Free The Mystery of the Mystery Meat by Chris P. Flesh

red bill, and the bus was packed with unhappy-looking men in broad-shouldered suits, women in dresses and little hats with veils, and children in plaid flannel shirts and jeans with the legs rolled up.
    “These were the good old days,” Henrietta said. “Look how full that bus is! All those Curious people were traveling to our fermented fat factory in the Snarkshires to work day in, day out, for the rest of their lives.”
    The picture on the screen changed. It revealed a dreary, cavernous room packed with huge cast-iron cauldrons of bubbling fermented fat. The same men, women, and children, wearing old-fashioned prison clothes—black-and-white-striped pajamas and little round hats—stood on rickety wooden platforms, stirring the simmering goo with long wooden poles.
    “And when
they
died, when they were stone-cold dead, we buried them in our graveyard. And when we ran out of Curiosity, we unburied them and added them to our delicious Mystery Meat,” she concluded.
    “Oh, yuck,” Freekin groaned up on the roof. “This is so gross.”
    “Zibu,”
Scary managed, his little face twisted and distressed.
    Pretty nodded. “Me so hungry!”
    Henrietta’s smile faded. “But now we come to Batch 1313. Neapolitan Nacho, the cause of Chronic Snickering Syndrome. The batch that nearly ruined our company.”
    The three shifted in their seats and looked uneasily at one another. “We’re so very, very sorry. We don’t knowwhat happened,” Mr. Spew confessed. “We have no idea why Batch 1313 made people sick.”
    “I can tell you why,” Henrietta snapped at him. “Due to my dear Uncle Horatio’s law, the good, law-abiding people of Snickering Willows have stopped asking questions. In fact, most of them have forgotten how. And people who don’t ask questions stop being Curious.”
    “Oops,” Mr. Spew murmured.
    “Oops, indeed,” Henrietta said. “No one has broken the law by asking questions for quite some time. Even that undead Franklin Ripp was found not guilty! Today there are only
three
people working in the fermented fat factory.”
    She clicked to the next image on the screen, which showed the same dreary, cavernous building, but in place of vats, there were large stainless steel tanks. A very old man had his hand on a dial. He was dressed in a gray jumpsuit with the word PRISONER written across the back. Farther back in the factory, two ladies in identical jumpsuits were studying a clipboard.
    “At least they’re old,” Mr. Flatterwonder observed. “They’ll be available sooner.”
    “Yes,” Henrietta said. “But you see the problem. We are running out of the very ingredient that makes Mystery Meat so tasty. And
you
people tried to cut corners byusing a corpse from our very own graveyard—that boy, Sweeny Burton. Think about it. If he was buried in
our
graveyard, he could not possibly be Curious. The Curious are kicked
out
of Snickering Willows.”
    Ms. Balonee nodded thoughtfully. “I see. We can only use the remains of Curious people.”
    “Indeed,” Henrietta replied.
    “But we’re running out of Curious people,” Ms. Balonee went on.
    “Keep going,” Henrietta urged her.
    “So we need to rekindle Curiosity in our citizenry,” Ms. Balonee said triumphantly. “No Curiosity, no Mystery Meat!”
    “Exactly!” Henrietta cried. Her bracelets clacked and jangled as she clapped.
    Mr. Spew looked a little queasy. “You’re talking about encouraging Snickering Willowites to break our most basic law.”
    “Yes,” Henrietta declared. “Precisely.”
    Mr. Flatterwonder looked even queasier. “We could change the law. If we explain…”
    “
Explain!
We cannot explain!” Henrietta declared.
    “Or maybe we could make a new ad campaign,” Mr. Flatterwonder said, raising his brows. He stretched out his arms. “‘Curiosity! It’s not just for convicted felonsanymore! Go ahead, ask a question! And have some Mystery Meat!’”
    “No, you moron!” Henrietta thundered. “You haven’t