Entry 25:

I picked up the phone and heard: "Hi Crzygry, ids gink." Ordinarily, hearing something like that would worry me. But after a moment I recognized the muffled voice. "Oh, hi Skink. What's the deal with your voice? You haven't been shoving cotton-balls down your throat again have you?" "I'g werring eye sars musk." "You're wearing your SARS mask?" "Asright." "Oh, I see. Not taking any chances, eh?" "Ugaddit." "So, what's up, my man?" Skink went on to explain that he'd discovered a hideous patch of mold under the kitchen sink, and wanted to know if I had any sulphuric acid in the house. "Why don't you just use bleach?" I asked. "I'd feel a lot safer if I used acid," he said, although it sounded more like "I'g feel a lobs tafer ibf I use tacid." "What's a lobs tafer?" I asked. He repeated the sentence and this time I got it. "Hmm, well I'm not sure that crazy people are allowed to have sulphuric acid, but I'm pretty sure I can get you some strong alchohol, will that do?" "Uhb... yurr." "Up yours too!" "No, yoofule... Ised Yeah." "Ah... right, sorry." With that difficult conversation out of the way, I fought my way through the lawn to the sidewalk and walked to the liquor store. I browsed around for a bit inside and marvelled at the vast selection of odd-coloured bottles filled with equally odd-coloured liquids. Some of it, frankly, not even I would drink. There was plenty of stuff that looked like it would do a fantastic job of removing mold, but I thought it best to ask a professional, so I went up to the counter. The man behind it raised an eyebrow and said: "Oh, it's you, the crazy guy." "Hi there," I said. "I'm afraid I can't serve you. It's against the rules to sell liquor to crazy people." I was expecting this. "Y'know, the thing about being a crazy person, is I'm an expert at causing scenes. And boy am I picturing a good one right now." The cashier looked uneasy. "Besides," I said. "I'm not shopping for something to drink. I need something to remove the mold that's under the sink in Skink's kitchen." "Uh, right... whatever you say." This was one of those cases where truth is indeed stranger than fiction. "So I need a bottle of the strongest stuff in the store. Uh, a small bottle." The cashier disappeared into a room. My mind's eye summoned up images of "Warning!" and "Danger!" signs inside. Maybe even laser defences. A moment later the cashier was back with a miniature bottle of "Bacardi 151" Rum. He assured me that drinking it was definitely not a good thing to do. I forked over the cash and was thankful Skink was paying for this and not me. He gingerly handed me the bottle, in a paper bag, and I left the store holding it in front of me at arm's length. At Skink's house, I knocked on the door. A few seconds later, the custom-enlarged mail-slot slid open. I removed the bottle from the paper bag and placed it carefully in the airlock. "Aight!" I yelled. The slot closed, there was a "fsssshhh" as the sterilizer worked it's magic, and I heard the bottle drop through to the other side. The airlock opened again and I remembered the receipt. In it went and the procedure repeated. I heard some swearing on the other side of the door and a moment later some money appeared in the slot: What it cost me plus the customary extra $5 for my trouble. Sweet! I gave Skink's door a goodbye knock, which Skink returned, and went to see how much baking soda I could buy for $5. -CG.

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