The Pizza Beast
A couple of doors down from me lives a pizza beast.
The pizza beast lives exactly where you might expect a pizza beast to live – in a pizza shop.
The pizza beast and I have a wary kind of relationship. We’re like the daddy lions of neighbouring prides; rival wizards whose sorcerous towers overlook the same enchanted forest, or the last two bruised apples in the supermarket, desperately not wanting to be the last bruised apple in the supermarket.
Yep. We keep a wary eye on each other.
I feel the pizza beast watching me as I pass by on my way to work, into town, or – more commonly – when I come back home.
Whenever I have to pass the pizza shop, the beast reaches out for me. It uncoils from its lair, extends its long, cheesy-scented, pepperoni-suckered tentacles, and tries to ensnare me – while I do my best not to be caught.
It’s become a perverse kind of game between us. The pizza beast tries to get me, to drag me into its lair, to mug me for a portion of my hard-earned wages, and impregnate me with pizza – while I try to escape its clutches, make it home safely and eat a piece of toast instead.
Unfortunately, I don’t always escape the pizza beast. Sometimes I find myself on the sofa, with a baby pizza beast on my lap, extending its nebulous scented tentacles through my flat, and wondering how I got there, and why my belly is larger than I want it.
Since I moved to the area, the pizza beast has got me a few times. Mostly on the weekend, when my guard is down. I’m starting to worry that a baby pizza-beast is growing inside me – that would be pretty bad, as I don’t want my flat to turn into a pizza shop, and I hate dealing with customers.
But I came up with a plan this morning – a sure-fire way to ensure the pizza beast doesn’t win:
I went into town, a few minutes ago. I walked the long way round, so I didn’t have to pass the pizza beast’s lair, and I bought a jar of black olives.
Now, I hate black olives. They spoil whatever they come into contact with. A salad with black olives in it is just a big pile of pointlessness, with extra nasty on top. A jar of black olives is just an empty jar going to waste.
And I’d rather not have a pizza at all, than have a pizza polluted with those little black balls of salty cack.
On my way back home, I took the short route – the route past the lair of the pizza beast. When I got close enough to be in danger, I opened the jar, extracted two olives, and shoved them up my nose.
That’s right. I shoved them up my nose.
I walked past the pizza shop with a big grin. I even stuck my head inside and waved heartily at its human minions scurrying around within.
‘Dry and deduce me dow, peedza beasd!’ I yelled. ‘Ha!’
I wasn’t even tempted to have pizza.
Now I’m back home, and, even though the olives are stuck, I feel like I’ve won.