The As-Yet Unnamed Villainous Dinner, Sweets Course: 12,000 Scovill Peppermint Sticks
Wilbur Scovill is an extraordinarily young man with a very fertile mind. Crowley suggests that he won’t go on to formalize his current researches until the future; and Crowley is eerily accurate at predicting the future, for a man who cheats at Tarot cards.
He has perfected a method of measuring spice using a variant of some of the philtre we use in the transmutation of metals; Professor Challenger’s knowledge, as always, was invaluable, and this time he did not end engaging in fisticuffs with hardly anyone.
Now, amongst our injurious company of glorious rapscallions, it’s hard to miss Clovis; not unless he wants to be missed, in which case, he’s exactly wherever you least want to be, and vice-versa. Clovis has been whispering conspiratorially with Chef Anatole, who fortunately is a simply terrible liar. But now that the whole secret’s out, it’s perfectly fine. Almost all of us remember peppermint sticks from our school days, and whilst we really oughtn’t be indulging in the candy of youth, the nostalgia is tangible. Or that might be the spice particles; Wilbur predicts this will be fatal for nearly anyone who attempts it.
Unless they are well-prepared, of course. Wilbur is famously one of the first utilizers of milk to alleviate alimentary difficulties related to overpiquancy. Cow’s milk is good; goat’s milk is better; the milk of the Great God Pan is best, although it is essential to remember to invite him to the proper milking on the proper night.
At any rate, many of our more dextrous members believe they can follow the penny-candies with the priceless-elixirs with sufficient speed to retain their tongues. At any rate, the combination of the rare Royal cane sugar, the pure fresh-harvested peppermint, the Sphynx’s tears which will be providing the incendiary force (Dragon’s blood having proven sadly insufficient)—all of them together ought cleanse our palates; indeed, after such a combination, one’s palate might beg for a little despoiling.
Does the sense of taste really matter if you’re not willing to risk it completely on an incredibly painful but slightly delicious and utterly distinctive experience?
Yes. Yes, it does. I think we’re all mad. Or it might be the absinthe.
Honestly, if there’s a functional difference between insanity and wormwood-intoxication, I’ve yet to discover it.
