By: Aithne
So there I was, zipping down Hathian Highway in my fabulous little red car—my one true automotive love—feeling pretty good about my Sunday. The sun was shining, I had a killer playlist on, and life was, for a fleeting moment, not a total dumpster fire. That’s when I saw it: a fire engine so huge and red it made my car look like a rogue cherry tomato. Its lights were spinning, and a couple of firemen were scurrying around.
My natural nosiness, which honestly deserves its own zip code at this point, took the wheel. There wasn’t a lick of smoke in the air, so I parked my little cherry bomb over at “The Grind” and strutted across the street to the “Green House“, where all the action was.
I opened my mouth, probably to say something witty, like, “What’s cooking, good looking?” to the nearest firefighter, but the words died in my throat. I was hit by a smell. And when I say “hit“, I mean it was a full-on, physical assault. It was the kind of stench that bypasses your nose and just punches you directly in the soul. A foul, gut-wrenching, unholy aroma of seafood that had clearly given up on life days ago.
I literally staggered backward, one hand flying to my mouth, my killer brunch suddenly doing the cha-cha in my stomach. In front of the shop was a busted-open crate, spilling its guts out—a grotesque massacre of very, very deceased clams. The firemen were in full-on hazmat suits, and suddenly it all made sense. These guys weren’t fighting a fire; they were waging war against an olfactory demon. I grabbed my camera, but how do you even capture a smell this epic? You can’t. You just have to live with the memory, and the therapy bills.
Thankfully, Hathian’s Bravest were on it. Lieutenant Rog Messmer and the Chief himself, a guy named Pentewyn, were bravely bagging the spoiled shellfish like they were handling evidence from a particularly gruesome crime scene. Then they brought out a fire hose with some serious attitude, and blasted the slimy, stinky ghost of clams past into the sewer where it belonged.
Watching the whole sordid affair was a guy named Yuki, the shop’s new owner. He was holding his cat, Princess. And Princess? Honey, she was an icon. A fluffy vision of pure, unbothered bliss. While Yuki was getting lightly misted by clam-scented water, Princess was just purring, wrapped in the serene knowledge that none of this was her problem. I have never respected a cat more.
Yuki gave me the 411, explaining the fire department had actually stopped by the day before and declared the festering crate a “city services problem.” So the clams were left to brew for another 8-12 hours until the Chief, probably fearing a full-scale mutation, decided to go above and beyond his job description to save our noses.
Yuki hinted this wasn’t just some accidental delivery. Oh no, this was a message. Part of a “rivalry” that was getting out of hand. He didn’t have to spell it out. My mind immediately flashed to “The Clam“, that little convenience store down the street. It seems in the petty business wars of Hathian, someone had decided it was time to play dirty. Or, in this case, incredibly, incredibly smelly.
So I guess if there’s a moral to this story, it’s this: Never underestimate a business rival with access to wholesale shellfish. Also, always keep a can of air freshener in your glove box. You just never know.
