When we opened the door, it hit us.
"OWWW!" said Chris. "What did you do that for?"
"You twisted my knob!" Replied the door, "How would you like it if I twisted your knob?"
Chris didn't reply although the look in his eyes suggested that he found this idea rather erotic. The door raised an eyebrow, and then slammed shut.
"What the fuck!" exclaimed Chris. "Twist my knob again." said the door with a dirty smile.
Suddenly, the was a tap on the living room window, I used it to pour myself a glass of water. I looked up and saw Steve in his stripey pyjamas looking tired, agitated and back at me through the window.
"What are you doing out there?" He enquired.
"Getting a glass of water." I replied.
"Why don't you come inside and use the kitchen?" He ask in the infuriated tone that only Steve can perfect.
"Can't open the door." I said.
"Why?" He asked, as if the idea was absurd.
"Sexual tension." Said I, gesticulating toward the scene at the threshold.
The door was rolling its eyes at Chris who looked in no mood to roll them back. In fact, he looked like he might well stamp on them with his Doc Martin clad hoof.
"Fer fuck sake!" Cried Steve before stomping across the living room and swinging open the door. Chris looked blankly at his brother for a moment before bursting out with laughter. "What's so funny?" Snapped Steve. "You!" Chris sniggered, tears streaming down his face, "You opening the door in your pyjamas!" Chris roared with laughter. "Don't be so stupid," remarked Steve, "I don't have a door in my pyjamas!"
As Chris cross will make you jump daddy mack, Chris crossed the threshold into the house. I went to follow him and then paused for a moment. I turned to the narrator and asked if this story is actually going to have anything to do with the Onion Monster or not. The narrator looked puzzled. Then he scrolled up the computer screen to read what he had just typed. Sure enough, there was no mention of any monsters of the onion variety and, furthermore, the writing on the screen was complete drivel and made no sense at all. The narrator promised to get the story back on track and said that, it doesn't matter if it doesn't make sense because, most of his target audience are on drugs. I felt better with this new information, so I turned and followed Chris into 5 Palmers Row.
"Do you smell onion?" Steve asked. We did. We all did. And then, in a moment, the smell was gone. "We ran over an onion on the road." I said and proceeded to tell Steve about the incident that had taken place earlier.
"That's great, but why would it suddenly smell in here?"
We didn't know.
That's when it dawned on me, "It's the ghost of the onion. The Onion Monster. It has come to haunt us because we killed it for no reason." Steve and Chris looked at each other. I could see in their eyes that they knew I was right. At that moment, the Onion Monster swooped down and stole the Television controller. Nobody actually saw this happen, but when we couldn't find the Tv controls for the next 10 minutes, we knew it had to be the work of the Onion Monster.
The next few days were a living hell. Every time the front door opened a distinct onioney odour would momentarily fill the air and moments later, something would go missing. Car keys, credit cards, shoes, virginity, biscuits, the cat. The Onion Monster was stealing anything it could get its hands on, and then returning it when it was no longer needed. Soon we started trying to hide things from it, but the Onion Monster always found them.
Then, one day, the smell was particularly bad and especially onioney! On this day it stole Chris's bank card and he really really needed it. We turned the house upside down trying to find where the Onion Monster had put it. We had checked everywhere twice, when we went for yet another search under the sofa.
I lifted it and Steve went in. "What the..." his voice tailed. "You got it?" I asked as he came up from under the sofa. Steve held up a beer bottle. One of those little tiny French ones. It was a brand we had never heard of and had a use by date of 1988. "How the fuck did that get there?" "The only way a bottle that old could be under your sofa," I pointed out, "is if it was here before you moved in, and as we put your sofa in here, so we know it wasn't."
"Onion Monster?" Steve asked, but he knew the reply. It was the only way that bottle could have got there.
We put the sofa back down and there, in the middle of the cushion, bold as brass, was the bank card.
"That was not there when we moved the sofa!" Said Chris.
We all knew it. We had all checked the sofa.
We sat down for a moment to consider what had just occurred.
And we all swore we would never run over a defenceless onion again.
That was the last we saw of the Onion Monster. But since the experience, we have all learnt to treat the random onions that seem to pop up out of nowhere with a little more respect.
Take heed of this warning, my friends, If you should see a random onion across your path, pick him up and treat him well. For if you don't, you could suffer as we did that fateful summer.
I pray you never have to go through what we did.
Look after your onions.
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