Rigabold was reeling from the smack in the head that he had just received, it was a metaphoric smack in the head rather than a physical one but the reaction was still pretty much the same. His head rocketed backwards and slammed into the padded thing most car owners incorrectly called a head rest.
“Why would you call a safety device invented to protect the neck a head rest?” Rigabold thought. “A driver shouldn’t be resting their head when they are driving. Silly humans!”
It was at that moment Rigabold realised the silly humans and their misnamed items was not his concern, the smack that sent his head backwards in the first place was what he should be concerned with.
Tilting his head forward and looking at the drink container in his hand Rigabold couldn’t believe what he was looking at was actually responsible for the recoil of his neck. How could flavoured cow’s liquid pack such a punch?
Of course he’d tasted moo juice, as it was called on Tumcuddula, many times before, it was part of a good diet. He’d also tasted moo juice with spearmint flavouring twizzled into it, in fact flavoured milk was not just part of a good diet on Tumcuddula it was part of nearly every meal. Flavours like wickleburro and scrudgy, potonboop and tanbilpy and the amazingly powerful and healing coprupa and farrybent were not just favourites, they were considered to be some of the most important drinks ever discovered. But none of them, not even coprupa and farrybent, could match the flavour experience that he was experiencing with the spearmint milk in his hand.
What made the spearmint milk in his hand taste different to the any other time he had it was not something Rigabold could pinpoint exactly, it just was. The best way he could describe it was like tasting flupdankles covered in starcpibles for the first time, which on earth he guessed would be the equivalent of someone else cooking your favourite meal instead of yourself slaving over the hot stove.
He did wonder if maybe eating the spring roll first was in some way responsible for the difference in the spearmint he was used to and the spearmint he was tasting but the Tumcuddulan brain, which may have needed condensing to fit inside a human head, was able to quickly analyse everything and say that was not the case.
So what was it?
He didn’t know.
He just couldn’t work it out.
Even his superior Tumcuddulan brain couldn’t locate that last single piece that solved the puzzle.
What he did know was that he was going to have to find out more about the magical drink, perhaps even sample it and take it home with him so that his fellow Tumcuddulan’s could also taste the fine example of flavoured moo juice.
Putting the milkshake container down in the centre console of the Dodge cabin Rigabold decided there was time after the second part of his feast to seek more information about the liquid refreshment. What he really needed to do at that time was feast on the ultimate delicacy which was sitting on the passenger seat beside him. The temperature outside the car might have been very warm, pushing forty degrees centigrade according to the thermometer in the dashboard, but his Chiko Rolls needed to be devoured hot, not warm, not tepid, hot and the heat from outside was not enough to keep them at the desired temperature for too long.
Because Rigabold had tasted Chiko Rolls previously the process of sampling and savouring the four he had on the passenger seat of the car was not needed. He was of course collecting data about where the best Chiko Roll was being sold but that sort of research didn’t require him to put in the same amount of effort as he did with the Spring Roll, or the amount he’d ended up putting into the milkshake.
Despite not needing to put in the full effort he still put in some effort and as he lifted the first Chiko Roll up towards his mouth the two things he noticed was that his fingers didn’t crush the casing, a very good sign, and the smell, an even better sign. From those two things alone he could tell that the Chiko was neither over cooked, undercooked or drowned in too much cooking oil.
Every mouthful had the crunch he expected, every mouthful had the salty flavouring and every mouthful had the beautifully fried goodness. Rigabold was in Banko, or what Earthlings called Heaven, well maybe not right up there with his ancestors but definitely somewhere close, as he took each bite.
The second Chiko Roll was as good as the first, the third not quiet as good due to the fact that it had spent about half a linpickle too long in the deep fryer. The resulting half a linpickle, or minute to most Earthlings, meant that the oil penetrated the crusty skin just a little too much, it was still crunchy but there was just a hint of sogginess. That didn’t spoil the Chiko completely but it did make it the least pleasant of the four rolls.
The fourth Chiko Roll was good, actually it was better than good, it was excellent. Just the right amount of crisp, the perfect amount of salt, it hadn’t spent too long in the deep fryer and it held its temperature perfectly. The crispy golden skinned roll of goodness tasted so darn good it was worth eating twice, so that’s what Rigabold did!
Sated and comfortable after eating Rigabold again turned to his spearmint milkshake. Again his head was flung backwards against the back of the seat as the flavour burst rocked his entire body.
By the time Rigabold had finished his big cup of green moo juice he had decided that he was going back into the roadhouse to ask Catherine where such a delicacy was available to buy.