Chapter 11: The Battle of Yum Kipper

He ambles down Glum St, taking his two little terrier dogs on a typical Saturday morning walk down to the Favourite Cafe-Bar, when he notices a a middle aged woman lying on the footpath just around the corner, with another woman anxiously looking at her, and a shopping trolley loaded with God-knows-what next to them. It’s not an entirely uncommon sight in Fractal City. But he recognises the unconscious woman’s face: she’s not a druggie, is usually cheerful to everyone, and is just another of Fractal’s “special” folk, probably residing at the Heathrow Private Hotel. So he walks over: “Is your friend ok?”

Woman: “Please help! She’s my sister and she’s just collapsed! She’s been coughing up blood all morning!”
He replies: “Ok, u make sure she’s breathing while I call an ambulance.”
Over the mobile phone, directions are given and ailment details relayed. The Emergency Operator: “Ok sir, an ambulance is on the way. Look around u, can u see anywhere which might have a heart defibrillator in case we need it?”
He looks around … the Needle Exchange across the road – unlikely; the Fractal Pub around the corner is well known for it’s heart starters, but not the sort the Emergency Operator means; Fractal Club has one but it’s too far away. “Nope, not near here.”
Emergency Operator: “Ok, is the patient breathing?”
He replies: “Yes, we’ve checked that. But she’s only breathing spasmodically.”
Emergency Operator: “I may need u to help her breathe.”
He looks at the patient closely, at the yellow tinged teeth that successfully divorced their toothbrush over a decade ago. His feels the beginning of slight panic and thinks: “Not mouth-to-mouth, God, please not mouth-to-mouth! U know I will if I absolutely must, but please no! I’ve been good; I’ve done the right thing; just not mouth-to-mouth! Please!”
He says over the phone: “Ummm let’s not be hasty, she IS breathing … yes we DO have breathing happening here …”
Emergency Operator: “Yes sir, that’s good but I may still need u to do something for me to help the patient breathe.”
He is frantically looking down the street, listening, and muttering: “Where is that bloody ambulance … c’mon ambulance! God, please not mouth-to-mouth!”
He peers down at the patient, and relieved to still see signs of breathing.
Emergency Operator: “Sir, are u still there?”
Reply: “Yes, yes, and yes we still have some good breathing happening, all good, all good.”
Then comes the faint sound of a siren.
He says: “Aha, yes, the ambulance is coming now … here it comes, up the street … I can see it … now the ambo is pulling over … the ambo is stopping … the door is opening … I can see the paramedic now, she is opening the door … the paramedic has stepped out, we’re all good now!”
He thinks to himself: “A small step for one paramedic; a giant leap for me.”
Emergency Operator: “That’s great, thank u. U can go now and again, thank u sir for stopping and calling us and helping!”
He picks up the leads of his two terriers, who have been perfectly obedient. They resume their walk to the Favourite Cafe-Bar. It’s just another Spring Saturday morning in Fractal City.


“Hi guys,” says the bleery eyed ABC TV reporter as he and Cameraperson walk into the deliver bay of the Port Fractal Dynamic Design and Print factory. It’s 5am and the Sun is only just peering over the polluted, hazy horizon. “I’m the Content Generator from Aunty,” he says, slightly louder to be heard over the constant whirring and pounding of print presses and binding machinery. “This is FrankieBoi, my Cameraperson. We’re here to film the doco. Who’s in charge?”

Production Manager emerges from seemingly nowhere, and sticks out a calloused hand. “Yeah, I forgot u guys were coming today. Anyway, do what u do, just try to stay out of the way. The directors upstairs don’t come in till after 10. They work gentlemen’s hours, u know. Oh, and this might be a good story angle for u: we are taking delivery today of a brand new, million dollar, state-of-the-art, digital press from HP in Israel. It uses some sorta ‘reactive’ electro static printing process that I don’t understand, but it doesn’t need metal plates and water and chemicals and all those bad things for the environment. See, we are modernising in the paper printing industry!”

“OK,” says Reporter. “Let’s start with the bloke over there, he looks like your typical printer …” As the camera and sound are being set up, Reporter starts chatting to the press operator. “So, what’s your name mate and what’s your job here?”
Pressman: “I’d rather not give my name. (Cameraperson discreetly starts filming) I’ve been running presses for 30 years, son. Started on the old Heidelberg offsets, now on the digital machines. Ink runs in my veins, son. There’s not a press that I can’t handle. These jokers don’t know how lucky they are to have me, I’m tellin’ ya. Always fixing their fuckups. I keep the presses pumping it out in rhythm. This is the pulsing heart of the whole operation. So, why are u doing a doco on us? Do u ever get to do those overseas travel docos? U know, on tropical islands and stuff? Hobnobbing with celebrities, free piss and that?”

Reporter: “Yeah a few months back I took the ferry to French Island. I had to cover the mosquito plague there, and that was fun. I had suggested that this be a doco series on Fractal’s famous sporting events, but instead we have to do a piece called ‘The Dying Industries of the Digital Age’. Ever since the Coalition Government outsourced the ABC management to News Corp, our mandate has been restricted to ‘Primary and Secondary Industries’ coverage only. They farm out the farm stories to us; Foxtel and FOXNews cover all the sports, travel, food, entertainment, politics, terrorism, business, crime, and special investigations. They’ve generously given us the Daily Hun’s Andrew Nut Report, to give balance to the ABC’s social impact. We don’t complain, we can’t afford to. The ABC’s funding is now tied to News Corp Australia’s share price performance, so we actually want more people to take up Foxtel paytv.”

Press Operator: “That’s a bummer. Hey u should talk to Benny, on the cutting machine. He’ll be in soon. He’s good for a yarn. They call him Benny the Blade, from Sunshine. Hehe, with a nickname like that, I bet ya he doesn’t cop any shit from the teenage turds in the local fish ‘n’ chip shop on Saturday nights!”

Reporter and Cameraperson head into the Bindery Room and continue interviewing: “G’day. I’m the Folder/Sticker/Stacker. I don’t wanna talk myself up or anything but this is the most critical part of the entire operation here, cos I’m the last line of Quality Control, before the finished product goes to Dispatch. I pick up any blemishes, and chuck em out, so we maintain top quality stuff. See these here, these are VIP invites to the Fractal Spring Racing marquees. Really important people will get these! I have to make sure they are perfectly folded in half, and have no smudges or scratches. U know, imagine if a really important celebrity guest, like say that fat current affairs host on telly who’s pictured at all the free lunches, was given a badly made invite, it might ruin her entire freebie weekend! All that publicity money wasted! I would be mortified and I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night! So u see, this is a very serious job that I do.”

The workers have Radio 3AW quietly playing in the background, and announcer Dennis Walter is saying: “I have NEVER done advertorials and I NEVER will! Now, let me tell u about a fabulous cruise I recently took my family on, with Princess Cruises …”

The filming continues: “Hi guys, I’m counting these invite cards into groups, rubber banding them and putting them in boxes. As u can see, we are artisan craftsmen here. We place a great deal of care and devotion in what we do. U could say this is handcrafted rubber banding. U don’t realise the important role that rubber bands have in our lives, until u have been on the floor of a print factory. U just never know when u will need a good quality rubber band. In fact I never leave home without a handful of rubbers in my pocket.”

On to the next work station: “Hey guys, I hope they’re looking after u. I’ve just started here, so I’m new. It’s a great place to work and everyone’s friendly. I put down on the job application how I’m doing my Master’s thesis part-time for a psychology degree, and I’m a rapper in the night clubs on weekends. So they gave me the Shrink Wrapper job here. It’s cool. And the career paths – there are heaps of exciting upskilling opportunities! I can learn to be a Folder, a Rubber Bander, maybe even get on the cutters one day. I’m keen to apply some of Archimedes’ principles of mass and displacement, to see if we can improve how we pack the boxes. I never knew that a print bindary was so … ummm, mentally challenging!

And the next work station: “Yeah, this is Dispatch, this is the most important part of the business. We never stop. All my jobs so far this morning have gone to interstate and overseas. So, u could say my job description is Manager of Logistical Operations, Global. Not just anybody could deal with these Couriers, I’m telling ya. And our Drivers! Sorry, I gotta make this phone call … ‘Where the bloody hell are u? U were supposed to drop that off there an hour ago! Hurry up and get ya arse back here’ …. Sorry, where were we? Oh yeah, the Drivers. Even after years of doing it, this job can really test ya.”

It’s now mid morning, and Reporter is shocked to see huge men in black camouflage fatigues, balaclavas and masks, touting weapons and security paraphernalia, swarm in through every door. “Hut, hut, hut,” they chant in unison, as they fan out into every corner and tramp up the stairs and on to the factory roof.

“Oh,” Production Manager appears behind Reporter and Cameraperson, “I forgot to mention that we’ve been tipped off about another big protest some time today, at the factory next door. It’s an Israeli firm that makes those remote control flying drones that the US Army uses in Iraq and that. U know, they use them for spying and to bomb terrorists and stuff. The anti-terrorism officers and national security agents and whatnot will be using us as their headquarters for the day. So try to stay out of their way. Cheers.”

Reporter can’t believe his luck! He hasn’t been this excited since … since he bought those Jamie Oliver lamb chops at Woolies. He steers Cameraperson over to the tallest, most serious looking agent, who’s wearing sunglasses and whispering into his wrist. “Hi, ABC TV here, can u tell us what u expect will happen here today?”

Head Agent: “If I told u, I’d have to kill u. Now shut that camera down, pretty boy, and I’ll prep u on the security measures.” Cameraperson, who is self-proclaimed gender-neutral, bristles at being called a boy, adjusts his/her baseball cap, and pretends to turn off the camera.

Head Agent: “OK, listen up and listen good. These premises are now Security Command Central for F.A.T. Agents – that is, Fight Against Terror. U can relax, Mr Glock here (patting the holster on his thigh) and I will take good care of u, when those Jihadist terrorists get here. We are prepared for any eventuality. See those agents over there,” he indicates agents who are filling up colourful, plastic water guns at the wash trough, “those may look like kiddies’ supersoakers, but in reality they are anti-personnel devices containing a cocktail of capsicum spray and a new, top secret formula that we aren’t permitted to test on laboratory rats. Hey, it’s a genius idea! Water pistols are a breeze to get through Customs and Border Inspection … but not cheap – the research program has already blown its billion dollar budget. Anyway, we’re stoked to be able to deploy liquid assets in the Fight Against Terror. Now remember, u never saw them, and u are now under the Official Secrets Act.”

Reporter: “No worries mate! U can trust us. Don’t think of us as the Leftie ABC anymore, think of us as more like FOXNews. We’re on your side! Does your anti-terrorism unit have a knickname?

Head Agent: “That’s what we like hear, a good patriot! In the F.A.T. game, we’re known as ‘The JohnnieHowards’, and we’re called in when the local cowboys can’t handle the heat. We used to have to go looking overseas for a war, but thankfully our new God fearing leaders, like Abbott and Bishop, are doing their best to bring the war to our shores. U could say, the Mountain is coming to Muhamad! (He chuckles, impressed with his own wit) We haven’t had this much action since … oh, remember that ‘Tampa/Children Overboard Incident’? Our entire unit shared News Corp’s Australian Hero Medal that year. Yeah, those were the days! God I miss Peter Reith. Now listen up, we have good intel on these so-called protesters today, we know their names, their tactics, where they veg out, where they buy their incense sticks. We own these people. U just relax. This printing factory is listed on the Liberal Party’s Registry of Significant Business Donors, so (he winks) we have u covered. If those Jihadist terrorists so much as let off a celery scented fart, we’re gonna squirt ’em! Hehe.”

Suddenly there’s an ear splitting wail of excruciation from the Printing Room: “Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!” The agents all crouch and cock their, er, supersoakers. All the workers grimace; they know this sound all too well. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh, paper cut! paper cut! paper cut!” Production Manager rushes forward to the stricken printer, who is clutching his index finger. “Are u ok mate? How bad is it? Do I need to get the Second Aid Kit? The Third Aid Kit?”

Stricken printer: “Nah, u know how the bosses upstairs are about WorkCover premiums. I’ll survive. But bloody hell it hurts! Gotta suck it up and eat the pain! Eat the pain. Eat the pain …”

Benny the Blade has just arrived and points at the camera. “Youse see that! This is the sorta danger we face every minute of every day, in the printing game! See all these sheets of paper? Each one has four edges, did u know that? Yes, four potential sources of an agonising injury. We have millions of sheets of paper in here, and each one of ’em is pain four-ways. U gotta be a professional and know what u are doing, always alert and on ya guard. See my scarred hands? That’s from over 30 years of working the cutters. I can slice and dice in a trice. I’ve worked all the big cutters all over the north and west of this God forsaken city. See the blade in this cutter? It’s deadly. U have to go school to learn how to use this machine. I’m quick and through and I get it right the first time. A bloke once said, ‘Benny old boy, if the Ancient Egyptians had been lucky enough to have u, they woulda built the Great Pyramid in a day. And they woulda got it right the first time.'”

The interview is interrupted by heavy clunking and thumping noises on the factory roof, as the armed F.A.T. agents hurriedly take up forward defensive/recon positions. It reminds Reporter of the opening scene to the first Star Wars movie. He half expects the doorway to explode and to see Darth Vader marching in … but he only sees ever-busy Production Manager coming through the doorway.

The printing presses whirrrr on, not missing a beat; cutters keep cutting; folders keep folding; nothing stops production. Head Agent pokes his head down the stairs and calls out: “Relax folks, false alarm. Apparently there’s also an anti-duck hunting protest going on at the duck meat outlet across the road. We don’t want to waste our ammo and, umm, special ‘serum’ on those amateurs, so we’ll let the local boys in blue round ’em up.”

Reporter files some teaser footage back to the station, showing unidentifiable armed agents etc. His Content Producer calls and says this will be good as a promo to that afternoon’s live video blog by Andrew Nut, which will focus on the Liberal Government’s vigilant guard against homegrown terrorism.

Reporter takes Cameraperson out the front to the road, to interview the anti-duck hunting protesters. He’s thinking, this is still technically a “primary industry” issue, so it vaguely falls within the ABC’s editorial guidelines and he’s not stealing FOXNews’ thunder … not really.

“Hi, ABC TV here. This is the head office of a business that sells duck meat, and it’s a retail outlet. These ducks are farmed and processed for eating; it’s not really like these people are shooting ducks in the wild. It’s not even Duck Season. Can I ask why u have chosen to protest here?”

“Yeah sure man,” replies Dreadlocks, “It’s cos of all these State Government fees and permits we have to pay. Since the State Liberal Government (he raises his voice for the benefit of all the protesters) introduced the ‘Laurie Levy’ on all protests against duck hunting (the hundreds of protesters all hiss as one) in State Parks, we can no longer afford to take on the hunters in the swamps. Most of us are jobless and on the dole, man, u know, or students. So we are picketing this business here, as a major symbolic gesture. The owners of this business make millions from the suffering of the innocent ducks.” The huge mob of protesters are becoming agitated and unruly. Adding fuel to the fire, the cafe around the corner doesn’t offer a vegetarian option for lunch today. Dreadlocks further raises his voice, for the crowd’s benefit: “The media must inform the public of what’s going on here! The Fascist Liberal Government has denied us our right to save the wee duckies in the wild. Well, hey, it’s said that there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Well, there’s more than one way to FUCK A DUCK-PLUCKER! Oh and guys, this protest may be recorded for coaching purposes.”

The protesters roar their support. Across the road, the anti-terrorism agents are on the printing factory roof, watching … hoping … aiming their supersoakers … if only one protester would stray over this way … “yeah, come and get ya ‘green dream’, Greenie” ….

Cameraperson is filming it all.

Next door to the duck meat business, in the delivery driveway of a large Scandinavian porn import distribution warehouse, Snow has hastily started a pop-up WRX dealership. He is reclining on a deckchair, wearing trendy shades, choofing on a fat one, pointing at the police officers on the street and screeching out: “My WRX is perfectly legit and ya caaaaaaan’t touch me, ya caaaaaaaaaarnts!”

Back inside the printing factory, a printer gets ready to eat his lunch while on the job. Can’t stop for moment. Today, the good wife has packed him a tin of delicious sardines and crackers. The Forklift driver is busy moving pallets of paper. The Shrink Wrapper is busy shrink wrapping. The Folder is busy folding. And so on.

Next door, three or so anti-drone protesters, dressed in clown suits for disguise, have arrived by public transport, which was running late of course, and have begun scrawling messages on the footpath with coloured chalk. It’s a disappointing turnout for them, but they will still get their message out. High above, the armed agents now have their weapons trained on them.

Across the road, a truck arrives, loaded up with boxes of freshly processed duck carcasses. Local police have formed a human cordon to allow the truck through the anti-duck hunting protesters. The protesters refuse to budge. Push, push, push …

Inside the printing factory, cutter calls out to printer: “What’s for lunch?” Printer answers, above the constant, background noise of productivity, “Yummy Kippers and crackers. Yum!”

Across the road at the duck business, the protesters are winning the fight. They have gained a good hold on one side of the truck, and they turn it on its side. Dozens of cartons spill out the back and burst open. There are now hundreds of processed, headless ducks strewn across the driveway and out onto the road.

Cameraperson keeps filming.

Anti-drone protesters stop scrawling and look on with envy. “Bloody amateur duck lobby, just look at them,” says one. “Yeah, unorganised rabble. And look, they have a TV crew filming them! We take on the might of Mossad, we risk tear gas and water cannon, our cause is international, we’re fighting the entire American Military Machine and the corrupt Western-Middle East Conspiracy, and what media coverage do we get?”
Second anti-droner points to the print factory’s driveway next door, “Hey, what’s that huge crate they’re unloading? It says on the outside that it’s from Hewlett Packhard Labs in Techion, Haifa. That’s in Israel.” They stop scrawling obscenities in chalk, and as nonchalantly as possible, stroll over to the crate where one of them peels back a section of wrapping. She reads out loud: “It says, ‘NewClear Reactor digital electro static printing press’. Hmmm ‘NewClear’. Is that Techionese for … Good God in Heaven!! They’re installing Newcs!!” The anti-droners look at each other with dismay! One exclaims: “This print factory is now Occupied Territory!” Anther points to the roofs of all the factories down this side of the road: “Look up there, see those thousands of little metal spikes along the gutters and the wire netting covering the entire roof, that’s not there to stop the pooing pigeons; it’s a huge, complex satellite communication network! Yeah, I had heard that Israel had secretly put a satellite communication station on the dark side of the Moon …”
The anti-drone leader snaps his fingers: “Yes, of course … These Israeli drone makers have slowly taken over the entire West Bank of this main road in the industrial heart of Port Fractal! Right under our very clown noses!”
The third anti-droner raises his chalk-grasping hand in the air, beseechingly asking: “How can we fight these people? We only have sticks and stones – and this chalk, coloured with environmentally friendly, vegetable based ink dyes!” Anti-drone lead clown: “Ok, this is way too dangerous, now that they’re drones are probably armed with Newcs. Let’s quickly split up and go different tram routes, so we can throw them off if they tail us. We will meet up for the leadership security debriefing in the Emirates Marquee on Port Fractal Cup Day.” The three head off separately, each frantically texting on social media: “Abort! Abort! Abort!”

Meanwhile across the road, the canard carnage continues. Reporter ducks behind the police inspector’s car, to avoid the mayhem and Cameraperson, who happens to be vegan and is vomiting at the sight of all the trampled carcasses, takes a call on the mobile from Content Producer: “Boss, it’s the worst sight I’ve ever seen. It’s … it’s … God, they’ve killed all the old ducks and chopped their heads off! There are hundreds of them, lying there in the street, the innocent little things, all naked with goose bumply flesh, and without their heads … Sorry I’m gonna throw up again.”

Inside the printing factory, printer struggles to open the lid on his tin of sardines with one hand, his other hand busy on the levers and buttons. The lid finally starts to peel back. He’s almost got it … The tension on the tin builds as he keeps forcing it … TWANG! The tin flies out of his hand. Unfortunately, at that very moment, Forklifter comes around the corner … and cops it full on the face! A sprats splat! Even more unfortunately, printer brought only one tin and he is bloody hungry. But even more unfortunately than that, Forklifter is allergic to fish.

Head Agent extends his hand, palm forward, to urge quiet, as he listens intently to his ear piece. “Shhh guys, I’m getting a live feed from FOXNews … Holy Bob Menzies!! Do these people have no decency! The Fractal Jihadists have cut the heads off hundreds of old ladies, and dumped their naked bodies in the street gutter! Hang on (he holds his ear piece firmly) … Ok, ok, understood!”
To the staff and agents again: “Alright, I’ve been told the Attorney General has raised the national terror alert status from Weathercock Amber to Weathercock Magenta. Now (specifically to the factory workers), don’t fret folks, the nation isn’t officially at war until Weathercock Puce.”
To the armed agents: “Ok ladies, lock and load! Switch your water gun settings from ‘stun’ to ‘well done’.”

Outside, at the duck protest, Police Inspector decides they’ve all had their fun and it’s time to break it up. He addresses the crowd via up his car’s public address system: “Attention! This is the inspector from the Federal Department of Employment and from the Australian Tax Office!” Before he has even finished saying the word “employment”, Snow has completely packed up and vanished. The protest mob melts away in moments. About half of the duck outlet employees leave too; the managers can be seen through the office window, busily shredding documents. However, Inspector is pissed off to see dozens of his own constables also take off down the road.

Inside the printing factory, Forklifter is in panic mode. His forklift is jammed in first gear, and his whole body is rapidly swelling in allergic reaction to the kippers – his hands so bloated that he is fast losing control of the steering. He heroically guides his forklift away from the printing presses, miraculously missing every worker, and manages to grab a huge, thin sheet of uncut white paper as he passes a loaded pallet. He tries to wipe the kippers off his face with it but fails and the sheet settles over his head, covering most of his body. He desperately tears open a narrow slit to see out off, as his over-revving forklift careens through the doorway and into the Bindary Room. Benny the Blade looks down at the kippers’ stain on his brand new KingGee work pants, and slowly shakes his head. The kippers are in chilli sauce, too. The good wife will not be impressed tonight. She’s just not gonna believe this story. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his jar of blue berry ice Powerade powder. Slotting his water bottle under one arm, Benny the Blade begins unscrewing the jar lid as he purposefully strides through the doorway into the Bindary Room.

Reporter and Cameraperson walk in, still filming.

Head Agent reacts like a cat on steroids. Bearing down on him is an unknown individual on a speeding forklift, honking the horn and screaming obscenities, their body suspiciously bulging under a white sheet that masks the face, with impossibly swollen hands trying to steer the vehicle. Head Agent barks into his wrist: “Puce! Puce! I’ve got an ebola burka bomber on a forklift!”

His crack team acts with precision, sending streams of liquid from their water guns straight at Forklifter, who leans heavily to one side, sending his vehicle into a sliding spin. In a split second, Forklifter cops a better drenching than a sheep on a Shepparton farm, and most of the kippers are washed off. But to the huge disappointment of Head Agent, the special “serum” appears ineffective: it has been formulated to knock down vegetarians of all persuasions but Forklifter, being a typical Aussie omnivore and partial to a good rump steak, has some sort of immunity.
“Bugger,” mutters Head Agent. There goes another billion dollars in research, down the drain …
However, the capsicum spray component is kicking in. As Forklifter’s allergy swelling immediately subsides, his eyes begin to itch and well up. He is gaining control of the forklift with his hands, but is rapidly being rendered blind.
“Frag him, frag him,” shouts Head Agent. A loyal subordinate hurls a grenade at Forklifter but, as you’ve probably guessed, it’s a waterbomb full of the special, “deadly” serum and, therefore, quite harmless.
Benny the Blade arrives on the scene, pours the entire contents of his Powerade powder into his water bottle, gives it a thorough shake, takes careful aim and unloads the entire contents on Forklifter’s face as he speeds past. The effect is immediate; the change more impressive than that of the Blue Power Ranger. The Powerade powder’s alkaline properties neutralise the capsicum spray’s acidity, and Forklifter, as we used to know him, is back in the driver’s seat and in complete control. He slams his machine into reverse, backs it up into the delivery entrance, and switches it off.
“Ummm … Sorry guys. Really, it wasn’t my fault. Honest.”

Head Agent tells his troops: “Stand down, stand down, false alarm. Let’s withdraw in alpha formation but stay on alert … those kippers may well have just been a red herring.”

At that moment, in walks the Managing Director, downing a can of Coke and munching a Crunchie: “Ahhh, the ABC doco guys. I forgot u were coming today. Look, it’ll probably be a bit of a dull day, and I heard the protest next door was a bit of a fizzer. But we are taking delivery of a whiz bang, state-of-the-art, million dollar, imported digital printing press today and that’s causing a bit of excitement around here.”
He looks around the factory floor, frowns, and calls out to the workers: “Hey guys, can we try to use a little less water around here? It’s not cheap these days, and we do want to reduce our green footprint. Cheers!”
Heading up the stairs to the office, he lowers his voice and says to Production Manager: “Mate, all of those full 20-litre containers of Iso-Propyl-Alcohol seem to have gone missing …”


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