The delicious aroma of violets parma and raspberry llamas tease and tantalise the nostrils. No matter how much sugary air you suck in, it never quite satisfies.
Home of the tastiest tidbits and tangiest treats, this is Tenpenny Tower.
No nose can resist manipulating the body into unproportionate inhaling to exhaling.
Not even Crumpleberry Jack's nose. Hes worked here long. Too long. Fingers adorned with copious cuts, 20 years of wrapping, unwrapping and wrapping again. His memories, his plans just fizzled into a cycling list of lemon jellows, ruby tuffs, caremel Rembrandt's, salty jizz drops, bacon fruit salads and rory nut nuts. His head splintered, his hopes dashed, he juggles between his faves-unfaves as undecided as a fuss pot goldfish
'Ruby tuffs seem to have finally found a market, but we know not of their lastability.'
He scratched his fat, pimply bottom chin.
'it may be a risk to increase their supplies at the expense of the ever popular chow-wows, but the rubys do represent the cutting edge, the in vogue. Now. This is 21st century bling culture, in which paper is all you seek to create, where grown men use their latest Lacost to wave their willy's, and shopping malls quickly becoming the new family home model, with their frozen foods, varnished furniture and bluray players.'
'Yeah but they taste like diarrhea.'
Gregory Sams sat opposite Crumpleberry, chewing on a licorice, whis was strictly disallowed.
'Eww, why do you have to be so blunt Sams? Our useless consumer society will clearly eat shit as long as its marketed efficiantly. Anyway, it tastes nothing like shit'.
'No it really does Crumpleberry. The way all the old processed junk squidges as you chew, and squezes out runny, stale chocholate, nutty extracts with a hint of eggyness. I've still no idea where the eggyness comes from.'
'Its sweet science,' said Crumpleberry
'its shit,' Sams corrected.
Crumpleberry scratched his chin once more. He did one of those coughs when you don't really need to cough, readjusted his dickie-bow and caressed his bald spot. What he really wanted was to pick his nose.
Gregory Sams got busy, - rustling, sighing, packing, sweeping, cataloging, seranading. Finally he looked up,
'I'm off to lunch Crumples. You want anything?'
'Don't know. Where you going?'
'Probably somewhere down Doosedale Parade. Some greasy goose gut or something' said Sams.
'Ha, i thought you were above eating shit,' said Crumples, all pleased with himself'. 'I'll give it a miss thanks.'
'Alright, see you in forty'
'Ok. Don’t rush.'
Sams was up from his desk, taking strides towards the exit. He patted Jerry Elfin goodbye, ignored Phoebe and Constentine, who were conversing at the marshmallow melter, inhaled the e number firework display and looked foreword to the sun outside. As he opened the sticky green rubbery door, he caught eyes with Crumpleberry.
'Bell end,' he said under his breath and swivelled out the door.


Crumpleberry looked around his work place. His nose desperately needed picking. His never owned a hanky, although he knew he always should've. He couldn't use the lou excuse couse he just came back from there, and didn't want to appear as though he had toilet troubles. Elfin was deep in concentration, applying sugary strips down a strawberry bootlace. Occasionally he would swing his chair to a desk just opposite Crumpleberry to top up his shooter with sugar. Frustrated, Crumpleberry began to study the two women standing at the marshmallow melter. Waves of resentment crashed upon Crumpleberry's upper body, as they always do win he spies these two unpretty women. They can't even pass the time. His body became extra stormy as he realised how unpredictable the prudes movements were. Dizzily tilting their heads from side to side, crossing then uncrossing their legs, getting Jerry involved with their inane conversation - if only they got back to work, then Crumples could use guile and precision timing to really get at that left nostril. The booga in his nose seemed to grow bigger, juicier, itchier with each wasted second.

Doosesdale Parade was as pleasant strip. A mile and a half of pavement bristling in the sunburst, a battle of grey/gold texture that was neither too rich nor too dull. This was by far Gregory's favourite place in horrible Rangleford Tenpenny. The street was lined with boutiques, antiques, second hands and third hands, and not a supermarket or fast - food download store in site. Stagecoaches drifted at a leisurely pace, jolly teabagboys chatted to their customers who lapped up the finest tea selction Doosedale had to offer, and young mothers smiled down to their buggie bound rascals as they treated them to a good view of their clevage. This is all from Gregorys viewpoint of course. His eyes lingered around the exquisit bust and he blushed as the mother caught him having a cheeky look. To his releif, she walked by without incident. Gregs face returned to its natural yellowy white colour.
Gregory Sams was a site to behold. Tall, thin, almost lanky. Unkempt black hair flapping about at an acute angle, three feet from his skull. A face stained by excess, but brown eyes that could still swallow you whole, and cheekbones that could cut through diamonds. He dreesed down on workdays, making do with his ten inch purple stillettos and orange skinny jeans, complimented by a golden brown shirt. He wore a scarlet tunic, with a blue- green hood. It looked quite good.

Being around sweets all day, and not being allowed to stuff them all, did not do the belly good. Under the shimmering afternoon sun, Greg decided goose gut didn't sound like such a tasty idea, so he stopped in his tracks, turned around, and headed towards Fraggles.

Greg sat down in his favourite chair, at the far left hand corner. When it come to food, fraggles was always the safest bet, and Greg liked safety. He picked up the menu from the sticky table.
'Umm. Lets see,' he tought to himself. It wasn't the most diverse of resturant menues- it read something like- Phoebe for starters, main course Phoebe, and for desert, a sumptous slice of Phoebe with smarties, cause Greg loved smarties. He put the menu back on the gooey table, held his hands up against his temples then smeared his face with the two hands. He wanted discapline. He wanted his mind to stop wandering to Phoebe land. He liked her, he really did, but she was tearing up his poor scuzzy head. Not that she had done anything wrong, far from it, she's nice. She's damm lovely. But it was all so dam akward.
' . .sir? Ahem. Can i serve you sir?
Greg looked up, the waitor was smiling politly with his ugly mouth and thin repitle lips. Greg was fed up of being served every other day by this simpleton. The rest of the staff seemed charming, on the ball. This fella was just some geek, the butt of all jokes, locked away in internet gaming with no social life to speak of. It was on this last point that a pang of sympathy shot through Greg.
'Yeah sorry mate, i was miles away there. Umm. Lets see . .'
'You having one of those days mate?,' the waitor asked. Greg continued to disect the menu. He wasn't up for getting chit-chatty with this goon.
'I'll have the roast pork with squid tentacle please. And a stick of celery for the side.'
'Drink?'
'Yeah i'll have the cinnamon soda'
'OK thanks'. The waitor picked up the menu from the table.
'Can you wipe down the table please?' said Greg.
'OK sure.' The waitor hurried off into one of those mysterious 'staff only' rooms. Greg was proud of his assertiveness. In fact he felt pretty hard. 'Keep the goon on his toes' he thought.

Crumpleberry raised his head from under his desk, under which he'd sabataged that elusive bogga. He placed the pencil he'd creatively dropped back on the desk. He was passively soughting through the faultie. Some twit down at the sister factory, Tenpenny Chemical Plant, had mixed the ominous E number 234 into the shipment of D-minor delights. As everyone knows, 234 is prone to cause convulsions in children and mental collapse in the vulnerable. Lucly they were recalled early, with only a minor case of some kid, who imagined the busy aternoon traffic was made up of benevolent unicorns that wanted to be ridden and petted, and some sweet toothed old girl that bought the D-minor delights as a Grandma > Grandchild gift but ended routed to the seat of the bus stop for four hours aftar trying one.
Crumpleberrys savoloy fingers picked and prodded at the guilty delights. He placed the offending box of faultys to one side and took a sip of his liquid marshmallow. With his blue and yellowed eyes fixed on the large green exit door, he got lost in a trance of thought. He hoped that Barton would pay a visit soon. He missed his presence. He would stride in here with his straight back and broad shoulders and a suit to make you moist. He would take command instantly; the dullards would worship every word that came from his square, masculine jaw, bowing down to his Clarks shoes of immaculate polish. If only he was here, he would straighten this place right out. But he’s a busy man, there’s no need for him to be here with these sub humans in this feast of swine.
Crumpleberry then steered his eyes three meters to the left and drank in the sight of the two dullards in front of him.
"Yeah you carry on comparing hairdryers. There are sweets to be filed. Without the big machines that the Chemical Plant has i suppose there's no chance of a fatal accidant." Crumples was agitated, as he usually does about this time of day.
"What you trying to say?" Constantine said with a scowl
"Leave your make -up recommendations at the door and get back to work is what i'm saying, clearly."
Constantine and Phoebe nonchalantly nestled back into their work stations where plenty of jizzdrops needed salting.
Pores had started giving birth to tiny sweat balls around Crumples forehead, descending to the top of his nose via an umbilical cord. Crumple's face, a pinkish, bulging mass of soggy dead skin and dimple prone ruddy cheeks, was made up of more chins than strands of facial hair. The features were as big and as brash as the emotions and expressions the host would project. After a further sip of marshmallow he calmed. He began to have one of his proud and profound moments; after all he was a team member of the great Sugat enterprises which, despite some small controversies, still was lucky enough to have his complete belief and dedication. He would stand by the magical enterprise and its dispersal of sedative sweets until death. Well death of the company anyway. It was only right to be behind Mr. Barton's intentions. A touch of neuroleptics or dopey dopes is surely what our lawless young and lively need right now. And Barton’s stats of a 5.7% decrease in cases of muggings, vandalism and assaults on the ol’ cheery plods were surely accurate.

Gregory was back from lunch now with a newly acquired smug smirk all over his face. He silently turned towards the tinTron 490# console to resume doing boring office stuff.
Constantine and Phoebe left for lunch together, wrestling open the horrid garish green door open then. In the struggle, Phoebe made an odd bum gas noise except it came from her mouth. Slightly embarrassed, Phoebe with Constantine in tow disappeared in her dainty, charming manor.
“What bints”, Crumpleberry wasn’t charmed.
“Oh shut up, you bitter grease ball.” Jerry had at last returned from his Sugat to bootlace trance. “You’re the sour scrooge of Tenpenny, Crumples. Let go a little”
“There’s shit loads of PikMix that needs to be filed and their just chatting about filing their nails. How Barton’s employee standards have drastically fallen. And who is this grease ball you speak of?!! Surely you’re referring to the scruffy crow’s nest of a head that appears opposite me. In fact I’m certain that Sams thinks that bathing only exists in fiction.”
“Don’t involve me grease ball”
“I guess you’re not going to Phoebe’s leaving do, misery guts.”
“I know better than that Elfin. The thought of those puke, piss and needle ravaged establishments are enough to make anyone hermit like.”
“Oh you’re such a queen,” mumbled Gregory into his trusty tinTron.
“Ha look who’s mumbling, you high heeled dandy pirate freak. You’re lucky you survived that cardiac arrest you had when she asked you to seedy do”
“What you rambling about now, you senile old git?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t think for one moment I haven’t seen you looking at her.”
“What? Hush, and get back to dropping magical sweat droplets into your candy box”
“Do not think again that I haven’t seen you turn in to a bashful, blushing camel every time she says hello to you.”
“Alright stop it ladies, both of you,” yelled Elfin. “You’ve dragged me out of my bootlace hypnosis and now I’m all disorientated. I don’t know where I was or at or was not. In fact I feel rather nauseous.” Elfin slowly rose from his chair, all groggy like. “I must dash to the toilets. Back soon”
If a dash looked like a zombie stumble then Elfin dashed to a gold medal. He swayed beyond his work station to the marshmallow melter. It was about here that a stray table leg tripped him over. He fell towards the melter machine in slow motion, throwing his hands out in the direction of the soft plastic casing. He thought better of this and aimed his flailing limbs towards an office chair to his left. But it was too late and Jerry hit the machine with a dull thud, like a championship diver hitting the pool after realising he’s at the shallow end far too late. The mallow melter toppled over, the cylinder encasing smacking wildly at the floor. The plastic body crushed in on itself, the cylinder now flat, 3d becoming 2d.
“OOH SHIT!” cried Gregory
“Good Greif!” bellowed Crumpleberry
Hot mucky marshmallow squeezed out of the sides of the fallen contraption and scolded Elfin, whose contorted body was lying shipwrecked in shallow waters.
“My face is melting!”
Greg swung into action, as a pirate that’s spied some golden trinkets. A dandy pirate that is. Crumples swung round on his chair, shook his head in disgust and remained seated.
Greg dragged Elfins up to his chest and looke at the sizzling mess in awe. Elfin was trembling. “You alright Jel?”
“Fuck! It’s hotter than the Sun!


Constantine picked a teacup from the lapels of the Teabagboy.
“Would you like sugar with that?”
“One scrubbing please. Can’t believe you invited grease ball Crumples to your do. What if he actually turns up?” she said.
“Don’t worry, he won’t,” Phoebe replied, her jet black bobbed hair was coasting in the autumn breeze. Her pale blue eyes looked forlorn, fed up of this idle talk.
The Teabagboy was positioning his head directly over the teacup and he raised his forefinger to his butt fluffy immature beard. When his finger was pressed against his chin he made a rubbing motion and sugar snowed down from his facial hair into the eagerly awaiting cup.
“I hope Greg comes,” Phoebe said, “otherwise it’s just me, you Jerry and Barton, which is pretty pathetic.”
“Oh thanks”
“You know what I mean”
“You said white yes?”
“Yes please”
Teabagboy looked about himself and took a couple of steps back; he looked around a bit more until he was confident there was roughly six inches between him and the table. He lifted his right arm and undone the button submerged in his pit. With some impressive finesse he squeezed at the sponge odor trigger and aimed at the cup. A milk fountain came cascading from his arm pit with pin point precision into a relieved cup.
“What happened to that freak of an ex boyfriend of yours? Is he still stalking you?”, said Constantine.
“No. Don’t think so anyway. Why’d you have to bring up that creep?”
The boy pulled a teaspoon from his trouser pocket in what was his slickest move yet. He started to hop on his left foot while barking some kind of tribal chants.
“HYANA HYANA! ABBA ZABBA ZOOM”.
Such is the responsibility of the jobs worth. He put the teaspoon in the cup and stirred beautifully, the supple wrist movement causing a milk blizzard as his jumping movements ensured every last bit of sugar was crushed in the cup.
“Last thing I heard is that he got fired from those clock makers as a result of spending his work time in pursuit of me. He’s probably got a new job somewhere now. Ain’t seen him in a while.” Phoebe shuddered the shudder she always shudders when Anthony is brought up.
“BABETTE BABOON, ABBA ZABBA ZOOM”
When satisfied he had stirred sufficiently, the Teabagboy removed the spoon, stuck it back in his trousers, then did a delightful spaz dance, reminiscent of Steve Martin in The Jerk. Finally, his duty now done, he bowed to Constantine.
“Well that’s good,” she said to Phoebe as she placed 25p into the boy’s hat.


2

It was a glorious Rangleford Tenpenny afternoon, shallow blue skies with narrow streaks of purple ripping into the endless blue fabric. The sun was out somewhere but it was keeping a low profile, refraining from the city skyline view smug and satisfied; she had over worked this autumn anyway. The city concrete was warm and welcoming, voicing its benevolence with the clicks of muddy horseshoes and the timid pattering of grubby human shoes. The town centre mimicked clockwork – three roads of spritely shop colours with a static roundabout in the middle. The longest thinnest turn off was Hollow Mass street, which was the busiest and contained the most movement with its SpendMart plug-in and eat facilities and series of YouIsFashion! Stores. The road heading north from the center was the famous Doosedale Parade, with its teabagboy, curvaceous young mothers and the rattling stage coach din. The short fat road pointing center left from the roundabout was Gaygles Lime crescent, a consumer ghetto peddling smelly salts and rusty toad legs for the Rangleford mystics. It was before a buldging lime door that Jerry Elfin stood, flicking cigarette ash onto the talkative pavement. His slender frame was dwarfed by Tenpenny Tower, which loomed ominously behind him like a bodyguard ready to swallow the city whole. The builing itself closely resembled a giant coathanger of dull orange brick work, the hook part being the elevator shaft into the floating office of Mr Barton. Stuck to the top of the main frame of the building was a rectangular wooden billboard that had an arm growing out of its sides. The developer went through the trouble of designing shiny glittery white gloves for the dainty hands, the thumbs of which pointed inwards to a sign reading ‘Tenpenny Tower.