The Wabasso Triangle  

It should not have happened, but one thing is certain: it did happen. Defying FCC Regulations (Fellsmere Cricket Club) and the little button on my garage door opener, the Wabasso Triangle has struck again.

It’s 11pm. Do you know where your pasta is?

Anthony Chianti, Licensed Private Eye and Indian River Community Pasta Detective, reporting:

It was Monday. Another tough day – I spent the morning cleaning up a terminal pasticide in Melbourne and apprehended the culprits. They won’t be overcooking orzo where they’re going.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the crossword was tough – full of proper nouns, and my eyes wandered down the page. I was born in November, under the sign of Rigatonius, The Tube. Although I don't really believe in Pastrology, today, like most days, I read my pastascope:

"Rigatonius – Your chart is looking well aspected, with Ziti trine Spaghetti Hoops and Canaletto in opposition to your Ascendant, Minestrone. So have fun, but don't take extreme risks like exposing a naked flame in a pasta factory, or overcooking noodles…"

Me? Overcook? Who writes this stuff? I set the timer – 4 minutes, 23.127 seconds: enough time for another crossword clue.

But first the new pasta: Gucci Faberge Fettuccini. Mis en extrudée en chateau. That's right, Chateau Squeezed Designer Pasta. I had to see what all the fuss is about – can this stuff really be worth sixty bucks a packet?

Turning the gas down, I picked up the box. It looked normal and innocent enough. Until I read the ingredients: Organic Durum Wheat, Dihydrogen Monoxide, Sea Salt and Aldentium Sulphate.

Aldentium Sulphate? That’d better not be another scary ingredient like that Genetically Modified Pesto that was in the news last year.

I logged on to the wibbly-wobbly-web. Turns out that Aldentium is a new additive to prevent overcooking. No wonder: “Gucci Faberge Pasta cooks up just right every time… “

Then the horrible reality dawned – this stuff will do me out of a job. Not only me, but thousands of hard-working Community Pasta Detectives across the country will be unemployed, our only skill a forgotten footnote in history books, our only income a welfare check, our only food a sordid plastic bag of bright yellow macaroni cheese…

Back in the kitchen, the timer read minus 52 minutes. The new pasta had been simmering for nearly an hour, and sure enough, it wasn’t soggy. So much for the overcooking warning – never believed that Pastrology stuff, anyway. Hmmm. Not soggy after an hour – this can mean only one thing: This Aldentium stuff actually works. Either that or the Wabasso Triangle has struck again.

Like last Wednesday, just another ordinary Wednesday in the middle of the week. Or was it? Kinda depends which day you start counting. The Wabasso Triangle is probably easier to understand if you think of the entire fabric of space-time as a cosmic macramé tea-cozy. Then the Wabasso Triangle is the spout. Anyway, by Wednesday lunchtime things had deteriorated so much that when I opened a new can of Spam, all that yucky jello stuff was actually on the bottom!

I scoured the pasta packet for more information, and there it was: Made in Italy. Imported by Dulchy Veeta Corporation, Malabar, Florida.

My trusty old Buick Testudo didn’t want to start, but after some time cranking we were off. It seemed to be running well on five or six cylinders, which is plenty considering the cost of gas these days.

Fifteen minutes later I was in downtown Malabar. Nothing. It was a ghost town. The only building with any sign of life was Canadian Realty Investments, the big place next to the Mormon Microbrewery. There were some lights on so I wandered over. I remember hearing heavy footprints, then oblivion…

Some time later I woke up with a sore head, and now I know what oblivion sounds like. In the next office someone said,

“Bien, bien, zat only leaves some pazetic creep that Pierre found being ze snoopy doggy – we takes care of ‘eem later. Call me back around dix-heure o’clock – we weel ‘ave another load zen… au‘voir… click.”

Then the lights went out and I heard doors slamming and cars driving off.

I waited a few minutes and started nosing around. There was a lighter in the top drawer of the desk and on top a folder with some interesting documents, including real estate purchases in Canada and an FDA report:


FDA Qualification for Aldentium
Test Supervisor:            Dr Zbignew Bunsenburner
Material under Test:       Aldentium Sulphate, Modified
Proposed Usage:            Food Additive

Contra-indications:        
None.
OK, maybe one tiny itty-bitty one, but nothing to worry about. For doses in excess of 100 milliglobules per day, Aldentium thins the blood until the victim dies from hypothermia, but this is only a problem if you live North of Titusville.

And across the bottom, a big red stamp: REPORT SUPRESSED

So that was their little game… no wonder those snowbirds didn’t go back this year. These guys are feeding people their tainted pasta so they feel the cold, and then, when they can’t go back up North, buying their houses at rock-bottom prices!

A car drew up, so I slipped through the back door into a large warehouse and hid behind a workbench.

The lights came on and two guys walked past, too close for comfort,

“Non, non, Pierre, we won ze game fair and rectangular… “

“Gimme une break, Jacques, zat was a good goal, ze ref is as blind as a racquet…”

They loaded things out back and then drove off to continue their nefarious noodle business elsewhere.

It was dark again – I stood up and banged my head on a big board. I flicked the lighter to find out what it was. Hanging over me was a large sign and it read:

“RAW PASTA, HIGHLY FLAMMABLE, NO NAKED FLAMES”

Later, I could remember the explosion, but little else. Apparently I single-handedly wiped out an entire illegal pasta factory. Even Detective Inspector Ravioli reluctantly visited the hospital to congratulate me on tidying up another impenetrable pasta mystery, and, to make a long story short, Jacques and the Montreal Mob have swapped noodles for number plates.

Well, amazing but true, and it can only have happened here. That’s about it for this month’s update from the Wabasso Triangle. 

Anthony Chianti, Indian River Community Pasta Detective, Bed 327, Indian River Memorial Hospital.


© 2002 Pastarology