A Journey to the Heart of the Millenium Dream

Chapter 8 - Desperatly Seeking Sushi at the Daft Mall

I became aware that the lights were now off while I was still, technically, at home. In fact it seemed likely that some theoretical interloper in my physiology had been tweaking the dimmer switch for some time now.

Our energies were dangerously low. The chemical cocktail we had been subjecting ourselves to had been sucking the nutrients out of our system. We need something healthy to give energy and stave off death, until tea time at least, or else become dried up husks huddled in a nook of the Dome, assumed to be some exhibit. commemorated in a million out of focus school girl photographs. Finally sold to a Korean art dealer with particularly poor judgement.

I martial all my powers. I form a decisive argument in favour of seeking food.

"Soo! ..... She!"

"Y'what?" asks the Pompey Lad, not unreasonably.

"Sashe!"

"?"

What's his problem? I'm making perfect sense.

"Sea! Weed! Rice! Raw! Fish!"

"Ah! There's as Yo-Sushi bar in The Dome."

"I don't care what they say about consultants, you're a good man."

We find the Yo-Sushi. It is closed. There is a bit of a scene. Bad Shit goes down. Mistakes are made and things are said.

We retreat, for now, to the relative saftey of the underground. Using a couple of biros I attempt to douse for Sushi. A trick taught to me by an elderly relative from the Gypsy side of my family. My consultant somehow mangages to use his cellphone and call the Talking Pages.

One way or another we arrive in what we didn't know at the time is the Insane Mall at the Mouth of Hell. It seems safe enough. We have the address. We find a map - we need a building about 100 yards from our current position.

It turns out that the buildings on the map are just bigger parts of a spawling consumerpolis of bland identical shops. It seems unlikly that even the dirtiest of non self-respecting sushi palours would want to keep clear of this squallid hive of scum and...

"There it is!"

To my surprise this appears to be a good 'un. Midweek, early afternoon, and no-one in it but a handful of suits and some orientals. This bodes well. The food is above average but pricey. The staff are helpful, cute, and have the endearing trait of refusing tips. The sake is much like women I've known; hot, strong and clearly bad for me. I order another jug. My consultant refuses to eat or even go near cooked fish, something to do with the smell. He starts up on an old theme;

"Fish which smells is bad for you. It's one of the BREOs, the Basic Rules of Eating Out.", I nod.

"Also the bigger the city, the better the forign resturants, but the worse the cafes and greasy spoons. We're in London, which is the biggest city in the known world, spiritually speaking, so the forign food is excellent. You couldn't get sushi this good in Tokyo of course, then it would be local food and Tokyo is fucking huge."

"What about the other way round?" I ask. I know what he'll say, but the Sake is taking hold and I want to stay on safe, familiar territory.

"It works backwards, duh." He hits me in the head, which seems a little much.

"I kill people like you," I warn him, "backwards you say?"

"Yeah - in a small town the forign food always sucks - a chinese take away in Ramsbottom, Isle of Wight has no competition and can afford to suck. Rip you off too." We're getting into an ethnic slur vibe, I've watched enough Hong Kong movies to know what happens if you piss off a cook who hails from East of Greenwich and this is no cheap Woo movie, this is real life and his knives swish through yards of fish like they aren't there.

"Shit, I need coffee!" did he say that or me? I was thinking it. Maybe caffine supresses my ESP? I've always suspected it was supressing something.

We find a coffee shop, only later realising that we probably didn't pay for lunch. This is bad, it was a nice place. I consider going back explaining the situation, paying them off and taking the beating, so as to be able to go back. On reflection I think I'm happier without the beating or paying.

"Coffee good"

"This ain't coffee. This is some kinda watery gravy. Still, at least it's not -------." ** Name of company deleted at instistance of Websites Lawyer. **

We've long had a grudge against -------. We won't touch any of their shit. They kill babies in the Africa. To get their instant coffee right they kept testing it in the third world on children, the old, pregnant women. Eventually they found a variation on their instant coffee/acorn blend which didn't even make the kids go blind so they started selling it in our fair Isle. Still tastes like the shit of a dog who ate acorns. I can't help but notice that 90% of spontaneous combustian cases drink their brand "coffee", but can't prove anything.

We grab a table and start on the coffee. My consultant begins preperations to roll the biggest joint I've seen in some time.

"We can't smoke that here, what the hell are you doing."

"It's cool. This is Amsterdam, remember? It's legal in coffee shops here."

"Hey cool."

Soon there is more unpleasantness. I end up testing my home made tazer on a shopping centre secuity guard. We are asked to leave."

"This is the worst shopping center I've ever been ejected from!" I inform his co-guard.

Allegedly caffinated we return to the job in hand.

©2001 totl.net. This article should be blamed on Chris but he did have help from Steve and suggestions from everybody. Notice for stupid people: not everything in this article is one hundred percent true. Bits of it might be.