This week’s words: Cantillate (to chant; intone) Haul Bazaar Purloin (to steal) Foreboding Junk Dwindle Rendezvous Incinerate Fistula (Pathology. a narrow passage or duct formed by disease or injury, as one leading from an abscess to a free surface, or from one cavity to another. Surgery. an opening made into a hollow organ, as the bladder or eyeball, for drainage.) Gorge Diameter
Barry Fistula lived up to his name in so many ways. He was a right pain in the arse there was no doubt about that.
He owned among many things Bazza’s “Hitch it we Haul it” company and was the owner of the Sunday Bazaar market day. For Bazza life was about making money any way he could and no job was too small, no job too big and he was always out to make a dollar.
The Sunday Bazaar was very popular. Bazza had seen the potential years before when he realised he didn’t need to purloin his services illegally when he could rip off as many people as he could by charging the maximum rental of each Sunday stall holder.
It didn’t matter to him what sort of junk was sold at the Bazaar so long as his rents were paid.
The one thing that got up Bazza’s nose was the Town Council. He had a real sense of foreboding when he realised that they were circling trying to find ways of sharing in Bazza’s newfound wealth.
The Council began to cantillate the prospect of parking fees and garbage fees. They had recently installed an incinerator within the area used by the stallholders and were already charging a fee to dispose of rubbish in the incinerator.
Bazza wasn’t one for cantillation, his brief stay in the Monastery where the holy fathers cantillated day and night had served any desire he might have had for the monastic life.
Now he was faced with a dwindling revenue base he decided to reduce the space the Bazaar used by shrinking the diameter and so crowded the stallholders together in less space but at the same rents as before.
Things were coming to a head and so Bazza set up a meeting with the Town mayor at his new restaurant, The Gorge and Gut Buster. The restaurant’s name had been Bazza’s idea as an attack on all the healthy eating-places starting up around the town.
Bazza planned that the rendezvous with the Mayor would be a stepping-stone to him establishing his business model onto a larger scale, in the vein of “making an offer the Mayor couldn’t refuse.”
However it came undone when during the third course, of braised spatchcock and parsnips, Bazza suffered a massive heart attack and all plans flew out the window and handed safely on the mayor’s desk.
Rubbing his hands with glee the Mayor, cantillating Amazing Grace, picked up the latest travel brochures and began planning his next rendezvous in paradise.