A Matter of Taste

Lean and grim, J.P. Withers ignored the mountains of food and roamed the festivities like a panther, fresh pistols tucked into every pocket and boot, wooden knives hidden in his sleeves, a silver crucifix about his neck. There would be no mistakes this time. He hoped.

Everywhere around the Yank, squealing mudlarks happily dug in the ground seeking dropped coins, while rouged whores lifted their skirts for patrons behind every bush, and scared pugilists pounded each other in glorious drunken stupor. Lounging about in false casualness, all six of the infamous Bow Street Runners of London, including the right honorable Sir Fielding himself, did nothing to stop any of it, even though prize fighting had been illegal since 1750. The imperial lawmen merely sipped their blackjacks of hot gin and nutmeg, kept a close eye on their gold watches and ready hands on their loaded Collier and Manton pistols. But the leather-wrapped handles of sharp wooden daggers rose from their Hoby boots. Soon now, very soon.

During the daylight hours dozens, hundreds, then literally thousands of people from London, Paris, Italy, Germany, and even distant Russia, had responded to the invitation and swarmed into the tiny highland village, adding to and augmenting the tantalizing cloud of cooking aromas with their own culinary contributions.

By twilight, a boisterous party was in full swing with four different bands playing, scores of dancers twirling, and a hundred whole oxen roasting in huge pits full of crackling logs, the juicy meat spewing endless volumes of tangy smoke towards the distant twinkling stars. The staggering array of beef personally donated to the endeavor by good Queen Caroline and President James

Monroe of America. A very old King George having temporarily gone potty again, and currently believed himself to be an Etruscan vase full of live mice.

The feasting and festivities went on far into the night. The only disruption to the happy revelry occurring at exactly midnight when the dance music was momentarily interrupted by a small explosion from the direction of the old abandoned coal mine in the foothills, closely followed by a loud squeak of inhuman horror.

Seconds later, a barely noticed handful of dry ash blew across the joyous Scottish folk and lone Bureau 13 agent celebrating the first combined North American & British International Garlic Festival.

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