A tale for Easter… and again hearty wishes to you all.
The Judge took another puff on the cigarette he had lit after ‘asking permission’ from the individual in custody. Then he resumed interrogating the Sausage: “What were you doing in Mabley Street in the company of a Frankfurter, yesterday evening?” His question fell on dead silence.
The Sausage was covered with cold fat sweat. It wiped its wet forehead quickly and muttered in a trembling voice: “All I did was accept an invitation—”
“What kind of invitation?” pressed the Judge with his stern swine frown.
“An invitation … well, just an invitation—”. The Sausage felt a distressing surge of anxiety.
“I repeat the question once again. Answer this: What kind of invitation?”
The Sausage dropped its head, as if resigning itself to its inescapable end. “It was an invitation to the table.”
The Judge straightened up in his armchair. He grunted imperceptibly. “So, an invitation to the table.”
“Yes—” admitted the Sausage, while the first teardrop rolled down its rind. Read more