Mr Potato Head

So, that was Black Friday: the first day of winter intimations, cool rain and mud. For the first time in months he breathed from his pelvis, his kidneys were in good cheer, and his bowels mirthful with the prospect of heavy stews and baked potatoes.
‘Spudfinger…ba-baa-ba; he’s the man, the man with the tuba touch’ Henry intoned as he licked a giant rocket, relishing the familiar dirt of the back garden and recalling the impact of groundworm on history down the ages.
He remembered Maude gleefully relating a video of a Peruvian neurosurgeon removing a huge tapeworm from a woman’s head.
‘It’s more common than people imagine.’ She declared with the wild clarity of a nutty boffin.
‘Stands to reason, I suppose.’ Henry had remarked curtly heading for the sanctuary of the shed. Since Flo and Edward G had run off to Key West with Fred McMurray he was spending most of his time there. His new project the Dronespud was coming along nicely. Initial trials bombing the terminally bewildered Nobby were promising. Henry reckoned that an attack on China were realisable and that his dream of ridding the world of rice was possible. This was a dream that he had cherished since his youth locked in the family coalhole polishing the anthracite.


The Suppository of All Knowledge

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