Curry had won. No takeaway could stand against the crushing power of the curry houses, not even the massive pizza companies had survived the battle and the international burger companies surrendered before the battle had begun.
Of course some people spoke of foul play and accused the curry houses of violence and threats but in these situations people always do, don’t they?
But now curry was all that was left. Curry was king.
Tony walked down the street, past the supermarket which was next to a curry house and onwards past the post office into the village. He kept on walking, past the banks and the pubs until at last he arrived outside Abdul’s, Abdullah’s and The Master Balti. Between Abdullah’s and The Master Balti was a narrow passage that no one ever went down, except for a select few.
Just inside the passage, on the wall, shrouded by darkness the letters TSOFAC had been carved, to be seen only by those that knew they were there. Tony looked around to see if anyone was watching him.
The streets were clear so he turned and slowly walked down the passage, trying his best not to attract any unwanted attention.
At the end of the dark, enclosed passage was a hole in the ground. An unlit, concrete staircase descended down into the hole.
Tony had almost reached the bottom when he heard someone shout “How many?”
Tony knew that the question was for him and replied simply by shouting “Two!”
He could hear the sizzling of fryers and could smell the famous scent that every man knew in his heart was how food should smell.
The floor was covered in mucky white tiles and the walls were painted a dull grey colour and had posters of bands that had split up a decade ago dotted around the room.
There were tables in the corner of the room, three of them. The tables were round and each had four plastic chairs tucked under them.
Tony walked towards the counter where a young looking girl wearing an apron stood, holding a scooper in one hand and an old newspaper page in the other.
Tony nodded and the girl took a generous scoop of deep fried chips and tipped them onto the newspaper.
The old and weary looking man behind the girl passed over a freshly cooked battered fish, the girl wrapped it and the chips up in the newspaper.
The girl then handed the newspaper wrapped food to Tony who handed over his money and went to sit at one of the tables.
A few minutes later he stood up, leaving his food unfinished on the table and walked over to the corner where there was a fridge full of ice cold fizzy drinks, he took one out, went to pay the girl for it and returned to his food.
Tony left the chip shop and headed home.
Just after Tony had left the chip shop a pair of large men walked in holding lead pipes and both of them nodded to the girl, these men guarded The Secret Of Fish And Chips.
At home, a few hours later Tony was laid awake in bed, satisfied for the day because he had partaken of his weekly ritual of going for his fish and chips at the last fish and chip shop, the only one that had managed to survive, under the radar of the curry houses.
He was safe in the knowledge that he could get the same next week, just like he did every Thursday. The next Thursday came and Tony went for his fish, once again ending his day on a high note. The girl had seemed a bit nervous this time though, why could that have been?
The Thursday after this, Tony went down the street, past the supermarket which was next to a curry house and onwards past the post office into the village. He kept on walking, past the banks and the pubs until he finally arrived outside Abdul’s, Abdullah’s and The Master Balti.
Between Abdullah’s and The Master Balti was a narrow passage that no one ever went down, except for a select few.
Just inside the passage, on the wall, shrouded by darkness were scratch marks where the letters had been.
Tony looked around to see if anyone was watching him.
The streets were clear so he turned and slowly walked down the passage, trying his best not to attract any unwanted attention.
This time when he arrived at the bottom of the unlit, concrete staircase after passing through the dark passage, he found himself in a dark room decorated with lots of wooden furniture with brown coloured walls and carpets.
Instead of hearing the sweet sound of bubbling fryers, Tony could hear the music of a sitar playing ambient music.
He went to the counter where the nice girl with the apron and the scooper should have been but was instead greeted by a man of Asian descent who spoke some of the most horrible words that Tony could have ever hoped to hear. “Hello, my name is Imran, which curry would sir like today?”