Graphic by Gabriel Currie
Toffee boy, go now and bring me my toffee. From the finest salon in all of France. From the oldest pot in the newest pub in London. From the toffee shop in Chad. Toffee boy, you see how easy it is to get my toffee, yet you are making me wait.
Toffee boy, your mother and father are now my hostages. Until my toffee appetite is satiated, I will hold them. I trust you will make haste now that you understand the stakes of my toffee appetite. Go now toffee boy, and I will treat you to a nibble.
Toffee boy, I have taken your house, and your grandmother is my paramour. She may taste my sweet, sweet love, but she’ll never know the comfort of marriage. So you see, my desire for toffee supersedes all else — you play a dangerous game standing in the way, toffee boy.
Toffee boy, the gallows are prepared and awaiting your parents. Hear the thum thum of my drum as they look so glum. I told you it would come to this, toffee boy. Measures must be taken when my toffee appetite is not satiated. Sometimes, the measures aren’t so sweet.
Toffee boy, my patience can no longer be sustained. Your rivers have been poisoned, your villages burned, and I have salted the earth from which your crops grow. When the revolution of industry arrives, it will pass you and your people by, leaving you in the dust of history.
Oh. What is this? A secret stash of toffee discretely concealed in a cupboard. Aha! My toffee appetite has at last been satiated. If only I had known earlier, toffee boy, then this whole drama may have been avoided. Alas, I am so susceptible to the dull ache for a toffee treat.
Sugar and Butter, so carefully beaten.
Put it in my mouth, now it’s been eaten.
