The Sausage Factory

by James

Susie had come up with a kitsch little business idea, a boutique fairground eatery specialising in all things porcine. Think sausage and mash, or kielbasa and potatoes, or a twelve-inch Cumberland ring. The name Susie picked was The Sausage Factory, a nod to the eternal meat grinder of the modern world and a delightful wink to that soon to be day when Susie would finally be able to wear skin-tight yoga pants without raising hell.

Perhaps an eatery in a tent wasn’t quite how Susie had fondly imagined their first venture, but the rent was cheap, and the floor of rustic sawn wood planks was proving quite the canvas of inspiration to inebriated fairground visitors for whom the twelve-inch meat feast challenge (scoff the lot and you eat for free!) had proved a gulp too far.

The innuendo had been planned for, and it had formed the first three pages of the business plan for the loans guy before sanity had intervened and it had been replaced with sample menus and revenue projections. But what Susie had in mind was the gently smirking kind, the oops Matron, can’t wait to get my lips around that spicy treat, and what’s for afters? Spotted dick?

Instead, it was beery men in need of a shave, and a stick of deodorant, who regularly vouchsafed in slightly too desperate tones that the girth on this pork and sage meatfeast was nothing compared to a sausage they had access to. These men who liked nothing better than to stare all night at Susie and then follow to the beer tents after The Sausage Factory was closed. Who stared and stared, who saw a pretty girl in the dimness and decided to grace her with their with and beer breath.

What Susie wanted was some peace. To sit in that quiet corner, sip at their pint and contemplate a body physically diminished yet somehow complete. And just think, two weeks from now, sit in this very bar and sip at her own pint at last.

Peace was not to be.

This one was kind of pretty. Almost. If he stood up straight and didn’t have drool on his chin.

‘Hey you,’ he said. He winked slowly with both eyes. ‘I am your density.’

‘You’re my what?’

‘Your density. You and me, it’s meant to be. Enchantment under the sea, come with me?’

Susie grinned as finally it clicked. ‘I love that film.’

‘You got it. You’re a smart one.’


‘When the kid goes back to the past and then has to make sure that his parents get together.’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘So the line he has to say is “You’re my destiny”, but he gets nervous and says density.’

‘I get it.’

‘Course you do. Pretty girl like you. Smart and pretty.’

Susie smile at him. ‘You’re two thirds right.’ Susie slid down from the stool. So if peace was not to be, was it so bad for one last blow job in the dark and then one last glorious reveal of the inspiration behind The Sausage Factory?

‘I have a question for you,’ Susie said. ‘You’re a real film buff, am I right? So, have you seen the film The Crying Game?

He shook his head. ‘I’m not really into chick flicks.’

Susie grabbed his hand. ‘You totally are my density. I know a place, lots of straw bales. Shall we?’