It is a math problem, really. I ended up with the bag holding the blue privilege tokens after handing them out to deserving staff at the Frigg's day moot. There were three blue privilege tokens in there, that black velvet bag the Mayor uses to hold the weeks issue. Gosh darn. Nobody noticed, they were all bolting out the door to their separate destinations: the green privilege tokens to The Pleasure Center, the local bar; The red privilege tokens to the Colosseum, for an evening spectacle watching wild beasts tear apart Occupy activists; and the blue tokens were headed to the parking lot: their reward was a weekend in Montreal, there to sample Michigan sausage. There are only two days in the weekend, as you well know; two tokens are sufficient for the entire weekend of Michigan sausage, and the best Michigan sausage is in Montreal. It is a perfect time. But what if you have three blue privilege tokens? This is the three blue privilege tokens, two nights in Montreal problem.
I did not have to drive the Mitchieville Community Shuttle van to Montreal this time. I navigated. Maximinus Thrax drove (he just finished a course at Terrorism School of Driving and needed to practice); somebody was in the back with one of the circulation librarians from Mitchieville Supreme Central Public Library. From the sounds they made from Pickering to Oshawa, they were eating a can of salmon. My mind was on the three blue privilege token, two nights in Montreal problem. What to do with the extra blue privilege token?
Give it to a friend. Everyone on the community shuttle already had blue privilege tokens. I would just be transferring the problem, taxing Peter to pay Paul, or, er, selling bonds today to pay for Trudeau's yesterday's social programs. I had to assume a position of leadership and solve this dilemma myself.
Give it to a beggar. Beggars will take most anything. I have seen the Mayor give them twenty bucks (that was outside the CBC in Toronto; that bum was there for weeks thereafter, coughing up Tuberculosis and shedding scalp mites); I have seen them take half packs of smokes (with that one special one with gunpowder and sodium); I have given them beer coupons for the bar the Organ Broker runs as a front. Could I pass off a bit of wood painted blue, varnished, stamped with the green eye seal of Set, the Snake God? The bum would prosper until someone recognized it, and usurped its possession by guile or force. Privilege tokens have other uses (the complete set of the six primary colors makes an excellent addition to your Seal of Solomon), and much as they are rewards for virtuous service, they act as amulets, and attract experiences. Of course, the idea that amulets actually exist, work, and can function in a predictable way is utter superstition. Fun to watch, too. Like the time the Mayor and I gave a charm of Angra Mainyu, the Master of Ants, to an underwashed, over ripe street beggar. We laughed and laughed. Superstition, ha ha ha.
Sell it on the black market. A thousand bucks would be a nice addition to my wallet. That is the going rate for a blue privilege token, so I hear. Such a tedious solution. Surely there must be something more creative in a solution. What if someone has a dentists appointment, and wants to use up two blue privilege tokens in one day, rather than one? What if someone has a pressing family engagement, an uncle's birthday, a nephew getting his karate belt, something more pressing than Michigan sausage in Montreal? Must happen all the time. So, this is what I decided to do: ask the sausage vendor, Madame DeSausisse.
Madame DeSausisse, a delightful woman recently retired from her union job, sits around the same height as me sitting, favors a red tinged Aubergine shade of hair bleach, applies make up like Amy Winehouse, chain smokes, and has finger nails that would be admired by an Aztec priest of Obsidian Mirror. She looked at me when I asked her, in English, er, Engleesh, what I got for an additional blue privilege token. She said nothing, and stared into my eyes. She moved her filter cigarette from one side of her mouth, the left, to the other, the right, with a practiced set of lips well used to moving cylindrical objects to and fro while her hands were otherwise busy.
I woke up Sunday morning with two women in my bed. Not really, it is just a metaphor. Michigan sausage, in Montreal, is so good that it is, well, better than sex. And having two, well, the only metaphor is, well, like having a sexual menage a trois. You know? And like every menage a trois, the third one turned out to be the hairy bitch. After your first Michigan Sausage, the second is not really the same, as good. Should I feel cheated? Does it matter enough to feel cheated, when I felt so good? So the metaphor is to find a hairy bitch in your bed, beside the beautiful one. One is the sex dragon, the other the sex poodle. Hairy, licks a lot. Dumb, too. Such is metaphor. Blue privilege tokens; two. Anyway, how would you solve the problem?
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.