Image by **emmar** via FlickrI stirred the soup absent-mindedly. That's what we in the writing business call a hook. You see, you read that sentence, and you get hooked, right? Had to find out more about my soup. Well, I shall continue. A chunk of leek bobbed to the surface, bobbing like a leek-shaped submarine surfaced for air. Potato icebergs rose to threaten it's path, floating across a putrid ocean of green-brown foam. Lining up, the potatoes formed two rows of teeth, lips of leek talking shape around them. They spoke:
"Oi! You think this is funny, don't you?"
"No." I replied. I did think it was funny, but only because of the novelty cookware I was using.
"Well, it isn't anyway." Mr. Potato soup replied defiantly. "And you better not be planning to feed me to any Peruvians."
I considered the idea, casually dismissing it as I realised I didn't know where to find any Peruvians at this time of night.
"Why? What are you going to do about it?"
"I'll cut your face!"
I looked sadly at the talking soup in front of me. My first act in cooking Mr. Potato had been to cut his arms and legs off with a potato peeler. You may call me cruel, but I enjoyed it, so I don't care. Anyway, he's a potato. He can't feel pain.
After that, I diced Mr. Potato into small cubes, all of which began to shout racial Peruvian slurs at me. Then I started boiling him with some prejudice-free leeks. The upshot of this was that Mr. Potato was in no condition to cut my face. Or do anything except bathe in his own juices.
"You'd better not be ignoring me!" Mr. Potato shouted. I ignored him, looking for a flask as I was.
The soup finished cooking. Pouring Mr. Potato soup into a novelty Christmas flask, I headed out the front door.
Now all I need to do is find a tramp to feed...
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