“In that case, get me a spoon,” instructed Ron as he sat down.
“Get it yourself!” returned Derrick.
“Come ooon,” said Ron. “Tell you what, if I chicken out and never actually touch the stuff, I’ll wash up for the rest of the week, OK?”
“Not if you’re sick, you won’t,” predicted Derrick. “Look, plunge your finger in and get it over with, or else don’t.”
Ron stared at the odourless brown sludge for a few moments, wearing a sly smile but otherwise doing nothing at all. Then he said, “You know, in case you’re right, you should at least get me a drink. If it turns out to be horrible, I’ll need something to take away the taste.”
That was fair enough, thought Derrick. He walked across to the other bench and removed a can of beer from the esky they’d brought with them. Then he turned around and -

Ron had vanished. The container was wide open on the table. Inside, the brown substance was still there, but Derrick felt sure there was more of it than there had been.

As though it had fed. And grown.