Stu nodded sincerely at Doyle's pronouncement, apparently satisfied that the meeting had, indeed, been called to order. Bruce uncovered his ears, cautiously, perhaps fearing another hammer swing.
We were seated around a table for the first official olilolo meeting of the year. Empty pie trays littered the scene, four or five deep in some places. Doyle attempted to sweep the mess aside, but the piles of rubbish toppled and scattered even further in every direction.
"Doris will get that," Doyle shrugged.
One of the trays still contained half a pie crust that landed directly on my lap. It sat there, covered in poppyseeds like a sorry pile of pastry, pathetic and defenceless, until I put it out of its misery. Did I taste a hint of rosemary on that crust? It must have been an amazing pie...
Doyle continued. "Now, who knows why I called this urgent meeting?"
"No idea," grunted Stu. "But it's about damn time."
"You told me this was strictly culinary," I frowned, searching for another scrap of pastry amongst the rubble. I wanted another hit of that rosemary.
Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yes, well, that may have been a little ruse on my part, I'm afraid. This meeting is 50% business, 50% pie."
"I'm sorry," interrupted Bruce, "but who is Doris?"
Doris was an employee of the olilolo "empire" (as Doyle termed it), officially Doyle's assistant but effectively an overworked cleaner and housekeeper. It had once taken Doris eight days to clean the top floor of the olilolo headquarters - after the company Christmas party went slightly awry.
Several thousand fireworks had been exploded indoors; a stairwell had been coated in oil in a misguided attempt to create a "slippery slide" (three necks were broken in the process); and a troupe of circus animals had been acquired by Doyle through what he described as "quasi-legal" means.
The fiasco ended with a lion scrabbling down a fiery staircase and running onto the street where it, flaming, devoured seven children.
Doris had been fired for that incident.
"Doyle, she hasn't been around for three months," I replied. "We got rid of her."
"What? Who fired her? They're fired!" He smacked the table with his gavel and Bruce burst into tears.
"Look at this place," he continued, gesturing around him. "You wouldn't even believe this is a boardroom. In fact, I hardly recognise it. Wait. Where are we?"
We were at the local pie shop - on Doyle's invitation. The shop was famed for its menu of exotic ingredients and cringeworthy puns. The absurd ingredients were often necessitated by the owner's rigid insistence on always using the puns: his menu featured such items as "The Pienapple", "Jaelpieno Pie" and "Porcupiene Happieness".
"We're in heaven," replied Stu simply.
That, apparently, was enough for Doyle, as he pressed on with business once more.
"As you all know, I called this meeting together for a very important reason."
Stu nodded, approvingly. Bruce continued to stare at Doyle in horror. I licked another piece of poppyseed poppieseed pastry.
"Now does anyone know what that reason is? Because I have long forgotten it. I think I wrote it down on a piece of paper, but that might have been a squirrel. I'm not sure."
"Is it about the website?" prompted Bruce.
"Ah yes," said Doyle. "As you all know, the olilolo website is currently under re-reconstruction as we attempt to locate a search engine that will enable us to find a website containing wordpress templates. And they have to be free templates. I can't stress that enough."
"How is it that you're familiar with wordpress?" asked Bruce, the look of sheer terror on his face now unmistakable. "Yet you've never heard of Google?"
"Also I need a computer," added Doyle. "So far I've just been writing my blog posts on a typewriter and faxing them to the internet."
"What?" I said.
"Don't," muttered Stu beneath his breath, shaking his head slightly. "Just let him believe."
Somewhere, someone was receiving very strange messages.
"In any event," continued Doyle, "this will be our tenth new wordpress template in two years, and we've only written three articles during that time."
"And one of those articles was just an affiliate link to a now-banned dong supplement," I reminded him.
"Well we had to generate revenue somehow," replied Doyle. "And I believe the term is quasi-legal."
"No, it was definitely banned," I said, rearranging my trousers uncomfortably. "It had some awful side effects. Apparently."
"Pretending that we're all oblivious to Dave's dong issues," said Stu, "what's the plan of attack now?"
"Well they've got this pump-" I began.
"No, I mean about the website."
"Oh. That makes more sense."
"We need to generate content!" announced Bruce boldly. For a brief moment, a glimmer of confidence swept across the young man's face. We all turned to look at him, eagerly hoping for an answer to all our problems.
"Oh, did you want me to... continue?" he stuttered. "I didn't really have much more than that."
He burst into tears.
"I think we should write a wacky story," I suggested. "One with a series of implausible events featuring us as characters. Set in a ludicrous locale with larger than life characters."
"The usual, then?" said Doyle. "Those stories always run out of steam. And they end so bluntly."
At this moment we were interrupted by the owner of the establishment, an eccentric and outlandish man by the name of Mr Pierre Impie Espienosa - although he preferred that we called him by his initials.
"Buonasera! Gentlemen! How are you?!" he cried, the mixture of Italian and English difficult to understand beneath his thick African accent.
"Everything's great, Pie!" exclaimed Stu.
"It's been too long!" said Bruce.
"So it has!" the old man replied, checking his watch. "Why, it's been four hours since breakfast! Mi sei mancato molto! Where have you been?"
As Doyle began to apologise, I took in my surroundings. The pie shop was packed with young customers, as it so often was. The scent of herbs and spices wafted freely on the breeze. Colours swam before my eyes... and merged together. Something was wrong.
I turned back to Pierre Impie Espienosa and attempted to refocus my vision. 'Pie' was an Asian man, of Kiwi descent; he was currently wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt and pointing jovially at the new sign above the restaurant:
"Welcome to Dirty Hippies! Buy nine pies, get one 25% off!"
The sign was emblazoned with the flag of North Korea.
"Dirty Hippies" had always attracted a more adventurous crowd, a younger demographic who tend to wear multi-coloured clothing and smelled distinctly of herbs... was that a whiff of coriander I detected in the air?
It seemed this younger demographic was drawn specifically to the obscure and exotic ingredients used in the pies at Dirty Hippies. They were particularly drawn to something on the menu called "Lucy in the Pie", obviously a young-person reference to something I didn't fully understand.
But I'd ordered this pie for the first time today - with extremely satisfying results. Indeed, the pie had begun to "cuddle my belly from within" (the only way I can describe it) and it filled me with a sense of warmth and free-spiritedness.
At that moment, my ears began to smell the number yellow.
"Dave, are you okay mate?" asked Doyle, who had now been replaced by a hairy potato. "You don't look so well... and that's saying something, considering how you usually--"
The universe sneezed. I can't describe it any other way than that. Seventeen different colours burst into existence and they all tasted like driving.
"I... I think I'm hallucinating," I said.
"You didn't eat the Opieum, did you?" replied the potato. "The one with poppyseeds - it's laced with heroins. All the kinds."
Pierre nodded.
"My brain is vomiting colours," I said. "There's a tiger behind you on a red jet ski... you look like a root vegetable, but not the kind that I would want to eat... and Bruce and Stuey are making out. Furiously."
"Well, at least you're still seeing some things straight."
"That's not the word I would use."
Pierre reached into his pocket and extracted a small baggie of tablets. "This will calm you down," he winked, sliding it across the table surreptitiously.
I looked at the label blearily, making out a single word:
Diazepiem.
"You have a problem, Pierre." I said bluntly. "Seek therapie."
"How is it that you're familiar with wordpress?" asked Bruce, the look of sheer terror on his face now unmistakable. "Yet you've never heard of Google?"
"Also I need a computer," added Doyle. "So far I've just been writing my blog posts on a typewriter and faxing them to the internet."
"What?" I said.
"Don't," muttered Stu beneath his breath, shaking his head slightly. "Just let him believe."
Somewhere, someone was receiving very strange messages.
"In any event," continued Doyle, "this will be our tenth new wordpress template in two years, and we've only written three articles during that time."
"And one of those articles was just an affiliate link to a now-banned dong supplement," I reminded him.
"Well we had to generate revenue somehow," replied Doyle. "And I believe the term is quasi-legal."
"No, it was definitely banned," I said, rearranging my trousers uncomfortably. "It had some awful side effects. Apparently."
"Pretending that we're all oblivious to Dave's dong issues," said Stu, "what's the plan of attack now?"
"Well they've got this pump-" I began.
"No, I mean about the website."
"Oh. That makes more sense."
"We need to generate content!" announced Bruce boldly. For a brief moment, a glimmer of confidence swept across the young man's face. We all turned to look at him, eagerly hoping for an answer to all our problems.
"Oh, did you want me to... continue?" he stuttered. "I didn't really have much more than that."
He burst into tears.
"I think we should write a wacky story," I suggested. "One with a series of implausible events featuring us as characters. Set in a ludicrous locale with larger than life characters."
"The usual, then?" said Doyle. "Those stories always run out of steam. And they end so bluntly."
At this moment we were interrupted by the owner of the establishment, an eccentric and outlandish man by the name of Mr Pierre Impie Espienosa - although he preferred that we called him by his initials.
"Buonasera! Gentlemen! How are you?!" he cried, the mixture of Italian and English difficult to understand beneath his thick African accent.
"Everything's great, Pie!" exclaimed Stu.
"It's been too long!" said Bruce.
"So it has!" the old man replied, checking his watch. "Why, it's been four hours since breakfast! Mi sei mancato molto! Where have you been?"
As Doyle began to apologise, I took in my surroundings. The pie shop was packed with young customers, as it so often was. The scent of herbs and spices wafted freely on the breeze. Colours swam before my eyes... and merged together. Something was wrong.
I turned back to Pierre Impie Espienosa and attempted to refocus my vision. 'Pie' was an Asian man, of Kiwi descent; he was currently wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt and pointing jovially at the new sign above the restaurant:
"Welcome to Dirty Hippies! Buy nine pies, get one 25% off!"
The sign was emblazoned with the flag of North Korea.
"Dirty Hippies" had always attracted a more adventurous crowd, a younger demographic who tend to wear multi-coloured clothing and smelled distinctly of herbs... was that a whiff of coriander I detected in the air?
It seemed this younger demographic was drawn specifically to the obscure and exotic ingredients used in the pies at Dirty Hippies. They were particularly drawn to something on the menu called "Lucy in the Pie", obviously a young-person reference to something I didn't fully understand.
But I'd ordered this pie for the first time today - with extremely satisfying results. Indeed, the pie had begun to "cuddle my belly from within" (the only way I can describe it) and it filled me with a sense of warmth and free-spiritedness.
At that moment, my ears began to smell the number yellow.
"Dave, are you okay mate?" asked Doyle, who had now been replaced by a hairy potato. "You don't look so well... and that's saying something, considering how you usually--"
The universe sneezed. I can't describe it any other way than that. Seventeen different colours burst into existence and they all tasted like driving.
"I... I think I'm hallucinating," I said.
"You didn't eat the Opieum, did you?" replied the potato. "The one with poppyseeds - it's laced with heroins. All the kinds."
Pierre nodded.
"My brain is vomiting colours," I said. "There's a tiger behind you on a red jet ski... you look like a root vegetable, but not the kind that I would want to eat... and Bruce and Stuey are making out. Furiously."
"Well, at least you're still seeing some things straight."
"That's not the word I would use."
Pierre reached into his pocket and extracted a small baggie of tablets. "This will calm you down," he winked, sliding it across the table surreptitiously.
I looked at the label blearily, making out a single word:
Diazepiem.
"You have a problem, Pierre." I said bluntly. "Seek therapie."
