Po­lice Of­fi­cer. ’El­lo.

Mr. Hilton. ’El­lo.

PO. Mr. Hilton?

H. Yes.

PO. You are the sole pro­pri­etor and own­er of the Whiz­zo Choco­late Com­pa­ny?

H. I am, yes.

PO. Con­sta­ble Cli­toris and I are from the agent(?) squad, and we would like to have a word with you about your box of choco­lates en­ti­tled the Whiz­zo Qual­i­ty As­sort­ment.

H. Oh yes.

PO. If I may be­gin at the be­gin­ning. First, there is the cher­ry fon­due. Now this is ex­treme­ly nasty, but we can’t pros­e­cute you for that.

H. Agreed.

PO. Then we have num­ber four, num­ber four: crunchy frog.

H. Yes.

PO. Am I right in think­ing there’s a re­al frog in here?

H. Yes a lit­tle one.

PO. What sort of frog?

H. A dead frog.

PO. Is it cooked?

H. No.

PO. What, a raw frog??

H. Oh we use on­ly the finest ba­by frogs. Due picked and flown from Iraq. Cleansed in the finest qual­i­ty spring wa­ter. Light­ly killed, and sealed in a suc­cu­lent swiss quin­tu­ple smooth tre­ble milk choco­late en­ve­lope, and lov­ing­ly frost­ed with glu­cose.

PO. That’s as may be, but it’s still a frog!

H. What else?

PO. Well, don’t you even take the bones out?

H. If we took the bones out, it wouldn’t be crunchy, would it?

PO. Con­sta­ble Cli­toris ate one of those.

Cli­toris. Would you ex­cuse me a mo­ment, sir?

PO. We have to pro­tect the pub­lic! Peo­ple aren’t go­ing to think there’s a re­al frog in choco­late. Con­sta­ble Cli­toris thought it was an al­mond whirl. They’re bound to think it’s some sort of mock frog.

H. [out­raged] Mock frog?! We use no ar­ti­fi­cial ad­di­tives or preser­v­a­tives of any kind.

PO. Nev­er­the­less, I ad­vise you in the fu­ture to re­place the words “Crunchy Frog” with the leg­end “Crunchy Raw Un­boned Re­al Dead Frog” if you want to avoid pros­e­cu­tion.

H. Well, what about our sales?

PO. Fuck your sales. We’ve got to pro­tect the pub­lic! Now what about this one: num­ber five, it was num­ber five wasn’t it. Num­ber five: Ram’s Blad­der Cup. Now what kind of con­fec­tion is that?

H. We use on­ly the finest juicy chunks of fresh cor­nish ram’s blad­der. Emp­tied, steamed, fla­vored with sesame seeds, whipped in­to a fon­due, and gar­nished with lark’s vom­it.

PO. Lark’s vom­it!

H. Cor­rect.

PO. In doesn’t say any­thing here about lark’s vom­it.

H. It does, at the bot­tom of the la­bel, af­ter monosodi­um glu­ta­mate.

PO. I hard­ly think that’s good enough! I think it would be more ap­pro­pri­ate if the box bore a big red la­bel warn­ing lark’s vom­it.

H. Our sales would plum­met!

PO. Well why don’t you move in­to more con­ven­tion­al ar­eas of con­fec­tionary! Like pra­line or lime cream, a very pop­u­lar fla­vor I’m led to un­der­stand. Or rasp­ber­ry light. And then what’s this one, what’s this one. ’Ere we are. Cock­roach clus­ter. An­thrax rip­ple. [sound of vom­it­ing in the back­ground]

Nar­ra­tor. For those of you lis­ten­ing at home, the young con­sta­ble has just thrown up in­to his hel­met. This is the longest con­tin­u­ous vom­it seen on Broad­way since John Bar­ry­more puked over Niotes in the sec­ond act of Ham­let, in 1941.

PO. And what is this one. Spring sur­prise.

H. Ah, that’s one of our spe­cial­i­ties. Cov­ered in dark vel­vety choco­late, when you pop it in­to your mouth stain­less steel bolts spring out and plunge straight through both cheeks.

PO. Well, where’s the plea­sure in that? If peo­ple pop a nice lit­tle choco­late in their mouths, they don’t ex­pect to get their cheeks pierced. In any case, it is an in­ad­e­quate de­scrip­tion of the sweet­meat. I shall have to ask you to ac­com­pa­ny me to the sta­tion.

H. It’s a fair cop.

PO. And don’t talk to the au­di­ence.