Killing for Potatoes

Hmmm… I smell coffee and baked potatoes. Rich, strong, black coffee. The saccharine aroma wafts like a magical phantom to my room and into my nostrils. It feels wonderful; perhaps the kind of feeling one gets from sniffing cocaine. The potatoes, spiced quite adequately, tickle my morning appetite. What a breakfast this promises to be! I snuffle – once, twice, thrice – trying to figure out the direction from which this morning glory comes. It’s not from my kitchen, I know. It must be my next-door neighbour. But then, hmm-hmm, it can’t be. My neighbour is not the coffee type, nor any type of hot beverage. My neighbour drinks only Amstel – morning, noon and night. And potatoes? Certainly can’t be my neighbour. Whoever and wherever you are, I’m going to hunt you, and I’m going to find you. And, sadly for you, I’m going to devour those potatoes and guzzle down that coffee. I’m loading my gun…