The Stinky Cheese Woman

[Published in Planet Prozak]


“It’s the Stinky Cheese Woman,” Matthew whispered to himself, his nose pressed right up to the window.
He watched as the little white van ambled into the avenue. It distracted his attention from the people without lives. The house-husbands; washing motor cars, mowing lawns, paying mortgages, all with grim expressions on their haggard faces. Matthew promised himself he would never become an adult.
The van stopped outside number sixteen. It remained as still as something that had dies, but only for a few seconds or so. Then the Stinky Cheese Woman stepped out. Her body consisted all of fat, plus more fat besides. She was almost obese, but just escaped this qualification by a couple of chins or so. It was as if she had been devilishly squeezed into a more respectable shape at some time in her existence. Still, Matthew reckoned she was pretty much repulsive, and wondered from what kind of establishment she acquired her clothing.
He watched as she trundled up the pathway of number sixteen. Mrs Thistleberry was not in for a treat, he fancied. Her shabby long white coat concealed the bulk of her bulk, and Matthew thanked God for that, or at least some spiritual all-ruling entity. Upon her head was perched a hat. It resembled the strange white crust of a strange white pie, and her hair straggled out from beneath like weeds protruding from inside a grave. Matthew shuddered. It was a cold day.
He clambered off the armchair and crept out of the room. He glanced left and right at the entrance to the hallway, as though expecting some lights to change and a traffic jam to suddenly become a traffic flow. Mother was in the kitchen, whistling some silly tune. Father was in the bedroom masturbating, although Matthew was unaware of this. Outrageously he scooted along the hall and tugged the front door open before dashing outside, almost like an inmate escaping from a minimum security prison. He breathed in the cold air. It wasn’t the first time he had used his lungs.
The silence of the afternoon consumed him. He crept across the road - he was good at creeping - until he was barely yards from the little white van. He looked around at the zombies in their gardens and their drives. They appeared oblivious even to their own existence, as they continued with their tasks like brainless androids. Matthew approached the van until he was close enough to touch the whiteness. He held his breath, but not for long. He knew that people had died through doing such a thing for a while longer than they ought to have done.
He gazed across at the Stinky Cheese Woman one more time before he gripped the rear doors of the little white van. Then he pulled them open. At once the excruciating smell hit him, like an icy blast from a walk-in freezer. He shrank back like a frightened insect, and then settled his gaze upon the wares that were lurking in the van.
Cheese. Plenty of it. Lots and lots. And it seemed to be glaring at him, with its atrocious stinkiness. Lurid and noxious. Vile and disturbing. Wicked and insane. Peculiar and horrible. Monstrous and… even more monstrous?
“Brie?” yelled the Stinky Cheese Woman as soon as Mrs Thistleberry opened the front door.
In her almighty hand was a nifty parcel entwined with a red ribbon, which was twisted into an impossible knot. It resembled a ghastly present, perhaps for a birthday or for Christmas, despite its foul odour and crumbly exterior. A tag was attached, declaring, in an almost illegible scrawl, that inside the dainty package was a dainty titbit, namely Brie.
Mrs Thistleberry was taken aback, regarding this invasion as a horrid affront. Interruptions were rather too frequent for her liking, and perhaps for her own good, although she would be the first to disagree on that score. Something dim lurked in the hallway. The morning newspaper, that was all.
“Erm… I have lots of cheese at the moment,” mumbled the disturbed housewife. “I have a fridge full, to be exact.”
“Then buy another fridge!” enthused the stinky saleswoman. “Wensleydale?” She thrust another identical package at Mrs Thistleberry’s disgusted features.
Mrs Thistleberry screwed her face into something gruesome before stepping back slightly into the castle that was her kingdom. The awful smell was quite putrid, although the Stinky Cheese Woman appeared immune to this.
“I don’t think so,” she muttered, her face a red flush.
“Then what about some English place names?” said the Stinky Cheese Woman, plopping the smelly parcel back into her basket, and scratting around in search of other pseudo-delicacies. “I have Lancashire, Gloucester, Cheshire, Leicester…”
“Cheshire!” screeched Mrs Thistleberry. It seemed as if she had prematurely blundered upon her tether’s end. Realising the absurdity of her shrill scream, she readjusted the tone of her voice to add. “My grandmother came from Stockport.”
“Excellent!” yelled the cheeseperson. “Then Cheshire it will be.”
She scrambled around in the basket with her chubby fingers, before plucking out a hideous packet that reeked as though there was no tomorrow. Cheshire, Mrs Thistleberry presumed. She took it from the stink-lady, immediately distorting her face once again upon feeling the horrendous squelchiness that surrounded the item. The Stinky Cheese Woman then gave her a price that caused her heart to jump, and she produced her purse in a jiffy.
“What’s that noise?” snapped the purveyor of stenchy goods, her enormous ears twitching and flapping supernaturally.
“Erm… I don’t know,” said the housewife, attempting to hide both guilt and embarrassment behind a painted expression of surprise.
A strange humming sound emanated from somewhere above the stairs. It was quite preposterous, as though there were creatures up there. The Stinky Cheese Woman was very confused.
“It’s coming from upstairs!” she cried, her eyes glaring. Quite a vile sight.
“I… I left my vibrator on!” sobbed Mrs Thistleberry, squeezing her knickerless thighs together beneath her skirt and handing the salesperson a five pound note. “Keep the change…”
She then slammed the door shut, nearly scraping the portly nose from off the face of the highly-proportioned cheese seller.
Matthew could see her sensible shoes bouncing along the garden path of number sixteen. He imagined an earthquake occurring, infinity on the Richter scale, but of course no large holes appeared in the nearby earth, not even a fissure, such are the wanderings of a small boy’s mind.
The gate swung open, and crashed shut seconds later. The sound of the footsteps increased in volume to such a degree that Matthew squeezed his ears shut, or at least attempted to. The hideous cheesy stench swept into his nostrils, making him feel rather nauseous, as he stood trembling beside the yawning doors of the little white van. Quite soon the magnificently huge figure of the Stinky Cheese Woman cast a splendid shadow over his shivering bones.
He watched her staring at him, an obscene glare that ought not to be delivered to such an innocent child. His knees knocked and his veins froze as she burdened his mind with her haunting and intimidating presence. No words left her lips though, and because of this Matthew reckoned he was about to receive a silent punishment for his intrusion on her reekish wares.
He jumped as she lifted her right hand and started to rattle around in her basket of petite parcels. His queasiness increased as she performed this unnerving trick, and he wished that cheese had never been invented. She appeared to threaten him with a fresh wave of terror, although ‘fresh’ seemed an inappropriate word under the circumstances. But then - oh what horror - she suddenly lifted an appalling package from inside the basket and almost lanced Matthew’s pre-pubescent nose-boil with it.
“Gorgonzola?” she asked with an asinine smile.
Matthew cried out, his nerves as shredded as a Watergate document. He ran like a frightened scaredypants, across the road and into his own house, his fortress of semi-security. Slamming the front door behind him, he placed his back against its warmth. He was panting, panting, like an asthmatic dog that had fetched back too many sticks. He could hear Mother in the kitchen, whistling a different silly tune. Then Father came wobbling down the stairs, clutching a post-masturbatory smile to his features, and bearing the tell-tale smell of sperm upon his person, and a Clinton-style stain next to the zipper of his corduroys. He ambled zombie-like into the lounge before settling into a comfortable chair, still holding the grin tightly. Until the next pleasurable self-abusive moment.
Regaining his bravado, Matthew glanced out of the window to witness the white van shuffling off out of the avenue, like an ice cream van minus the mind-destroying tune, the ice cream replaced by cheese and its strong odour. A silent hurrah reverberated inside his head, and following this his chosen plan of action was to creep, like a naughty schoolboy, into the kitchen, hoping that Mother would not notice him.
There was no way in the universe that she would notice him, for she was indulging in that awesome task known to all as cockroach hunting. Down upon her knees, with her ample behind thrust into the air in a sexually suggestive manner, it was definitely not a pretty picture. The soles of her slippers Matthew could see had worn away terribly, as if she had stepped up and down the stairs much too often. Her tights were thick brown and full of twists and wrinkles, and the state of her underskirt implied that a lot of Charlies were dead.
But Matthew was not concerned about this. He even ignored the rampant black creature that suddenly scuttled across the lino, only to be thrashed to death by a rolling pin held in Mother’s steadfast grip. The kitchen implement was already stained with violent imprints of recent-dead insects, namely cockroaches, spread up and down in dark splotches. Matthew vowed not to touch her next home-made meat and potato pie.
Instead he advanced further into the room, until he stood trembling beside the refrigerator. His slick and sweating hand grabbed the handle, and he tugged at it, as though he were pulling at some repugnant schoolgirl’s pig-tail. There was a zany hiss as the coldness escaped from inside, and then he caught sight of the appetising wonders that this cool paradise contained. Shelf upon shelf of charming little bundles, tied together with red ribbons, and exuding a smell of much horror. He reached inside and took a piece of powerful-smelling Edam, before closing the door and tipping on his toes to leave the room.
There was a mad crashing sound as Mother pounced on another darting cockroach.
“Mrs Isadora Stinky?” yelled Mr Knott through the letter box. “Open the door, we know you’re in there! Trading Standards!”
Mr Knott had obviously seen too many television movies to demonstrate such an absurd action. However it was partly to impress his colleague Miss Trumble, as he had been sniffing around her for weeks, attempting to get at the curlies that existed inside her M & S knickers, red and non-virginal.
“I don’t think she’s answering,” muttered Miss Trumble, stating the bleeding obvious as she stood in her beige trews and not-so-trendy bomber jacket outside the said residence of the Stinky Cheese Woman.
Mr Knott twinkled an eye in his partner’s direction. “We have ways,” he grinned, as he delved into his trouser pocket, just avoiding his jutting erection as he scrambled around in there with his hand. Seconds later he produced an enormous set of jangling keys of all dimensions and shapes. “Watch this, Miss Trumble.”
This she did, as Mr Knott tried one after the other in the stinky keyhole that was situated before them, like the unholy and forbidden love-hole that belonged to Miss Trumble which he longed to penetrate himself. Boredom crept upon her like a tenacious cat, sinking its gruesome claws into her psyche and implanting knots of utter tedium into her brain. She yawned, thus displaying one of the symptoms. Then she turned to look around the street.
The little white van was parked outside the house, concealing its cheesy stench within. Miss Trumble wondered exactly how many people had been taken ill following the consumption of this cheese seller’s merchandise. A whole ward full at least, she conjectured, casting her mind back to the retching, screeching collection of sad wretches in the local infirmary, sticky wads of digested cheese falling and splattering from their curled lips. Selling contaminated cheese was definitely not to the liking of the dreaded Trading Standards organisation, the Gestapo of the retail business.
“Bingo!” cried Mr Knott.
Miss Trumble wondered what number he had come up on, but then she was swept out of her daydreams and deposited like a squashed frog into the real world again. She spotted that her colleague had unlocked the front door of the Stinky residence, and was about to push it open in a quiet manner. He did this, and immediately something hideous came out from within the house. A vicious, screaming stench of much vileness, a violent smell that she guessed had come from some hidden den of stale cheese. She was so overcome that she fainted, flopping down like a house of cards on to the garden path.
“Miss Trumble!” shouted Mr Knott, sinking to his knees before his object of desire. Realising that she was unconscious, he furtively considered carrying her indoors and interfering with her clothing. “Not in this stink,” he thought, and so he propped her against the foul-smelling dustbin before creeping beyond the threshold of the cheese-house.
He yearned for a clothes peg as he pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to quell the nauseous odour that shrieked around his ears. The interior of the place was as silent as a stinky tomb. Everything appeared quite normal, or as normal as could be under the circumstances. Armed with a karate chop he had picked up from a Bruce Lee movie, he ventured into the lounge, sweeping his stiffened hand in an arc like someone showing off. The room was as still as a garden rake that had been placed in an immobile position. So he walked carefully into the kitchen, his heart banging insidiously and his nerves yelling vile threats to him.
“Get the heck out of here!” they cried, but Mr Knott was having none of it. His aim was to impress Miss Trumble, unconscious or not.
Upon discovering that the downstairs area was completely devoid of life, he started to sneak upstairs. Still the awful quietness prevailed, as if death was present in that house, or a loathsome beast was hiding in some shadows. Mr Knott shuddered at the thought; and then, summoning up some boldness from inside, he decided to demolish the silence with some shouting.
“Mrs Isadora Stinky?” he yelled. “This is Trading Standards! We’re here about the cheese…”
His voice trailed away into the walls and the dark gloom. The reports concerning the Stinky Cheese Woman’s goods had been quite damning. Illness here, vomiting there, and a repugnant smell almost everywhere. A repugnant cheesy smell. Mr Knott was determined to check it out, to investigate this dreadful business.
“This woman should not be allowed to sell infected cheese like this,” he thought to himself as he shuffled across the landing carpet, as quiet as a ghost. Every room door was closed, which caused him to swear under his breath. He tried the first one, and encountered a bathroom, but no stink of any kind… and no cheese woman. He turned the second knob, and pushed open the door. It gave a creaking sound but nothing more; no cheese, no Mrs Stinky, zilch. So he opened the third door, and as he did so he detected the ghastly odour he had come to know so well.
Cheese.
And it didn’t smell very healthy. In fact, it smelled more like dead cheese, if that were possible. At once he felt his guts begin to churn, and he heaved up something he had eaten at breakfast time. It popped out on to the carpet, viscous and colourful. He thought no more about it. He had more urgent things to occupy his mind. He slowly swung the door open, anticipating something horrible… and something horrible was in there.
The stench endeavoured to swallow him up, such was its intensity, as he stood in the doorway observing the gruesome sight in front of him. The room was devoid of all furnishings, not even a carpet or curtains. The smell seemed to become more powerful as he lingered there, and he contemplated fleeing in disgust, but this was a pressing matter, and his curiosity got the better of him.
In the corner of the room was a cheese mountain. It towered all the way to the ceiling, and stretched halfway across the room, and appeared to consist of different varieties of cheese, all brands and colours. These varieties were arranged haphazardly, as if stuck together with glue or something similar. There seemed to be no pattern to it.
Mr Knott was mesmerised. Then, after a few seconds, he dared to step nearer to the colossus of cheese. At this point he detected movement, and stopped abruptly.
A small piece of cheese erupted from within the mound. Mr Knott did not realise at first, but after a couple of seconds he saw that this was in the shape of a tiny hand. A hand!
It was minus two fingers, he noticed. Then he was further astounded to witness the emergence of another hand, again with missing fingers, followed by a leg, and a torso, and a head. It was a young child, no more than six years old. A child made of cheese.
“What the heck…?” muttered Mr Knott.
That was really all he could say. More movement followed, and another child came out of the mountain, an older one this time. He seemed to be full of holes, and his body had been chipped away in various places, as though some creature had taken big bites out of his cheese-flesh, which was bright yellow with a rotten odour.
Mr Knott gasped, but that was before a third figure appeared, and then he was unable to even breathe, his throat tied and knotted in terror.
It was the Stinky Cheese Woman, in all her naked, cheesy glory, coming out of the stench mountain like a giant monster. Large chunks of her flesh had been ripped off, and Mr Knott could see that she too was constructed entirely out of cheese.
Then another horror emerged, in the form of a small baby, a dinky little suckling. Its mouth was attached to the Stinky Cheese Woman’s huge breast, tearing away insignificant pieces and feasting on them. Upon the cheese seller’s face was spread a tumultuous grin, which reeked of madness, as well as the cheese. Her eyes glowed strangely from inside her deep sockets.
She then reached sideways with a chubby hand, and took a firm grip of the first child’s upper thigh. Mr Knott then realised that it was a girl, and the cheese woman’s fingernails were digging into the flesh of her leg, like someone clawing at fresh clay. She scooped a palmful of pale cheese from off the girl’s body, leaving a gaping hole, but no sign of blood or anything that could be described as human.
Mrs Stinky looked at the Trading Standards man, and appeared to offer the chunk of cheese to him, shoving her arm out of the mountain.
“Danish Blue?” she said, with a demented smile.