The Biatal feasa, the source and repository of all human knowledge in one place. Why the Zumboglians thought a root tuber would be a good place to have it was beyond Glump Fabbernangle. But Glump knew that the ingestion of the tuber would instantly cause all the wisdom humanity has ever gathered to mulch into feces. He also knew that would not be a great thing to allow to happen.
Glump parked his car sideways across the R381 access laneway to Tobar Bríd carpark. Parked is probably a generous description. He abandoned his car on the road.
Three people commented. -their comments, in alphabetical order were: ‘Hey!’, ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘You just can't leave that there!’
Glump ignored them. The future of humanity was on the line. Or at least the future of humanity to recognize itself as humanity was at stake.
Glump entered the carpark and ran full pelt into a table of carefully arranged bread. Sending the bread flying. And his body tumbling into a vegetable display.
'Have ye any beetroot?' he shouted.
'Erm, uh, no, we just sold the last of it?' said the surprised grocer.
'Dammit, I'm too late', he wailed.
'Calm down, we've got some lovely organic turnips. Life's not all about beetroot you know', advised the grocer.
'Oh but it is', cried Glump, 'and I think my failure to get hold of some has brought about armageddon.'
'I'm not sure I know what ya mean', noted the grocer.
'One of those roots was An Biatal Feasa. The beetroot of knowledge. If someone eats it then we are all going to die. In a spiritual sense', moaned Glump.
'Right, well, if it's that important to you there's a woman in a blue Ford Fiesta parked outside. She took all of our beetroot. Said she was planning to make juice, if you hurry you should catch her -some flute has blocked the entrance with his car.' said the grocer (who was starting to think his life might be better without his new acquaintance in it).
Glump ran back past the upturned table and briefly wrestled with an angry baker, before stumbling his way to a queue of cars. Third in line was a blue Ford Fiesta. He knocked on the window, and the driver rolled it down.
'Sorry, I can't move, some halfwit has blocked the entrance', replied the woman inside.
'It's a disgrace abandoning a car like that', she added.
‘It’s not’, blurted Glump.
‘Yes, it is’, corrected the woman.
‘Well maybe the driver was more concerned with saving the human race than potentially causing a minor inconvenience’ suggested Glump, ‘can I buy your bag of beetroot?’
‘Absolutely not’, she said. Her voice had a tone or finality about it. Glump peered across to the passenger seat and spotted a paper bar with the stalk of root tubers poking from it. The woman must've disliked something in the way he was staring, because she rolled up the window.
Glump knocked the window a second time. He knew that humanity was safe as long as the woman and the beetroot remained where they were, and as long as his car remained where it was. Which would not be very long.
He knocked on the window a third time.
‘Sorry if i was rude. That’s my car blocking the exit. My mother in law is a veteran of a beetroot gathering communist labour crew. She woke this morning and found herself suddenly afflicted with a debilitating bout of nostalgia. I promised her I’d find something from her past to break the spell. Please help. Beetroot is her only hope.’
‘No’, yelled the woman from inside her Ford Fiesta shield.
‘Ah come on’, pleaded Glump. He was getting frantic. It was now or never.
He knocked on the window a fourth time.
‘Beetroot juice tastes rotten and gives ya the trots, I’ll give ya fifty quid for the lot.’
It was hard to tell if the carrot of cash or the stick of the trots changed the woman’s mind. But her mind changed. And the window opened: -in went a fifty euro note -out went a paper bag of beetroot.
Glump slumped to the ground, his arms wrapped around the vegetables. He had saved the world. And it only cost fifty quid.
Hysterical, Fishing lodge
