The Solution
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Friendly fire? Or chemical warfare? You decide.
_____________________________________________________________________
Lab rats, the four of us, guinea pigs well capable of sampling our experiments and making copious detailed notes as to the outcome. We share a house, a huge colonial structure which sits in its own grounds just far enough from the main road and the traffic to make the noise barely audible. Four individual apartments in actual fact, each with its own balcony, or veranda, depending on who's doing the explaining.
I'm on the upper floor as is G, Giselle, but G since as long as she can remember. G and I share a kitchen, which suits her just fine because she doesn't cook. G is a raven haired, beautiful chemistry teacher from Finland and, to be absolutely truthful, we often share more than a kitchen.
On the ground floor there's Galip Parata, a native New Zealander, a Maori, and Edgar Nir Bussen, our token local Dutchman.
I'm Irish, Stewart McDevitt, aka Irish Stew, aka Irish.
There are no less than three kitchens on the ground floor, and only the one in the utility room to the rear of the house is ever made regular use of. It's a kitchen, gym, laboratory, music/TV/games room and laundry, and the place we all spend most of our free time.
I found the house. That's my business, dealing in property and I suppose I'm the landlord for that reason. I actually bought it outright and had it renovated but the way things worked out we share the bills and the upkeep between us.
We all met at The Butterscotch Halls, a noisy rock night club in Groningen, although that type of music has never been our preference at home where we tend to listen to Americana and singer/songwriter stuff. In out of the rain, we seemed to gravitate towards each other and ended up sharing a table near the door, myself, G and Edgar: Galip was actually working the place as a bouncer, chief of security no less.
G let it be known she was looking for a new flat and I was almost done with the renovations so I mentioned it to her during a break in the music. She didn't know the area so Edgar offered to bring her round to view the place at my convenience. Galip, who kept a bottle of water on a shelf just inside the door, overheard our conversation and included himself in a most charming and inoffensive way.
I had been using the back kitchen as a sort of office so it seemed natural to bring everyone through to talk business. Edgar, who had been sharing with his sister and her new boyfriend, immediately decided he needed a move as soon as he saw the situation and the three apartments other than mine were occupied within an hour, possibly less. That we sat around chatting for a further two hours had us realising we would become close friends, and so it proved.
I helped Galip extricate himself from his previous contract by virtue of knowing his landlord. It wasn't a problem in the end. While we talked it through, he told me an amusing story about how Galip came to be chief of security at The Butterscotch Halls, the stuff of legend.
It seems a visiting English football club were due to play Groningen in a pre-season friendly and their fans, thirty of them as the story goes, all drunk, decided The Butterscotch Halls would serve as their base camp while they plotted their hostilities. Galip barred their way and was surrounded. One of the louts ripped the shirt from his back, obviously expecting little or no resistance but Galip, an ex-Rugby League forward, performed a one man Haka, showing off his well-toned physique along with his striking body art and the gang took the hint, departing quickly in search of somewhere less well defended. I've since asked Galip about it and he modestly admitted there was some truth to it.
It was a beautiful summer, pretty much warm sunshine throughout and in a short three months my housemates became sort of unpaid secretaries for the fact that my office, which led out to the back garden, had become the unofficial meeting place. Whoever was around would simply answer the phone and take a message for me if I was out. A pre-requisite, and my only hard and fast rule when vetting and letting the apartments was non-smokers only, and happily all four of us refrain from that particular habit. However, I do like to get stoned on occasion and it was Galip who picked up on it one lazy midweek evening when we were gathered.
“You make tea with it?” he asked, holding aloft my container of freely available grass. “How does that work?”
“Infusion,” I explained. “It takes a while to get to you but there's no waste and an all-round better buzz in my opinion.”
“Same as baking cakes?” asked G.
“Less fattening, yes. And healthier.”
“I'd like to try some,” said Edgar. “It must be five years since I was high.”
That was the start of it. Everyone brought stuff home to try and the kitchen soon became more of a living room/lounge for that fact, each of us enjoying the same music, mainly mine, and of course each other's company.
One day G came in with a large jar of hash oil, given to her by a research scientist friend and I came home to find my housemates scratching their collective heads wondering what to do with it. The stuff stunk to high heaven, had the consistency of soap and, as they had recently discovered, tasted foul when added to boiling water and honey.
“It's a by-product,” I explained, my own knowledge gleaned from spending some time in the north west of England during something of a drugs drought, “not much you can do with it other than smoke it.”
“Is it potent?” asked G.
“Yes, quite pleasant really, but messy.”
“I wonder what would happen if I were to break it down, distil it, purify it?”
“In the lab?”
“No, here. Would anyone mind?”
There were no objections. Why would there be? We were all comfortable with each other and so it was that test-tubes and Bunsen burners and all manner of equipment appeared as if from nowhere.
We all took an interest. It was a big bottle and it seemed a shame not to at least try to get something out of it so every now and again we subjected ourselves to a tasting, being careful on such occasions not to get stoned on anything else beforehand. We made notes then compared and discussed them at length. All this time, I played the music of Ryan Adams, Jackson Browne, Paul Kelly, James Taylor and the like while we watched the news on the muted television. Flashing images of the world at war, particularly the Middle East and the suicide squads encroaching on western targets, elicited various suggestions on how to bring it all to a peaceful end but we found it hard to agree.
Around that same time, Galip brought home flyers advertising a 'Battle of the Bands' contest at The Butterscotch Halls, an annual event, intending to place them with the local shops we used for groceries and such, and that's where Edgar came up with his hint of an idea. The contest was legendary in that The Halls would be obliged to close down for a refit after hosting it since not only the bands did battle. For that reason, only spirits were served and in plastic glasses at that, ensuring the owner would make enough of a profit to cover the closure and refit. During the close down, Galip was in the habit of taking off for home, having saved up five weeks of holiday time. This gave him a full month in New Zealand with the rest of the time spent getting there and back due to awkward flights.
The hash oil had been rendered down sufficiently that it was almost tasteless, definitely odourless, colourless and pretty nigh untraceable. Edgar put it forward that we should experiment by spiking the drinks on 'Battle' night to see what effect it would have on the riotous punters, and we all agreed it would be fun to observe since the stuff had proved well capable of mellowing us quite satisfactorily.
We didn't have to involve anyone else. Galip easily accessed the ice making machine which served the bars, and poured what G estimated to be sufficient oil into the tank as to have maximum effect.
We watched from the tiny staff-room as the leather/denim clad fans filed in and lined the bar before taking their seats, the venue soon buzzing with the expectancy of a high octane evening; the usual script on such occasions.
The results were astonishing and hilarious in equal part with dancers in the mosh pit preferring to link arms as opposed to head-banging, and bands trying valiantly to get them going. The riots didn't happen, rival fans politely applauding each act in turn, resulting in the final two bands deciding to play acoustic sets. Everyone mingled, smiling, a far cry from the enmity which had become a familiar part of that particular evening in the past. Apart from one small pocket of totally confused punters, those designated drivers who had stuck to bottled water, the experiment had been a huge success.
Galip reported his safe arrival to his homeland and let it be known he had successfully smuggled a phial of the purified hash oil beyond the noses of the sniffer dogs. Proof positive that the stuff was indeed untraceable. This in turn had Edgar plotting once again, wondering how we might access drinking water supplies and administer our product to the likes of Al Qaeda, ISIS, Boko Haram, The Taliban and all. His vivid imagination had them throwing down their weapons and partying with their various enemies and we, his friends, had no doubts whatsoever that it would work solely on what we had witnessed in The Butterscotch Halls.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Friendly fire? Or chemical warfare? You decide.
_____________________________________________________________________
Lab rats, the four of us, guinea pigs well capable of sampling our experiments and making copious detailed notes as to the outcome. We share a house, a huge colonial structure which sits in its own grounds just far enough from the main road and the traffic to make the noise barely audible. Four individual apartments in actual fact, each with its own balcony, or veranda, depending on who's doing the explaining.
I'm on the upper floor as is G, Giselle, but G since as long as she can remember. G and I share a kitchen, which suits her just fine because she doesn't cook. G is a raven haired, beautiful chemistry teacher from Finland and, to be absolutely truthful, we often share more than a kitchen.
On the ground floor there's Galip Parata, a native New Zealander, a Maori, and Edgar Nir Bussen, our token local Dutchman.
I'm Irish, Stewart McDevitt, aka Irish Stew, aka Irish.
There are no less than three kitchens on the ground floor, and only the one in the utility room to the rear of the house is ever made regular use of. It's a kitchen, gym, laboratory, music/TV/games room and laundry, and the place we all spend most of our free time.
I found the house. That's my business, dealing in property and I suppose I'm the landlord for that reason. I actually bought it outright and had it renovated but the way things worked out we share the bills and the upkeep between us.
We all met at The Butterscotch Halls, a noisy rock night club in Groningen, although that type of music has never been our preference at home where we tend to listen to Americana and singer/songwriter stuff. In out of the rain, we seemed to gravitate towards each other and ended up sharing a table near the door, myself, G and Edgar: Galip was actually working the place as a bouncer, chief of security no less.
G let it be known she was looking for a new flat and I was almost done with the renovations so I mentioned it to her during a break in the music. She didn't know the area so Edgar offered to bring her round to view the place at my convenience. Galip, who kept a bottle of water on a shelf just inside the door, overheard our conversation and included himself in a most charming and inoffensive way.
I had been using the back kitchen as a sort of office so it seemed natural to bring everyone through to talk business. Edgar, who had been sharing with his sister and her new boyfriend, immediately decided he needed a move as soon as he saw the situation and the three apartments other than mine were occupied within an hour, possibly less. That we sat around chatting for a further two hours had us realising we would become close friends, and so it proved.
I helped Galip extricate himself from his previous contract by virtue of knowing his landlord. It wasn't a problem in the end. While we talked it through, he told me an amusing story about how Galip came to be chief of security at The Butterscotch Halls, the stuff of legend.
It seems a visiting English football club were due to play Groningen in a pre-season friendly and their fans, thirty of them as the story goes, all drunk, decided The Butterscotch Halls would serve as their base camp while they plotted their hostilities. Galip barred their way and was surrounded. One of the louts ripped the shirt from his back, obviously expecting little or no resistance but Galip, an ex-Rugby League forward, performed a one man Haka, showing off his well-toned physique along with his striking body art and the gang took the hint, departing quickly in search of somewhere less well defended. I've since asked Galip about it and he modestly admitted there was some truth to it.
It was a beautiful summer, pretty much warm sunshine throughout and in a short three months my housemates became sort of unpaid secretaries for the fact that my office, which led out to the back garden, had become the unofficial meeting place. Whoever was around would simply answer the phone and take a message for me if I was out. A pre-requisite, and my only hard and fast rule when vetting and letting the apartments was non-smokers only, and happily all four of us refrain from that particular habit. However, I do like to get stoned on occasion and it was Galip who picked up on it one lazy midweek evening when we were gathered.
“You make tea with it?” he asked, holding aloft my container of freely available grass. “How does that work?”
“Infusion,” I explained. “It takes a while to get to you but there's no waste and an all-round better buzz in my opinion.”
“Same as baking cakes?” asked G.
“Less fattening, yes. And healthier.”
“I'd like to try some,” said Edgar. “It must be five years since I was high.”
That was the start of it. Everyone brought stuff home to try and the kitchen soon became more of a living room/lounge for that fact, each of us enjoying the same music, mainly mine, and of course each other's company.
One day G came in with a large jar of hash oil, given to her by a research scientist friend and I came home to find my housemates scratching their collective heads wondering what to do with it. The stuff stunk to high heaven, had the consistency of soap and, as they had recently discovered, tasted foul when added to boiling water and honey.
“It's a by-product,” I explained, my own knowledge gleaned from spending some time in the north west of England during something of a drugs drought, “not much you can do with it other than smoke it.”
“Is it potent?” asked G.
“Yes, quite pleasant really, but messy.”
“I wonder what would happen if I were to break it down, distil it, purify it?”
“In the lab?”
“No, here. Would anyone mind?”
There were no objections. Why would there be? We were all comfortable with each other and so it was that test-tubes and Bunsen burners and all manner of equipment appeared as if from nowhere.
We all took an interest. It was a big bottle and it seemed a shame not to at least try to get something out of it so every now and again we subjected ourselves to a tasting, being careful on such occasions not to get stoned on anything else beforehand. We made notes then compared and discussed them at length. All this time, I played the music of Ryan Adams, Jackson Browne, Paul Kelly, James Taylor and the like while we watched the news on the muted television. Flashing images of the world at war, particularly the Middle East and the suicide squads encroaching on western targets, elicited various suggestions on how to bring it all to a peaceful end but we found it hard to agree.
Around that same time, Galip brought home flyers advertising a 'Battle of the Bands' contest at The Butterscotch Halls, an annual event, intending to place them with the local shops we used for groceries and such, and that's where Edgar came up with his hint of an idea. The contest was legendary in that The Halls would be obliged to close down for a refit after hosting it since not only the bands did battle. For that reason, only spirits were served and in plastic glasses at that, ensuring the owner would make enough of a profit to cover the closure and refit. During the close down, Galip was in the habit of taking off for home, having saved up five weeks of holiday time. This gave him a full month in New Zealand with the rest of the time spent getting there and back due to awkward flights.
The hash oil had been rendered down sufficiently that it was almost tasteless, definitely odourless, colourless and pretty nigh untraceable. Edgar put it forward that we should experiment by spiking the drinks on 'Battle' night to see what effect it would have on the riotous punters, and we all agreed it would be fun to observe since the stuff had proved well capable of mellowing us quite satisfactorily.
We didn't have to involve anyone else. Galip easily accessed the ice making machine which served the bars, and poured what G estimated to be sufficient oil into the tank as to have maximum effect.
We watched from the tiny staff-room as the leather/denim clad fans filed in and lined the bar before taking their seats, the venue soon buzzing with the expectancy of a high octane evening; the usual script on such occasions.
The results were astonishing and hilarious in equal part with dancers in the mosh pit preferring to link arms as opposed to head-banging, and bands trying valiantly to get them going. The riots didn't happen, rival fans politely applauding each act in turn, resulting in the final two bands deciding to play acoustic sets. Everyone mingled, smiling, a far cry from the enmity which had become a familiar part of that particular evening in the past. Apart from one small pocket of totally confused punters, those designated drivers who had stuck to bottled water, the experiment had been a huge success.
Galip reported his safe arrival to his homeland and let it be known he had successfully smuggled a phial of the purified hash oil beyond the noses of the sniffer dogs. Proof positive that the stuff was indeed untraceable. This in turn had Edgar plotting once again, wondering how we might access drinking water supplies and administer our product to the likes of Al Qaeda, ISIS, Boko Haram, The Taliban and all. His vivid imagination had them throwing down their weapons and partying with their various enemies and we, his friends, had no doubts whatsoever that it would work solely on what we had witnessed in The Butterscotch Halls.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and seven collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and seven collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.