Beware the Bacon Fiend

Beware the Bacon Fiend

Jul 24, 2022

“Is there anything better to nosh on than a bacon sandwich?” Mused Ben.

He was sat in a greasy spoon situated in one of the off shoot shopping areas outside Birmingham. It was little more than a mile long road, crowded with shops, café’s and hairdressers.

Opposite him was Steve, an old friend from way back in senior school. Though they had been good friends in childhood, after leaving education, they simply took their own paths in life. Ben travelled to London to chase a career in business acumen, while Steve stayed at home and followed his fathers footsteps in the roofing industry.

“I prefer a good sausage sarnie me.” Said Steve, who’s Brummie accent was still thick and wearisome.

Ben immediately stopped chewing and stared at Steve, who was obliviously taking the first tentative bites of his own sandwich. Red sauce oozed out the sides as he did so and dribbled a little down his chin.

“Really? A sausage pales in comparison.”

Steve wrinkled his nose at Ben.

“Your clartin about if you think bacon is as bostin as sausage in a piece.” Specks of bread ejected themselves from Steve’s mouth.

Ben just looked aghast. Taking a moment to try and understand what Steve was trying to communicate across the narrow table, that was draped with a plastic, red and white cover, he decided to play it safe.

“How so?”

“A sausage is far tastier than a streak of salty fat.” The way Steve drew out the vowels started to grate against Ben.

“Maybe, but you don’t get the same woody smoked accent from sausages.”

Steve finally wiped the ketchup from his chin.

“Yeah, but you get herbed sausages. You’ll have it dark before I’ll eat fatty bacon over herbed sausages.” Steve smiled over at Ben. “By the time you cut all the fat off, that is, they’ll be no bacon left.”

“What!?” Ben didn’t mean to raise his voice, but the shock took him. “You don’t cut the fat off.” He resided to hoarse whisper.

“Alright.” Steve looked hurt at the sudden harsh tone. “No need to get a cob on.”

One of the young girls who worked the till came over to the table.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

“No!” Demanded Ben. “This heathen hates bacon.” The girl looked between the two gentlemen awkwardly.

“We’re just clartin about.” Steve said, reaching over and fingering out one of the dark red slices from Ben’s sandwich. “Look here, you could kill someone with this.” And as if to demonstrate, started hitting the bacon on the edge of the table. It gave a muted knock.

Ben snatched the slice out of Steve’s hand. “Oh really?” He said and drew the slice across Steve’s throat.

At first the blood oozed, then gushed and eventually squirted in great gouts at the waitress’ face. The waitress screamed before collapsing to the floor and Steve face planted the table, pale and dead.

“Oh, well maybe you’re right there.” Ben said.

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