Portable Curiosities by Julie Koh

playing with the filters.
    I ask G what makes the product so extreme.
    â€˜The concept is: you put down the cash for it, we give you an ice-cream that has a fifty per cent chance of killing you on the spot.’
    A lethal ice-cream?
    â€˜Absolutely,’ he says. ‘There’s so much theatre to this product. I love it. The secret ingredient in it has this knockout deliciousness – a devastating flavour that I can guarantee you no one in the world has tasted. It may even be an as-yet-undiscovered basic taste – way more complex than umami. But the catch is that once you’ve tasted it, you may have to die. It’s just the nature of the ingredient. More addictive than sugar, too, so anyone who survives is going to be a repeat customer. This ice-cream’s worth more than the rest of my business combined. This is the magic fucking bullet.’
    I suggest that perhaps the whole scheme isn’t actually legal.
    â€˜Look,’ says G, ‘if one had to come down on the side of legality or illegality, the side one would land on would most likely be illegality. But, you know, it doesn’t leave a trace. Plus, it’s a highly regulated scheme. Ian will be doing regular audits to check that it truly is a fifty-fifty chance for each customer. That we’re not tampering with the odds. Hey, Ian, you’re still here, right?’
    Lee pops out of nowhere, brandishing a green pen.
    Elena1995 sashays back.
    â€˜Pro tip for your food article,’ she says to me. ‘If you put the whites in the photos up really high, like, it looks like everything’s literally bathed in light.’
    She has uploaded the photo to Instagram. She shows me the post. The caption reads:
    #allthegoodness #nomnomnom #ultimatefoodie #foodporn #dedicationtocraft #icecreamordeath #seeyouontheothersidemaybe #loveallmybesties #hugz #hashtagitsabiatchlife #idie
    The ice-cream is melting on its stand. Rivulets of white snake their way down the cone.
    â€˜Ew.’ She takes the cone and tosses it onto the road.
    G hands her the backup cone.
    She sits on the kerb and goes quiet. The whole street is quiet: no one else is around. She eats the ice-cream, nibbling on it like a tiny rabbit. She has her phone in one hand and stares at the likes piling up on Instagram.
    I exit the van and sit down next to her.
    How does it taste?
    â€˜No words.’
    How is she feeling?
    She shows me her phone. ‘All the love!’
    I mean, is she feeling ill?
    â€˜I’ve got the luck of the Irish. It’s, like, in the family or something. I’m hardly going to die from an ice-cream.’
    A minute later, she’s doing the hippy shakes on the ground, eyeballs rolling, saliva bubbling from the lips.
    Her body comes to a complete standstill. Her limbs have settled at weird angles. The hem of her dress has hiked up to her waist, exposing frilly white briefs with pink spots.
    The hand holding the phone is outstretched. The likes keep piling up on Instagram.
    I put two fingers on her neck.
    There isn’t a pulse.
    I ask G what he’s going to do.
    G sighs. ‘It’s pretty dull isn’t it, the experience? We might have to develop add-ons – offer a more attractive package. Get them to bring a USB stick with their photos and literally flash their memories before their eyes. Play their favourite James Blunt single.’
    He pours unpasteurised honey from a large pail into a smaller pail. It spills in slow motion. I ask him what he’s doing.
    â€˜It helps me think.’
    I ask him again what he’s going to do about the body. Surely he’s not going to leave corpses strewn around the city like a trail of breadcrumbs?
    â€˜I guess it is substandard customer care. A bad look for the brand, probably.’
    G continues to pour the honey for a good few minutes. As he does so, it becomes apparent to me that this feature article could end prematurely with the subject pouring honey from one