front porch with a golden egg and managed to land in a soft sludgy pond that was located at the back of the small goods factory. It was one of the pretreatment ponds for the recycling plant. Full of shit, piss, wastewater and potential.
Jack was back, Peter had hurt his.