The home base of Monterrey’s largest nutrition cult was frantic with human activity. Jones and Bugs strolled into the designated superfund site just as the sun was beginning to lower below the ocean. Acolytes gathered around Bugs as he started to unload boxes of spare cheddar from the back of his milk truck. Louie was first among them, wringing his hands.
“I’m sorry to have been away so long,” Bugs told them. “I was trying to secure a more reliable potato supply and I wound up in prison with a bunch of cyborgs. Nice folks. The cyborgs, not the prison.”
He grunted as he dropped another box into the dust. “In prison, they would not serve me milk.”
His acolytes murmured amongst themselves. Then, they all looked towards Louie, waiting. Jones blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t realized that Bugs had been in prison with members of Mad Crab.
“Thank god you’re back,” said Louie. “A lot has gone wrong.”
“The milk deal?” said Bugs, alarmed.
“The milk deal is fine,” said Louie reassuringly. “They tried to play hardball but we worked it out. Milk and butter in the potatoes tonight.” He paused. “And cheddar, I guess. Did Amelia charge you for that?”
Bugs exhaled. “It’s very important for nutritional reasons. You cannot leave the milk out.”
Louie nodded, brows furrowed, “Of course, so many essential nutrients in the milk. But listen, Bugs. There’s a problem with the potatobase.”
“What kind of problem?” asked Bugs, suddenly sharp. “Natasha told me she needed more RAM and that was the last thing.”
Louie wilted a bit. The other acolytes shrank back. Jones had never seen him like this before. Even when they were consultants together, Bugs’ good humor had been legendary.
“The potatobase?” asked Jones.
Bugs sat down on a carton of cheese and let out a deep sigh. “My most recent innovation. A hedge against the uncertainty to come. It’s why I was growing in Tahoe. Crop yield was three times higher. We needed a bigger supply of spuds for the RAM that Natasha, my chief architect, requested.”
Louie dug a toe in the the ground, kicking up a clump of dirt. “We have sandy soil. The drainage isn’t quite right. And there is the superfund issue.”
Bugs rolled his eyes, but Louie pretended not to notice.
“What else is going on?” asked Bugs. “How many people are we getting for dinner tonight?”
“Nearly five hundred,” said Louie, “More people are hearing about us every day.”
“This is the moment when the philosophy is tested,” murmured Bugs, dropping his chin onto cupped hands. The acolytes watched him. He looked up Jones. “Can you look at this problem for me? I want to go to the kitchens and make sure everything is in order. The word is getting out. I don’t want us to turn away a single neighbor who might come asking to share a nutritionally complete meal. Louie and Marius will get you up to speed.”
He gestured at some of the other acolytes and they followed him as he stood up and strode towards the kitchens.
Marius, a round-faced, balding man, clapped Louie on the shoulder. “That went better than I thought!” He turned towards Jones. “Louie always assumes that Bugs will react poorly to bad news.”
Louie raised his eyebrows at Jones.
“You didn’t really tell him what was wrong,” Jones said. “What is the problem? And what is the potatobase?”