The Scent of Disaster

“What is that peculiar smell?” Roger asked.

“Smell? What smell?” Brenda sniffed. “Perhaps you mean ‘scent’, dear, like perfume maybe?”

She moved closer, flirtatiously, but Roger took no notice. He was too busy sniffing the breeze.

“No, no. It’s definitely odiferous. Sort of a mix between the last rotting bit of carrion and the stinky Stapelia* your Aunt Irma insists on rolling in just before she comes to visit.”

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