Professor Rupert Bingham was frequently inclined to spend Sunday afternoon locked inside his study, pouring over his notes in preparation for the coming week. Sunday, being the church-mandated day of rest, his assistant normally had the afternoon off and the Professor often found himself completely alone with his thoughts. Today was no different, save that a package had arrived from the Marchioness Durrenbach, and Professor Bingham was eager to discover its contents. He had been patient all morning, attending church services, as was required of a gentleman of good standing, and had politely suffered through an excruciating tea with his fussy neighbor, Mrs. Firth. Now he was finally at leisure to unwrap the mysterious package and learn what secrets were contained within.
Carefully, he untied the twine binding the parcel and peeled back the brown paper wrapping. Inside was a good-sized, square wooden box with a hinged lid—newly made, so it must not have accompanied the original artifact from Turkey. Raising the lid, Professor Bingham gazed with interest at the curious object nestled inside.
But where to look, where to focus, with his Turkey-conscious professorly eyes? The crude terracotta bowl? Or the custard, unspilled, within? Or the neat circle of cling wrap sealing custard from atmosphere, mystery from evident custardiness, so thin he could pop it with one of his wayward nostril hairs and suck, suck, suck till every last one of his Academia-honed Sensibilities vs Personal-Lust-For-Antique-Middle-Eastern-Custard dilemmas was resolved in favour of custard, then caution, then custard, then caution, then custard, then thenthenthenthenthen, over and over and over again, till he could take it no more, NO MORE!
Instinctively, he shot himself.
Opening: Joie.....Continuation: Whirlochre