It was a hideous sight; a mass strawberry grave. You could cut the tension with a knife. Cabbage felt terrible; blood on his hands. Well, strawberry juice to be precise. He could hear mumbles in the background. Either that, or his partying days had made him somewhat paranoid. Either way, he didn’t like it. Of course, the result was a succession of farts. Vile, wet, thick, farts. So powerful, he moved ever so slightly; his farts were so forceful and continuous that they propelled the smelly little water ball. The voices stopped. Never before had a fruit or vegetable moved by itself. Ok, it’s not like he’d exactly raced Usain Bolt, turning cockily as he passed him with his knees up and tongue out, but he’d moved.
“Do that again, Cabbage!” exclaimed Leak.
“I can’t just, just, just, you know, just, fart on demand, mate,” said cabbage, who sat shaking and sweating at what had just occurred. There was an old folk tale of a cabbage who once trekked to the Antarctic. This was of course one of those stories that just sounded mental; a bit like a wooden puppet that turns into a real boy. Again, bringing things into a more sensible context, Cabbage had literally rolled about 2 mm; the equivalent to a bit of dirt that gets under your nail when you hold the railing in the Underground. But he’d moved. A phenomenon that the entirety of the fridge absolutely never expected to witness. Other than the shouts from Leak, still they were silent. Normally a wise, experienced, old head, the British Potato had nothing. Instead, he just stared at Cabbage, so intensely. They all did. And Cabbage could feel it. If cabbages could throw up, at this point, he’d have drowns everyone. We know the outcome though – and he could feel it coming. Matching the intensity of the stares, Cabbage let out the loudest, most powerful fart, shooting him across the shelf and into the fridge door. The baby tomatoes began to cry. Never had they been so scared in their 3-day existence. What a baptism of fire. Cabbage felt beat; he was dehydrating at an alarming rate. He’d lost most of his body mass with his encounter with the door. There were cabbage leaves everywhere. Slowly coming round, but still feeling lethargic, he was absolutely powerless to stop any more farts. The crying tomatoes, loss of leaves and general mess he’d made, resulted in him letting rip and flying across the fridge again, into a can of half eaten Baked Beans. The fridge now resembled something out of a horror film or Montessori classroom.
Trying to compose and restore some level of normality, British Potato whispered “Cabbage, Cabby, Cabbage McCabbageface….. you, you ok, me old mucka?”. Nothing.
The baby toms started whaling. “Will you shut those blo…”
Potato forgot himself for a moment.
Chaos ensued.
Cabbage was dead.
The baby toms were juicing everywhere. The strawberries were now furry. The bananas resembled the Arsenal kit from 1991. And worst of all, the milk began to sour. And if the milk turns out to be sour, Charlie’s not the kind of pork pie to drink it.
The British Potato, the eggs and the Gac were the only survivors. Now, if I were to suggest 3 foodstuffs for a band…. oh nevermind. Luckily the eggs had been hard boiled the night before, so were made of stronger stuff. And already smelt like bum, so Cabbage’s farts were pretty much a non-starter for them.
Anyway.
Gac had missed much of what had happened. They have this arrogance about them. They believe they’re a superior food – the way they look, taste, texture. How resilient they are. They’re generally not flavour of the, well, ever, amongst other foodstuffs, but in this instance, British Potato needed some support.
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