“Excuse me, have you seen the sausage guy?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The sausage guy. He’s usually at this table on Wednesdays?”
“Oh, he’s in the hospital.”
“Well, shoot. Is he okay?”
“Don’t know. He probably won’t be coming back.”
“Is he that sick?”
“I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”
“…I don’t, what–”
“The farmer’s market has ‘disinvited’ him from returning.”
“Why? His sausages were incredible.”
“I probably shouldn’t talk about it.”
“Is there any way we can start a petition, or–”
“They found out he was cording, alright?”
“Cording?”
“It’s… it turns out that sausage guy had an umbilical fetish.”
“I don’t know what–”
“He was taking the sausage casings and attaching them to his belly button.”
“What? How did he–”
“Then he would hire men to… well, to provide nourishment. Through the tube.”
“Provide–”
“They found pictures.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Believe me, you’re not the only one. Anyway, it seems he thought he could actually make a real umbilical.”
“A real–”
“They found him in his bedroom with an Xacto blade, trying to pull his intestines through his belly button.”
“Oh my god.”
“He almost bled to death.”
“I… I just…”
“Yep.”
“…his sausage was so good.”
“Breaks yer heart, doesn’t it?”
This thing appeared in my head this morning. I am of the opinion that, somewhere in England, Warren Ellis is thinking about funny robots and doesn’t know why.