Friday, May 16, 2008

Three Dishes

Ebul grimaced as he was forced out of his shell for the second time in a decade. “Der duck’s sake,” he said to the small boy who stood with a mouth so wide he was in danger of woodpeckers nesting. “Can’t a de- djinn get any sleep at all?”

“You talk funny,” said the boy. “What’s a djinn?”

“A Genie,” said Ebul. “And don’t make fun of my accent. I s’pose you dant door three dishes?”

“Three wishes? Cor. Yes please.”

“Sign here then.” Ebul coalesced fully and pulled a thirty page contract from his pocket. Your soul den you die for three dishes now.”

“Cool.” The boy took the proffered pen and signed. “I want a million pounds.”

“Excellent,” said Ebul, shedding his accent faster than the boy could blink. “So do I. Your contract, however, was for three dishes. May I suggest a chicken madras?”

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