A Grate Horror In Cheddar
Gather round, dear fellows, for another un-brie-lievable tale of lactic terror brought to you by Curt Wensleydale, Cheesy Investigator. It was just another average day in the office of Wensleydale Investigations. My trusty aide, Gaspard Fromage, had furnished me with the traditional morning repast of crackers accompanied by a healthy helping of cheese (Wensleydale by name, Wensleydale by nature) when there was a sudden ringing at the door. Not overly unusual, you might think but, given that I didn't have a doorbell, it was certainly not something that usually happened.
Gaspard opened the door to reveal a small crumpled looking in a small crumpled looking monk’s habit. The poor penitent was ushered in but eschewed a seat, preferring to occupy a form of seatless purgatory. He tinkled as he approached, revealing the source of the ringing to be a small bell around his neck.
In halting and abject terms, he explained that he was Brother Limburger, a member of the Order of St Jarlsberg, a particularly niche sect who had sworn to abjure the sight, sound and most definitely taste of all cheesy comestibles for reasons which were rather long-winded and relatively unfathomable (especially to those of a cheesy persuasion such as myself and redoubtable Gaspard). I wasn;t sure that their naming convention was overly helpful btu apparently it was all part of their whole “resisting temptation” thing.
For some time now, the Order had been plagued by apparitions of a distinctly cheese-based nature. Dreadful glowing spectres had begun to roam the hallways of St Jarlsberg Abbey at night; spectres of many a differing and perplexing aspect (one such ghastly lactic ghoul was described as resembling a massive radioactive Gouda). Being a pious lot, they had done their best to ignore them and, for the most part, that had been successful. Successful that is until this morning when, following his suspicious absence from the morning breakfast (the usual meal of particularly watery porridge), Brother Limburger had ventured to the Abbot’s quarters only to discover that he had apparently choked on some particularly runny camembert.
I reassured the distraught novice that he had come to the right place and sent him back to the monastery ahead of us. Wensleydale was on the case!
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I arrived that afternoon with the magnificent Gaspard and we got ourselves set up. A cheese investigator has a number of vital and sensitive pieces which they must deploy but sadly, as a fully paid up member of the Cheese Investigators Guild, I am not at liberty to divulge such secrets.
A large part of an investigator’s life is playing the waiting game and this was to be no exception. In deference to the brothers’ preferences, I had foregone the usual cheesy hamper that would accompany Gaspard and myself on capers such as this, ensuring that we had gorged sufficiently on the finest Roquefort, Illchester and Japanese Sage Darby.
The afternoon passed eventually, becoming evening, becoming night. The cheesy fortifications weighted heavily upon the eyelids and slumber beckoned. My eyes were just closing when I felt myself being gently shaken awake by the gentle hand of Gaspard.
“This may sound cheesy, but what’s that crawling on the wall behind you?!?”, whispered he.
I turned to look and a sight of such unspeakably horrific cheesiness assailed my eyes that I can scarcely bring myself to describe it. So I won't.
It was utterly burbling cheese-based noises and clearly intended to frighten those of an anti-lactic disposition. Being made of sterner stuff, I was not to be deterred and reached out towards it. A surprised squeak, uncharacteristic for such an unholy abomination, met my ears and it tried to scuttle away. Spurred on, I made a grab for the wretched thing, only to find myself embroiled in a titanic struggle. A struggle that ended with the creature subdued beneath me and a rather messy latex mask clutched in my hands.
Brother Limburger came upon the scene, alerted by the sounds of struggle and gasped in surprise at the unmasked figure before him.
“Why, it’s old Farmer Banks,” said he, “ the local dairy farmer.”
“Aaaargh,” growled the old cow farmer, in an indeterminate and regionally moveable accent, “yar, it’s me. You and your blessed order, putting all the people off my good honest milk with your anit-cheese nonsense. It ain’t right and summat had to be done.”
“It’s the same old story,” said I. “No, really, it is. You'd be surprised by just how many of my cases end exactly like this.”
Another case closed and all in a cheesy day’s work for Curt Wensleydale, Cheesy Investigator!
The Prompt
Here is what I had to work with courtesy of Clive:-
Story title - A Grate Horror In Cheddar
Character name - Curt Wensleydale
Object - Radioactive Gouda
Line of dialogue - “This may sound cheesy, but what’s that crawling on the wall behind you?!?”
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