Eliminator: a misfortunate tale of discovery and unfortune

“I first encountered the substance whilst curled up in the drawing room with an old book of pornography, left to me by my father, and a large glass of heroine.”

Unlike so much that one drinks nowadays, the eliminator is not available in the supermarkets. By some miracle, the old world has triumphed — or at least has held out against — the modern tide of consumerism, instant gratification and genital shaving. To this day, the Eliminator is available at but one establishment: an eccentric public house in the oldest quarter of Royal Leamington Spa.

I first encountered the substance whilst curled up in the drawing room with an old book of pornography, left to me by my father, and a large glass of heroine. My dear wife, Honoria, grunted meaningfully at me over her shotgun. On raising my head, I found her pointing maniacally at the March 1902 issue of Lots-of-Expensive-Booze Monthly.

My dear wife, Honoria, grunted meaningfully at me over her shotgun.

Reading that volume the previous evening, I had inadvertently passed out in a pool of my own vomit, leaving the publication partially submerged but open. Honoria — for she is an extremely intelligent woman — was greatly excited to discover a black and white image that depicted an asymmetrical decanter filled with a green liquid on the exposed leaf of the periodical.

I bolted from my Chesterfield to the bureau where the journal lay, unsettling a Queen Anne armoire en route, and read the article with uncharacteristic eagerness. In doing so, I learned all that I have recounted thus far.

I bolted from my Chesterfield to the bureau where the journal lay, unsettling a Queen Anne armoire en route, and read the article with uncharacteristic eagerness.

A mere six months later — for these were the golden days of British railways, when no two towns of this sceptre’d isle were more than two years separated by rail — I emerged into the thick industrial fog of Royal Leamington Spa. I remember being shocked at how much less thick the thick industrial fog here was than the thick industrial fog at my home in the metropolis.

A passing vagrant informed me that the renowned eccentric public house was but a short walk away. Pleased, I rewarded him with two guinea pigs and a blowjob.

Pleased, I rewarded him with two guinea pigs and a blowjob.

I enjoyed the walk. Only thrice did brigands succeed in looting me of my every possession, so I was not disheartened on arrival at the allegorical establishment, merely weary.

Contained within a tall building of Georgian sensibilities, the eccentric public house called herself Kelsey’s. Her doormen wore a dark uniform. From their accents, their demeanour and the dainty turn of their ankles, I would gladly wager that they were Poles.

Her doormen wore a dark uniform. From their accents, their demeanour and the dainty turn of their ankles, I would gladly wager that they were Poles.

I made myself comfortable inside the eccentric old girl, and waited impatiently for something to lubricate my throat. After perhaps four minutes and sixty-three seconds, a fine creature in Topshop pumps and a ski jacket delivered me a vessel of the green honeydew. Giddy with excitement and opiates, I was almost so ungentlemanly as to thank her.

I poured a quart into the lead crystal tumbler that I carry in my upper-left-inner-lower-right breast pocket as a point of habit. Lifting the chalice to my lips, I inhaled deeply. The liquid had the nose of an Afghan dancing girl, but the odour of a kiwi fruit. It flowed smoothly down my throat, evoking memories of other occasions upon which I had drunk from a glass.

Lifting the chalice to my lips, I inhaled deeply. The liquid had the nose of an Afghan dancing girl, but the odour of a kiwi fruit.

The taste compares unfavourable to that of fermented goat faeces, a drink in which I overindulged whilst travelling Mongolia with Barry Manilow in the 1870s. Regrettably, I remember little else of the fabled drink, for my evening became clouded by busy, yet incomprehensible, conversation.

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