Poisoning

“You know, SF was recently being poisoned.” During our casual coffee chat, CB suddenly came up with this horrifying statement.

(SF is a very senior nephrologist who emigrated outside the solar system at the turn of the millennium. He always calls himself a sclerotic glomeruli.)

“What’s that all about?” I was puzzled. Although I may not get on very well with extra-terrestrials, I don’t think anyone on earth would have a strong enough intention to knock him out – well, the only potential one had recently stepped down from his chair over the other side of the harbour.

“Oh, you may call it an accident,” my friend explained, “He and a few others dined at that famous restaurant, and, a few hours afterwards, almost all of them became paralyzed – some were so weak that they nearly stopped breathing!”

“Why?” I remained incredulous.

“It was the dessert,” CB went on, “The chef was putting up a new dish, which, in short, had a good dose of minced cigar leaves – as kind of a herb or whatever. The dish was served for a couple of times previously, and the amount of cigar leaf is within the safety limit – well, according to the chef later, safe at least for white people.”

“Gosh! It’s nicotine poisoning!?” KM pursed his lips.

For a moment, the story of Harley Longstreet in The Tragedy of X flashed through my mind.