Le Pain Maudit

A petit village called Pont-Saint-Espirit once suffered from psychedelic outbursts. Every so often, there would be an outbreak and the villagers would fall into delirium. Their blood was turning to roses! their heads heavy like lead! As it turns out, this was the CIA's trickery. They were lacing the village's bread with LSD. It was the Cold War so I guess this delicious deviousness was fair play? I was inspired and wrote a lil something. Here it is!

*New Season*

Monsieur Chocolat was never seen outdoors in the summer. He preferred his utensils—the mixing bowls and heaving whipping cream, the shapely eggs and large wooden spoon—to other company. And besides, he had villagers to poison.
While the villagers smacked their lips and stuffed their pipes, Monsieur Chocolat was busy in his kitchen, cultivating psychedelic mould for his scrumptious pastries. Was it sinful? Uncouth? Unsavory? he wondered as he switched on the heat lamps. Perhaps. “I’m not mad,” he said aloud, “I’m simply bored. And we’ve had such a drought of dreams. The fishermen don’t sing on the docks and the children won’t eat. I must do something!” He stooped down to inspect the mould. It was green and hardened, like hair clumped in the drain, so textured and foreboding. He pinched a sample and held it to the light. Yes, this would do nicely. He put on rubber gloves and gathered his ingredients: butter, eggs, flour, bittersweet chocolate, salt, and mould. He picked up the eggbeater and got to work. Two hours later, Monsieur Chocolat wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a look at his work. Sheets of perfectly glazed petit pain chocolat sat on the counter, lying in wait. He flipped his sign to OPEN.

***
Monsieur Chocolat strolled under the willow trees and smiled. Lovers rolled in the dirt, leaves tangling in their hair. “Mercy” They called. “Roses are blooming from the nutrients in my blood!” He passed by the docks. The fishermen were dancing, casting their lines about each other. “My bounty is deeper than the sea,” a man yelped before diving into the ocean. And when Monsieur Chocolat passed by the perfumerie, a woman with black eyes spritzed the air, clapped twice, and passed out. Monsieur Chocolat put a hand to his stomach. My, my, he did feel dizzy. He fell to the ground, plump belly barely cushioning the fall.

***
What Monsieur Chocolat didn’t know was this: the mould willed itself into creation. The dreamers yearned for it in the tired hours of the night; they were starved for that swirling olive tone in the background of their delirium. Monsieur Chocolat was the perfect conduit as he was foolish enough to believe he controlled the fever. And so as the mould procreated in the kitchen and made its own bread, it laughed, and savored the sweetness of its new home in that doughy flesh.