Wurstland

This is my submission for day 22 of The Halls of Pandemonium from Bradley Ramsey, as per the picture below.

"Saucisse, Jacques Saucisse"
"It is all there" he said.
Jabbing a gloved finger
at the document in front of him.

This had gone on for hours

The passport apparently was the problem, so, they were back to asking what his name was, again, before getting to the issue.

"This passport sir, doesn't appear to be from a known country" said the customs officer.

"I know it" said the passenger.

"I come from there though,
so I'm bound to.
"Thought you would too".

"Sir, this is not any country I have heard of before, and the passport itself, it feels weird. The material is….”

The passenger interrupted:

“So not only are you doubting me,
But my document too, ah, I see”

“Sir, I don’t think it is the time for poetry or rap, whatever that is”.

“I apologise, it’s like a curse,
but when I’m stressed, I speak in verse”.

“Well, regardless sir, you appear to be travelling with a document from a false country, and it appears to be made of chorizo or sausage skin.

“It smells of meat, too”. said the officer, before the reply came:

“I’ve travelled many times before,
and have never encountered this issue.
It’s making me feel quite distressed,
Perhaps you could pass me a tissue”.

“Now now sir, I’m sure we can sort this out, without tears”, said the customs officer, as he offered a Kleenex. Let’s start with how you got here”.

“By train” the passenger replied”.

“No, I mean how did you get into the country in the first place?”, asked the officer. “I know there’s some thought that we are not the toughest on immigration, but I can’t see how anyone would accept this document, which appears to be produced on a butcher’s offcut and says you come from somewhere that isn’t actually a place”.

“I’ve lived here now a long, long time,
and I will tell you, with this rhyme,
I’ve lived in Richmond quite a while,
I love it there, it makes me smile.

“My work is helping those who feel,
the pain of having no hot meal.
So I give them a meaty treat,
something good and warm to eat”.

“Ah ok, so, some sort of charity then? That’s good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So where are you off to today?"

“I travel where there is some need,
and someone that I need to feed.
I work quite well and aim to please,
I often venture overseas”.

“Ok, but you haven’t said where it is you’re going to, and shouldn’t you have paperwork, supplies or something? You have no baggage. Don’t you have dried food packages or something?"

“Dear sir, when I do take a flight,
I find it best to travel light.
Dried food, no that I can’t abide,
It’s good warm meat that I provide”.

“Well do you collect it when you get there then? I’m getting confused. However, I can’t let you go anywhere with a document that says you come from….hang on….has that changed? It says United Kingdom, but it definitely said ‘Wurstland’ before. This doesn’t make sense”.

“I won’t say you are telling lies,
perhaps some problems with your eyes.
Maybe it looked false, but is okay,
and I can now be on my way”.

“But passport control officer saw it, which is why you’re here in this room, and I saw it too. I’m still not happy with the document itself though or your story not quite adding up. There’s no paperwork, no food parcels, nothing".

“I’ll show you something here and now
You’ll see my words are true,
Not everyone is a fan of it though,
let’s see if that applies to you”

The passenger stepped forward, removing his gloves for the first time, revealing normal thumbs on each hand, but fingers that were made of raw, uncooked sausages.

“Wh…what is that. What’s going on, is this some sort of trick?”, said the officer, now looking more agitated.

The passenger raised a pale ‘finger’ to his mouth in a shushing gesture.

The passenger rubs his hands together, and after about a minute, the fingers change from raw to cooked, the smell of fried meat filles the air, as the customs office stands with his mouth agape.

“Ah. That’s chilled me right out,” said the passenger. “No rhymes now, you see. If you love your work, you get an almost zen-like feeling from it. Now why not try a sausage….ah wait, no knives. I’d assume any you find here are securely locked up. Sensible. Just give me a second”.

With that, he used his right hand to firmly grip the index finger-sausage on his left, twisting and pulling until it came clean off, then repeating it with a couple more.

“I’m sorry, the check at passport control took my plastic fork from me. We’ll have to use our hands, although, I kind of already have”, said the passenger with a chuckle.

The customs officer backed up and used his radio to try and call for support, though he seemed not to be able to get any words out.

“They’re just sausages. They’re good, try one. They’ve fed a good many over the years. This is what I do”.

“What….what are you?” asked the official.

“I’m Sausage Jack”, replied the passenger. “Though I prefer Jacques Saucisse when on international business, feels more....cosmopolitan. I’m here for all your sausagey needs”, he said and thrust a sausage at the customs officer, who had turned pale.

“and what about…those” said the officer, pointing at the gap where the fingers-cum-sausages were.

“Oh, that, I’ll sort that now”.

With that, Sausage Jack rubbed his palms together, first letting out a high-pitched laugh before rubbing his palms together, and almost shouting the chant:

“Sausage Jack, Sausage Jack, oh he would like his fingers back!".

Back upon his hand, grew more uncooked sausages in place of those cooked and served.

As he retrieved his gloves, concealing the porky appendages once more; the official ran from the room, screaming.

“Guess there are no more questions then” said Sausage Jack, making his exit.

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