Eloquently Twisted

A number of years ago on a cold Winter’s night a man went to a pub.
He had consumed some alcohol, the alcohol had had a magical effect on him.
He was drunk and had all of the magical ability of a drunk man, unrealistic confidence and the power of frequent urination.
Afterwards he entered nearby chip shop and purchased a bag of chips.
Hot, proper chips, crispy, thick, potatoy and greasy.
The chips were ordained with some salt, and christened with vinegar.
The drunk started to stagger on the epic quest home, in the cold winter rain, the chips nursed against him.
Trying to sidestep a rubbish bin and a cat he stumbled, the chips released from his grip.
The hot potato chips escaped their paper bag enclosure and flew through the air.
Dying on the sodden pavement, uneaten.

To this day the vengeful ghost of those chips haunts that street, unable to move on from this place.
The smell of hot vinegar chips wafts there after the pubs have closed.
Their aroma a siren call to those who are magnificently intoxicated.
But as cruel fate would have it, there is no longer any chip shop in that area.
There isn’t a chip shop for miles.
Crazed by the smell the inebriated are consumed by a maddening desire for chips.

The ghost chips have been responsible for four chip pan based house fires in the past year.

Their smell lingers on….
Beware.
Beware.