Ahoy, ze Tapioca Chips!
Trach Cee-Chewgum adored chilli. All kinds of chillies - red chilli, green chilli, chilli padi, garlic chilli, sweet and sour chilli, just to name a few. To our odd creature, chilli was -without a doubt- heaven on earth. It even ran an illegal food syndicate, SpyCFud, which sold illicit chilli products in bulk to affluent executives with the same unorthodox craving.
No one at the syndicate knew their boss. No one knew it was on the B.I.I.P.O's most wanted list. No one knew it lived in a shelter made up of cardboard throwaways. Every employee had already been brainwashed into thinking that their head honcho was a psycho megalomaniac, with bank accounts that ran up to nine digits, who had no social life and who was permanently paralysed due to a broken vertebrex and grave cases of the Parkinson's Disease and haemophibilia. Board meetings were conversations with a computer animated wheelchair-bound figure and lasted no longer than five minutes. And still, people worked their asses off for a whatchamacallit because they were given six figure paychecks.
But Trach Cee-Chewgum had no need for money. Money is the root of all evil; and our odd creature did not want to be evil. Evil was a most vile word; take the 'e' out from the front and place it at the back to get 'vile'. Trach was proud of its bizarre theory, it thought it made plenty of sense.
Money = Evil
Evil = Vile.
Trach =/= Money
Trach =/= Evil =/= Vile
It was wholly satisfied by the dozen crates of chilli products delivered to its doorstep by an anonymous delivery boy every morning at exactly 11:59:59AM. Its entire life revolved solely around chilli and hiding. Though such a lifestyle would seem almost miserable to our society's ambitious 'eager beavers', Trach found it exceedingly gratifying.
One particularly humid afternoon, Trach was sitting contentedly with its bag of chilli-flavoured popcorn and its plate of chilli-marinated buffalo wings when an eye-catching flyer flew in from the window (a square-shaped hole our odd creature had cut out with a scissor). It said in bold black words: SPICY TAPOICA CHIPS. Now, 'the Great Unknown' was fascinated. It never would have believed that tapoica could be manufactured into deliciously crispy and spicy chips. "Tis' suits my palate very well," it thought, for the first time in days.
It rushed to its computer monitor almost immediately and requested a meeting with SpyCFud's Board of Directors. To its dismay, it was informed by their secretaries that they were all out for lunch. Enraged, it sacked them all without bonus or a month's notice and promoted ten of its best managers to take their place. Extreme matters require extreme measures, it muttered. Manipulating its virtual puppet with a computer mouse, it assigned numerous tasks to each of its newly-appointed directors. They did not mind either for their annual payroll had just been increased to a seven digit sum. Phone calls to prominent farmers and shipping companies across the globe would ensure that SpyCFud monopolised the sale of spicy tapoica chips. If there was an upcoming food trend, Trach Cee-Chewgum could be counted on to spot it. It enjoyed these mindless 'games' and could not understand why its human counterparts were hopelessly rotten at such things.
No one at the syndicate knew their boss. No one knew it was on the B.I.I.P.O's most wanted list. No one knew it lived in a shelter made up of cardboard throwaways. Every employee had already been brainwashed into thinking that their head honcho was a psycho megalomaniac, with bank accounts that ran up to nine digits, who had no social life and who was permanently paralysed due to a broken vertebrex and grave cases of the Parkinson's Disease and haemophibilia. Board meetings were conversations with a computer animated wheelchair-bound figure and lasted no longer than five minutes. And still, people worked their asses off for a whatchamacallit because they were given six figure paychecks.
But Trach Cee-Chewgum had no need for money. Money is the root of all evil; and our odd creature did not want to be evil. Evil was a most vile word; take the 'e' out from the front and place it at the back to get 'vile'. Trach was proud of its bizarre theory, it thought it made plenty of sense.
Money = Evil
Evil = Vile.
Trach =/= Money
Trach =/= Evil =/= Vile
It was wholly satisfied by the dozen crates of chilli products delivered to its doorstep by an anonymous delivery boy every morning at exactly 11:59:59AM. Its entire life revolved solely around chilli and hiding. Though such a lifestyle would seem almost miserable to our society's ambitious 'eager beavers', Trach found it exceedingly gratifying.
One particularly humid afternoon, Trach was sitting contentedly with its bag of chilli-flavoured popcorn and its plate of chilli-marinated buffalo wings when an eye-catching flyer flew in from the window (a square-shaped hole our odd creature had cut out with a scissor). It said in bold black words: SPICY TAPOICA CHIPS. Now, 'the Great Unknown' was fascinated. It never would have believed that tapoica could be manufactured into deliciously crispy and spicy chips. "Tis' suits my palate very well," it thought, for the first time in days.
It rushed to its computer monitor almost immediately and requested a meeting with SpyCFud's Board of Directors. To its dismay, it was informed by their secretaries that they were all out for lunch. Enraged, it sacked them all without bonus or a month's notice and promoted ten of its best managers to take their place. Extreme matters require extreme measures, it muttered. Manipulating its virtual puppet with a computer mouse, it assigned numerous tasks to each of its newly-appointed directors. They did not mind either for their annual payroll had just been increased to a seven digit sum. Phone calls to prominent farmers and shipping companies across the globe would ensure that SpyCFud monopolised the sale of spicy tapoica chips. If there was an upcoming food trend, Trach Cee-Chewgum could be counted on to spot it. It enjoyed these mindless 'games' and could not understand why its human counterparts were hopelessly rotten at such things.
© 2004 by The Unorthodox Meerkat
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