The French Fry took off his clothes. Two gherkined-up hamburgers, with their salads half-peeping out of their buns, and melted cheese dribbling down their meat, came towards him. They rubbed him down thoroughly with salt and vinegar.
‘Next!’ said Zeus as the French Fry jumped up onto the almost boiling iron stage and began singing.
‘Rub more salt in girls – more salt!’
The hamburgers did just that, but Zeus was beside them double-quick arms flailing.
‘Not like that girls – like this. All over. Rub it all over. Every square inch of his body.’
The French Fry kept dancing as best he could while Zeus rubbed in all the salt he needed to rub in. Up and down, up and down the French Fry’s body interminably.
Finally, clicking his fingers, Zeus, eeny-meeny-miny moed some ketchup and mayonnaise beside the stage. On the moe, he picked up the French Fry and dipped him head first into the big bowl of homemade mayonnaise. Then he brought him up to his mouth and licked the mayo off again just as fast. After placing him back down onto the sizzling iron stage he shouted – ‘More salt girls. More fucking salt!’ then jumped off the stage and sat back down into his throne.
‘Mister French Fry – the best way to stop your feet from burning is to keep dancing no matter what.’
Three verses later and the French fry stopped singing. He said – ‘It sounds better like that. That last bit. Doesn’t it? Look at those people clapping along over there.’
The French fry was bundled swiftly off the red-hot iron stage and into a pen with his twenty or so clap-happy fans for close company.
Zeus said – ‘Listen to the song on the speaker there for a while boys and girls. Get it into your heads good. Then you can all get lost. You’re all barred for life. And we’ll deny you were ever here too. You’ve got no proof.’
The French Fry said – ‘But I wasn’t here Zeus. That was you.’
‘I know that. Duh.’
The French fry just about put his clothes back on before being hooshed out the door at breakneck speed. Along with his twenty or so fellow clap-happy fans. Then, a fine idea struck him just before discovering that the soles of his feet were completely destroyed. He screamed.
He couldn’t even make it to the grocery store now.
I dropped it an hour ago and still nothing. The grocery store still a mere grocery store. Picked up a can of beans, held it under the electric light, and still absolutely zilch.
The shop assistant came over but I had it in her hands before she could speak.
‘Jackie, I paid you fifty big ones for that gear. I could have bought it in Tesco’s down the road for half the price. But oh no, I was trying to support local artists, wasn’t I? You must think I’m a fool.’
Jackie hummed and hawed then snapped her fingers that made sweat dribble from my chin. Two security guards were beside me. They picked up a fishnet bag of sprouts each and started strumming, the rhythm coming out their feet like water in purple hazes. At last it was working.
I was looking for a pen and paper to write all this down with when an onion turned into my partner and a scratch card turned into my handbag, which my partner proceeded to hoosh me around the shop with for the next half an hour. Best gear I’d had in ages. All before I destroyed my feet, of course, all before becoming French Fry.