IV:1,2,3,IV

I SUGGEST YOU READ IV AND IV:In The Red BEFORE YOU READ THIS

WONLAY

The fact that Wonlay was quarter past tipsy did not help his situation at all. A very dangerous man was making an attempt on his life and he had been ill prepared. Perhaps he should have taken that caller with the voice distortion seriously. ‘Regardless,’ he thought, ‘people that choose to mask their voices are spineless and cowardly’.

The bullets from the unidentified man's vicious attacks echoed through the church hall, chanting their unholy hymn of death. Wonlay had to think fast. ‘What could stop or at least slow down this relentless attacker?’ He looked around for some clue or inspiration. The candles-the ones not desecrated at least-gave him an idea. He felt his jaIVcket for his old liquor canister and his lighter. Wonlay knew nothing about being a bartender, but he could make one hell of a Molotov cocktail. The contents of the old canister he kept in his breast pocket at all times were quite flammable. It was a something he cooked up himself in the makeshift lab/mini distillery he had in a backroom at home. Whenever he felt his spirits dip to low levels or needed something with ‘kick’; Wonlay sought his pocket-size metallic friend. He hurriedly pulled out the canister, his lighter and a handkerchief. He then let out a little lighter fluid onto the white piece of cloth and then poured more into the canister. He shook the canister a little to blend the alcohol with the lighter fluid. Wonlay left just enough fluid to light the handkerchief, and then stuffed it into the canister.

Wonlay waited a little for the flame to reach the opening of the metal bottle and thrust it hard across the middle of the church floor. It slid almost perfectly to where his assailant stood. The man with the barking weapon did exactly as Wonlay had predicted and dove behind a pew. Wonlay quickly moved to the front of the column of pews the assassin was behind, and pushed them with admirable might. His manoeuvre caught the man off guard and allowed him to run outside the church. But he was not fleeing, no.

Wonlay never thought they would ever be of use, but on that day, the two Match pistols he had hidden behind the tank of the unused toilet in the gents; would probably save his life. He was reminded of Michael Corleone from The Godfather as he felt for his guns behind the cistern of the toilet.

The assassin kicked the door in and fired a number of rounds into the men’s room, shattering the old tiles on the walls and plywood doors. Though the gent’s was small, the man did not immediately see Wonlay standing just beside the entrance. But he did see him using his peripherals just in time to hit Wonlay’s arm and make him miss his shot. The pistol in the hand that the attacker struck dropped to the floor and Wonlay quickly fired a shot with his other gun. He missed again but only by mere inches, and because the man had moved out of his range of fire. Wonlay counted himself lucky because the man could not properly swing his rifle around and fire owing to the close quarters. This allowed Wonlay to elbow his assailant in the face and follow it up with a knee to his diaphragm.

The man staggered back, giving Wonlay a clear shot. Just as he was about to fire, his mind began to scream and he was paralysed.

JUGBEH

The blood poured profusely from Jugbeh’s pinky and ring fingers. If the amphetamines had not kicked in by then, Jugbeh would have been in great pain. He hurriedly tore a large portion of the lower part of his t-shirt and improvised a bandage. He had locked eyes with the small Asian man, building up even more animosity toward the man that had just severed his fingers. Jugbeh was going to kill him.

Each punch hurled seemed more powerful than the last, and if he had caught his target with any of them; Jugbeh would have caved the man's face in. It had become evident that the little man had underestimated Jugbeh and his strength, and was now toying with him. Jugbeh observed that he had almost cornered the little man and counted on him to move in closer to cut him-and he did. As soon as the blade struck him, Jugbeh grabbed a hold of his Asian foe and flung him backwards, falling with him and raising up dust and the old prescription papers that lay on the floor. Jugbeh quickly got up, grabbed an old wooden chair that and broke it over his enemy's head before he could recover from the suplex, splitting the chair into pieces. Jugbeh's fighting moves had always been largely influenced by professional wrestling and he was getting excited by this 'hardcore match'. The amphetamines induced images of a ring and a packed arena chanting Jugbeh's name. He raised his arms in celebration to the imaginary crowd and then bowed his head.

His bleeding had not slowed down and so Jugbeh's improvised bandage was now drenched in crimson blood. Even with the drugs, his stubs began to send shots of excruciating pain through his arm. He decided it would be better to use his legs to stomp the life out of the little guy. He did deserve to die like the little bug that he was after all. The little man could not fight much after the heavy blows he had received and took his beating like bitter medicine.

"Cut my fingers, will you!?" shouted Jugbeh as he attempted to leave shoe prints of his boot on the little man's face and body.

Shots of blood spattered from the man's face and stained Jugbeh's boot in his efforts to payback the small man for cutting his fingers. Had it not been for the deafening sound that suddenly pierced the room, Jugbeh would have continued his drug fueled onslaught. The sound was so powerful that it dropped Jugbeh to the ground causing him to try and protect his ears even with his bloody hand. He curled up next to his Asian enemy, whose pain had now multiplied twofold.

GOMA

Goma moved with haste and caught a glimpse of the prayerful assassin just as he turned a corner and disappeared to the side of the church. He was trying to maintain his cool and still move fast enough to catch his prey. He moved like one of the speed walkers that flooded the streets and parks in the early mornings; frantically shuffling his feet and thrusting his legs forward without exactly running.

When he kicked the door to the men's room in and fired his weapon, Goma quickly realised that he should have not been so careless and should have expected a surprise from his mark. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, the man in the suit stretched his arm out just in time for Goma to disturb his shot. The report of the gunshot left a ringing in Goma’s ear, like a mischievous child had just popped a giant fire cracker beside it. Goma soon confirmed that his foe was indeed formidable when he quickly retaliated with another shot. Thank goodness he missed, Goma thought. He tried to bring his gun around so he could fire, but the weapon was too large to easily maneuver in the small space.

Goma had resolved long ago to never feel inadequate or stupid, but this tussle with a man he thought was ill prepared brought those feelings rushing up from within the depths of his belly. But they were quickly stopped by a knee to his stomach area.

Goma stumbled back and shook his head to regain his focus. What he saw almost made him wish he had not. The barrel of the gun held by his foe stared him down like a towering bully. But the pain that shot through his head was not one of a bullet wound, no, it was something else. Something that caused even his enemy pain. They both fell to the ground and howled in anguish.

Goma was now grappling with consciousness and when he managed to open his eyes in all the pain he was experiencing, Goma saw a man in a suit come into the gents and stand over them.

BADUK

Pain. Excruciating pain. Pain was all Baduk had ever known. He had received so much in his agonising existence that he had decided to embrace the pain. He made it a part of him, let it mold him, and then he spread its agonising gospel indiscriminately. Pain cleanses the soul. Without pain, how can one know joy? Baduk dispensed pain for survival, he dispensed pain for money and Baduk dispensed pain for pleasure. Pain was all Baduk had ever known.

Taming the pain though, sometimes proved to be a difficult task. The sonic frequency that had invaded the room like a screaming bat from hell had Baduk and his foe incapacitated. He was trying his best to concentrate and make out where exactly the paralysing noise was coming from. Though he probably would not be able to drink it under the circumstances, Baduk was wishing he had a can of Amp. Energy drinks had their own way of soothing his pain. The big man he was meant to kill was barking out obscenities in between his cries of pain. A can of Amp would have done him some good too.

The banshee-like noise left the room as suddenly as it had come, but there was still a steady ringing in Baduk’s ears. He mustered the little strength he had in him and got on one shaky knee. The ringing in his ear faded out and a distant clacking of shoes on the floor gradually replaced it. When he looked up, Baduk saw a figure standing by the big man that had tried to stomp the life out of him. He was wearing a fine black suit and shades. The man in black pulled out a cloth and what looked like chloroform before he covered his mouth and drowned the mumbles of the big one. Baduk did not need to be told he was next and so he crawled across the floor in an effort to reach the exit. His world soon went black.

Baduk came to for what seemed like a fraction of a second, maybe more. He had no sense of time, everything felt so surreal and dream-like. Next to him was the big man he was sent to kill. He was out cold. There were two other men with them, one in a suit and the other in plain clothes. Both out cold. There was a slit of blinding light coming from the corner of Baduk’s eye. When he looked to see what it was, he saw the chloroform man in the suit and shades closing a door. Baduk gave way to the weight of his eyelids and let the unconsciousness consume him. He could hear a distant hum of a car engine, and for a moment, it drove away the pain.

****


IV

“Ah, I see you are all awake,” said the deep voice, “I really must apologise for my crude methods of bringing you all here, but you must understand, you lot are the four most dangerous men on the planet.”

The cloaked voice coming from the intercom on the table was the very same one that had called each of the men sitting at the table and rousing to consciousness. There really was no way of determining this for sure, but it really was doubtful whether the quota for deep disguised voice phone calls goes above one in a day.

“Wha--wha--Who the hell are you?” blurted Jugbeh. His hand had been stitched and wrapped neatly in fresh bandages.

“All you need to know for now is that I represent a large and wealthy organisation that is interested in maintaining an order and balance in the world,” replied the voice.

“You the Illuminati, aren’t you?” said Jugbeh.

“Ha ha, hardly Mister Jugbeh. But I wouldn't rule that out completely heh heh.”

“How dare you kidnap me!” Goma shouted into the intercom, “I will have your head for this!!”

“Mister Goma, you would have to know where I am or what I look like for you to have my head. Idle threats are not necessary here. However, I feel it is necessary that I apologise for what I put you all through. You should receive a small peace offering from me in shortly.”

The phones of the four men at the table vibrated and/or rang at intervals. They each pulled them out from their pockets and found they had received text messages from their respective banks telling them their accounts had been credited.

“$500,000 should be sufficient for now. Oh, and Mister Jugbeh, terribly sorry about your hand. Surgery will be fully paid for and you will receive the best medical attention money can buy,” the deep voice went on, “Of course, that is just a small fraction of what you could be receiving should you choose to stay on and work with our organisation.”

“I don't need your tainted money. What do you want with us?” asked Wonlay.

“Oh please Mister Wonlay, do not be so self righteous! EVERYBODY needs money! You now have enough to pay your debts and fund your binges! All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. If it does not whet your appetite, you may leave. You are all free men after all, even you Mister Baduk.” Baduk only grunted his approval.

A large automated metal door opened in the corner.

“The door is open.”

The four men looked at each other undecidedly. Each one was waiting on another to make the first move. A pinch of greed and a dash of curiosity; they had all tasted the broth of the deep voiced man, and they yearned for more.


Illustrations by Lo. Follow him on twitter @inkerblood
You can follow me on twitter @Benny_blow

Read The Fine Print III

NOTE: I strongly suggest you read the first installment (click here) and the second installment (click here).
Also,HUGE thanks to Lo for all the art work he's done for this blog. Dude never ceases to amaze me! You can check out more of his art on his blog (click here). He did some great stuff for #inktober and the art in this post is one of his entries.
Now, without further delay,THE CONCLUSION OF READ THE FINE PRINT!...

When Bwalya emerged from the other end of the portal that Death had opened, he was relieved to see that he was not in the eerie wastelands of hell he had imagined. He had always thought hell was overrun with hideous, multi-headed, horned creatures that got their kicks from torturing poor souls and setting them on fire. He wasn't in hell, no, he was still on earth (‘but hell is ON Earth, isn't it? Or is that IN Earth?’),but something wasn't quite right. There was something off about his angle of perception. ‘This must be some kind of flipped out dimension. One of those where everything is upside down and there are spiraling and intertwining staircases everywhere.’ Bwalya looked around to observe this strange new part of the Earth, half expecting to see a labyrinth from a late 80s Tim Burton style movie. ‘Maybe BeetleJuice and Edward Scissorhands ARE real and they work with The Grim Reaper,’ he thought. But His eyes wandered further and saw some tall trees at a distance and he realised he was somewhere outdoors. What struck him as odd was that the trees’ leaves were at his shoulder level. That either meant he had mystically grown taller after stepping through that portal or he was- --

“Double-U Tee Eff!!” Bwalya shouted as he swooned on the ball off his heel and fell backwards. The vertigo had made him lose his balance and fall into Death’s cold and bony arms. He found himself looking into a skull embedded deep inside the blackness of a hooded cloak. That constant Grin on Death’s skinless face dashed any feelings of comfort or safety Bwalya may have had and had him on his feet again. The traffic below them zoomed past at high speed and had Bwalya’s stomach performing gymnastics. The two of them were above the Great East Road and hovering above a foot-bridge. A massive crowd had gathered around the foot-bridge and people had come from far and wide to observe some spectacle. Bwalya realised though, that these people were oblivious to their presence; that he and Death were not the spectacle.

“Your first task lies below us,” said Death. “Here you will begin to exercise the duties of The Fourth Horseman and continue to do so until I return.”

“You ARE staying to show me how it’s done, aren't you?”

“No!” replied Death as he pulled out an hour glass from his black cloak. “I am late enough for my sabbatical as it is. This is a fairly easy and oftentimes mundane task. All that you need do is wait for your quarry’s soul to sever its bodily tie, and then tuck it away into your eternal robes.”

“Eternal robes?” asked Bwalya.

Death tipped his bony scythe in Bwalya’s direction and its magical energies draped him in an overflowing deathly cloak similar to The Reaper’s own. Bwalya looked at this new mystic fabric in utter fascination. He then stretched his arm down to his waist, grabbed some of it and brought it around to cover his mouth with the inside of his elbow, his eyes peering above his forearm. He looked like a vampire shielding himself from the burning sun.

“I am DEATH!” he exclaimed, “Fear me!”.

“I must go now,” said The Grim Reaper, “You must tend to my duties immediately. Here, use the scythe to bend the fabric of space and time so that you may get to your quarries in an instant.

“Rest and relaxation here I come!”

And with that, Death cut open a portal using only his skin deficient finger and faded through it. Bwalya paused for a moment in an effort to wrap his mind around the surreal events of the last half hour or so. He thought about whether he could just cut himself open a portal and escape to somewhere Death would never reach him. But he quickly dismissed these thoughts of fleeing, realising that if Death could open portals using just his finger, he could do a lot more with his fist.

“Well, here goes!”

Bwalya descended toward the foot-bridge drawn by an inexplicable force, he knew that was where the soon to be departed soul was to be found. The crowd that had gathered around the foot-bridge had been pulled by a young man threatening to jump and kill himself. Bwalya reached and then hovered in front of the man. This suicidal person had his arms stretched out behind him holding on to a rail as his upper body leaned outward looking down at the speeding traffic. Bwalya cleared his throat.

“BEHOLD MORTAL! I am Death! I cometh to collect your soul... eth!”

“Jeez!” The young man exclaimed as he almost lost his grip. He steadied himself and looked at Bwalya in amazement. Bwalya had spread his arms out, spreading his magical cloak with them, as if to allow this fragile man to bask in his glory before he left the land of the living.

“Are you the Grim Reaper?” he asked.

Bwalya nodded slowly for effect. “And you are, Michael Munana! I know this because I know many things!”

“Yes O’ mighty Death! Knower of many things! Take me away! Save me from this misery!” exclaimed Michael.

“Errm,...well, I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you must actually, you know, errm...die first.”

“Then I will leap! Leap into the afterlife and shed this mortal coil as Death himself embraces me!”

“No man, there will be no embracing here! Besides, I don’t think that fall will kill you. It’s not high enough” said Bwalya.

“Then you suggest I must climb higher?! Yes! That’s it! Climb higher towards the heavens, so that I may be closer to Paradise!”

“....Don’t you go to hell if you commit suicide though?”

Michael’s heavy thoughts manifested themselves in the knotting of his eyebrows. Bwalya observed his dismay and felt some sympathy crawling up from his belly.

“Why are you doing this though? Why jump off this bridge?”

“Because,” said Michael, “To live, is to suffer. And to survive, that is to find meaning in the suffering. I have found no meaning, I cannot survive... therefore I only suffer.”

“C’mon man, it can’t be that bad,” said Bwalya, “A wise man once told me, ‘A poor man grieved bitterly that he had no shoes; until he met a man who had no feet.’ No matter how bad you think you have it, someone probably has it worse.”

“No one’s existence is more miserable than mine.”

“Well mine will be. I’ve been duped into being Death’s replacement for the next one hundred years, how’s that for suffering?”

“Wow,” said Michael, “Is that penance for sins from your past life?”

“No. Long story. But my advice to you is to always read the fine print.”

“There will be no reading where I am going,” murmured Michael.

More of that sympathy crawled up from within Bwalya. Though he himself had been damned to almost an eternity of tedious soul collecting; he couldn’t help but feel for this poor misguided guy that had lost all zeal for life.

“C’mon man, you don’t need to do this. And like I said, you won’t die, worst case scenario you’ll hurt yourself really bad. Maybe if you land on your hea--...Look, you don’t need to do this.”

“YES I DO!” burst Michael. His shouting sent a murmur through the impromptu audience. Someone remarked that Michael was mad and was speaking to himself. “I need to do this because maybe then people will pay attention! Maybe then they will miss me!”

Bwalya looked at the crowd and noticed they were getting anxious; they wanted to see something happen. This gave Bwalya an idea.

“What, are you kidding? People do pay attention to you!”

“How do you know this?”

“I am Death, knower of many things, remember? Just look around you. All these people are here just for you! And even though most of them may be strangers, they still made the effort to leave whatever they were doing and came to see you. Technically, they do care.”

Michael knotted his eyebrows again. He looked around, possibly for the first time, at the people that had gathered there. Children had climbed and latched onto electric poles to get a better view of him. Vendors had halted sales of their various goods to observe what would become of his wretched soul. All this, was for him. He was finally given the attention he yearned so much. He was finally noticed....Finally.

 “Thank you,” he whispered to Bwalya. Bwalya smiled and felt that sympathy he had turn into a sense of achievement. Michael then leaned back and began to climb back over the railing of the foot-bridge. The smile painted on his face was quickly erased by a reality shattering slap that came from one of the members of his audience. The crowd descended upon him in typical angry mob fashion. Bwalya winced as they dispensed more reality shattering slaps and blows on Michael.

Even though they had beaten him unconscious and almost half to death; their crude message had literally hit home and Michael had new found appreciation for life.

Bwalya’s sense of achievement had almost faded, but he still felt good about himself. He smiled to himself as he brought up the scythe and swung it down to open a portal to his next job. His smile would have turned into roaring laughter had he not felt that Death was angry when he met him on the other end of his portal. Though Death’s face had no expression, his wrath permeated his every bony orifice and Bwalya had to hold his laughter. Death’s skeletal toes were safely secured in the thongs of colourful flip-flops. He wore khaki shorts that exposed his ashy white knee-caps and were covered at the buckle by a Hawaiian shirt decorated with palm trees. Its buttons were undone up to his sternum and a big floppy sun-hat covered his bold skull. He looked like someone had pulled a prank on the human skeleton in a highschool biology lab. Bwalya was dying inside.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?” bellowed The Grim Reaper.

“Uum, well... he wasn’t going to die from the fall anyway so I--“

“YOU FOOL!! He wasn’t your quarry, the crowd was! After he hit the tar, a number of cars would have swerved at high speed to avoid him and and crashed into the foot-bridge and exploded or caused damage to it! The collateral damage would have been extensive! You just cost me countless souls!”

“I’m sorry! I had no idea... I’ll make up for it! I promise.”

“No! You know nothing of the balance that must be maintained!” replied Death, “Your contract is hereby terminated! I relieve you of the duties of The Fourth Horseman.”

Bwalya was shocked, “Just like that? I can go back?”

“Yes. You may return to your mortal life. But mark my words; we have not seen the last of each other.”

Bwalya suddenly found himself in his bedroom sitting in the chair of his computer desk. He looked round to see if this too was another warped dimension. He touched the air where The Grim Reaper had opened a portal and squint his eyes to see if there was any trace of it. When he was sure he was home, he yanked his computer from its desk and took it outside where he smashed it to bits.

  *****                 

Langi and his friend sat on the low table in front of the T.V playing a violent video game. Bwalya sat on the couch a few feet away from them leafing through a magazine. He didn't like Langi’s friend very much, he was a sore loser and kept complaining when he or Langi beat him at the game.

“Let’s try a different game,” said Langi’s friend, “This one is sooo boring!”

Bwalya looked over the edge of his magazine and paid little mind when they removed the disk from Langi’s Playstation and inserted a new one. ‘Nothing will please this guy, he’s just a weak gamer.’ He continued to read an article on Chicken Shawarmas and their part in a global domination scheme some crazy guy had written.

“Aw man! Software upgrade agreements! Don’t read that!” complained Langi’s friend, “Just click on ‘I ACCEPT’!”

The television screen went blank and the Playstation console began to tremble and rattle as it started to scream open a portal.

Bwalya calmly got up, rolled his magazine and put it in his back pocket; and then casually walked home, whistling as he did so.

THE END

“BEHOLD MORTAL! I am Death! I cometh to collect your soul... eth!”-Artwork by Lo

Follow me on twitter @Benny_blow

Follow Lo on twitter @inkerblood

The Curious Case of The Chicken Shawarma

The man wields a large blade, slicing off pounds of flesh that sizzle as they fall to the metallic surface below. He uses the same machete-like blade to dice the chunks of meat into smaller pieces. I look on in slight awe wondering whether this man in the white butcher’s hat used to cut up michopo before this gig. Those guys are almost as precise as surgeons when they cut up their goat meat.  I’m looking at the shreds of chicken and I’m secretly hoping he doesn’t use the burnt, crusty parts to make my Chicken Shawarma.

My mouth becomes a floodgate of saliva when the man hands me my food. I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into it and have its mysterious ingredients perform their wondrous rain dance on my taste buds. I’m at ‘Buy Rite Fast Foods’ (or something like that!) and as I devour this marvel of fast food I can’t help but wonder how many Shawarma grills or spits have mushroomed in our fair Lusaka City. The other day I saw one set up right outside our neighbour’s container (from which they sell a number of necessities and small groceries). It’s a little dusty where I live, but I can totally understand our neighbours’ gamble on a ‘Shawarma Making Machine’ in a neighbourhood like ours, for you see; they are everywhere! Chicken Shawarma stands are viciously fighting for corner spots the same way airtime voucher suppliers shoulder shrugged one another for these strategically located spaces a few years ago. From Chilenje to Avondale; from Northmead to Woodlands; Shawarma spits have emerged rapidly at fast food joints big and small; standing proud like sentinels guarding something! But guarding what? I’m convinced that these scrumptious wraps and sandwiches are part of a global domination scheme! I mean, even Iron man decided to celebrate his team’s victory in Marvel’s The Avengers movie by going out to eat Shawarmas! They are that damn good! But just where did these tasty treats spawn from?

“Shawarma (Arabic: شاورما‎) is a Levantine Arab[1][2] meat preparation, where lamb, goat, chicken, turkey, beef, veal, or mixed meats are placed on a spit (commonly a vertical spit in restaurants), and may be grilled for as long as a day. Shavings are cut off the block of meat for serving, and the remainder of the block of meat is kept heated on the rotating spit. Although it can be served in shavings on a plate (generally with accompaniments),shawarma also refers to a pita bread sandwich or wrap made with shawarma meat.”- Wikipedia 

The Shawarma has Arabic roots (I wouldn’t be too surprised if they actually grew from a mystic tree!) and its preparation can vary slightly. It comes in the guise of fast food, cloaking itself as a sandwich wrap with pita bread or rolled up in an Armenian Lavash flatbread mingling with vegetables and different dressing. A variety of vegetables come with the Shawarma including cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, eggplant, pickled gherkins, and cabbage. This “Trojan Horse” usually contains chips or fries and together these ingredients create a marvellous symphony of taste that can be almost orgasmic!

Now you are probably thinking, “This guy is crazy! Global domination schemes and Trojan Horses!? Who would want to take over the world with Chicken Shawarmas?!”, But I ask you this-Who wouldn’t?! Who wouldn’t want to infiltrate a consumerist society such as our own using food? After all, it is said, the way to a man’s stomach is through his...errm....wait, that’s not right!...The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! Yes! Whoever is pulling the strings behind this very elaborate operation has a plan to keep us hooked on this chicken flavoured goodness and then when we cannot do without them, they will snatch them from right under our noses and hold them for ransom! It may sound delusional, but that is what they thought about Nelson Mandela right before he discovered independence in Africa! The Taco, cousin to the Shawarma, has also been on a similar path of conquest in the Americas.

I believe that whoever is behind this is trying to fatten the masses, get them nice and plump. Then when the scores of people reach scale tipping levels of obesity, and they are heavy enough; they will begin to charge them a form of Gravity tax. This tax would be directly proportionate to the gravitational pull exerted on individuals and probably calculated using complex formulae that will be so ridiculous they will be believable! And it’s not that farfetched, it could be based on the same concepts and principles as charging corporate companies for their CO2 emissions. Scientists claim that there is a hole in the ozone and that companies should reduce their carbon footprint! Bah! Humbug! There is no hole in the sky ya Chicken Littles! The sky is not falling! That’s just insane!

So the next time you wolf down a chicken Shawarma, think long and hard about it. Because as I wolf down mine at ‘Buy Rite’, I can’t help but think about this diabolical plot! I can’t help but feel a burning sensation in my gut, a fire maybe....an urge to rise up and inform my unsuspecting countrymen! To shout at the top of my voice and warn the poor people at this restaurant of the sweet poison of the Shawarma! But instead, I fork out a ten pin from my wallet and order another one. I guess that sensation in my tummy was just hunger...