Zombie Park by Simon Marlowe

Author:Simon Marlowe [Marlowe, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Troubador
Published: 2017-05-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

The Last Supper

Jas decided to organise a special dinner in celebration of Sophie’s cure and cook one of his famous dry Indian curries. It was to be served in the communal rooms downstairs in the nurses’ hostel. Jas had highlighted which room they were going to use by sticking a sign on the door, which said:

FUCK OFF!

DINNER AT 7.30

DO NOT ENTER

YOU ARE NOT INVITED

Surely, no one could complain about that?

Preparations were underway with guitar-based music flexing from Jas’ room, all the way down the corridor and into the commandeered kitchen. It was also going to be one heavy, smoking, doping session, and he had roped Sophie in to prepare a substantial space cake in her honour.

Sophie, conscious of the connoisseurs’ watchful supervision, crumbled hashish into a pre-prepared cake mix.

‘How much more should I put in?’ she asked.

‘Who knows? Put it all in,’ said Jas nonchalantly.

‘What?!’ said Sophie, initially surprised. ‘You want to use a whole ounce?’

Jas paused.

‘How much have you put in, then?’ he asked, with the intention of calculating how much should be smoked and eaten.

‘This much,’ said Sophie, holding up the brown lump of hash, her fingers and thumb covered in oily crumbs.

‘Okay, cool,’ said Jas.

He then grabbed a kitchen knife, scored a line through the lump of amber nectar, roughly equivalent to a further quarter, and instructed Sophie to put that portion in… and no more. Jas now refocused, running between his room and the kitchen, smoking a joint, resuming work on his culinary masterpiece and verbally abusing anyone who happened to ask, ‘What’s going on?’ In between these gaps, “the guests” (as Jas fondly decided to call Terry, Roland, Dr Jonas and Maria), made periodic stoned visits in order to query how long it would take and whether Sophie had appropriately prepared the cake.

‘How much have you put in?’ asked Terry, dipping his finger into the semi-liquid mixture and having his hand slapped.

‘Eh… about half an ounce,’ Sophie estimated, sniffing her saturated, oily fingers.

‘I’d put in more,’ said Terry, asserting his Pothead Pixie membership status.

‘How do you know how much to put in?’ asked Sophie. ‘It’s not as if there’s a recipe…’

‘Experience.’

‘Okay, how about this much then?’ she said, showing him half of the remaining hashish.

‘That’ll do it,’ said Terry, turning his back, anxious to return to his room to smoke another joint.

Sophie burnt and crumbled more hash into the cake mix.

Jas returned from his room, his eyes glazed and (according to his own estimate) his mind focused.

‘This is for you,’ he said, dancing like a bizarre headless chicken to the syncopated rhythm pumping from his room. ‘It’s called Lick-my-Dick.’

Sophie ignored him and Jas decided to concentrate.

‘Basmati rice is the best, you know,’ he said, pouring the grains into a large saucepan.

‘How long is dinner going to take?’ asked Sophie.

Jas paused, as he tried to calculate.

‘What’s the time now?’

‘The big hand is pointing to the twelve and the little hand is pointing to the four,’ said Sophie, directing his gaze to the kitchen clock above their heads.

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