Your Premise On Drugs

There I was, sitting in the kitchen, eating an apple pie, when I heard my name being called.

It sounded like it came from under the table, only there was nothing there. Thinking my mind was playing tricks on me again, I turned back to my pizza, only to find a pink cake next to my pizza. And by next to pizza, I mean stabbing to death with a fork in a mad, frenzied blood-rage.

“What the hell?” I yelled. I grabbed hold of the cake and set it down on the counter.

“Sorry,” said the cake as it caught its breath, “You never can tell for sure when those damn pies are dead. You really have to make sure.” I shrugged when he said that.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, “Not a problem.” The cake fixed me with a hard, determined look.

“Kid, you’ve got a look about you,” said the cake.

“Really, what kind?” I asked. Maybe he was about to call me awesome or something; that’s always good.

“The kind that says ‘Feed me, I’m a lazy slob’” answered the cake.

“Wow, I really don’t know what to say,” Really, I didn’t. It’s not every day you get insulted by a cake.

“Seriously now, kid,” The cake jumped off the counter, landing on his own two feet, “I need another hand to help me fight off some pies. A wingman, if you will.” I gave it some thought. Okay, no, I didn’t.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” I shrugged. It wasn’t like I had anything better to do anyway. The cake gave a big grin and slapped me on the back. Well, the back of my knee, anyway.

“Good man,” he said, his voice filled with approval. Approval from a cake, what else can happen? I pocketed a table knife as the cake motioned me to a door and told me to open it. Peering inside, I noticed it was a corridor.

“So, now what?’

“Isn’t it obvious?” answered the cake as it fixed me with a hard stare. “Now we go down there and get those pies good.” It sounded like a plan to me. I trudged down the hall with my new cake friend. He stopped before the last door on the left. The cake held his fingers to his lips, motioning me to be quiet. He pushed the door open slowly, never letting it make so much as a squeak. We peeked in and saw pies everywhere. Pies on the tables, shelves, and chairs.

“This is it,” whispered the cake as he hefted his fork. He was tense, all his cake-ish muscles ready for the upcoming battle. I gulped, not trusting myself to reply. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my head.

“On three,” said the cake. He held up three fingers, counting down slowly. I forced myself not to blink as he counted down. It felt like an eternity until he mouthed one. We kicked the door open, yelling bloody murder as we caught the pies by surprise. The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of apple bits and crumbs flying everywhere.

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“Hey, wake up!” The last statement was punctuated by a foot landing on my face. I shot up, rubbing my nose as my eyes watered. There was my very angry looking sister (okay, angrier than usual).

“What happened here?” she demanded. It was then I noticed the broken pies littering the room.

“Oh, I killed a bunch of pies,” My sister didn’t blink. She just stared at me, mouth agape.

“So, that would explain the pies scattered around the room,” she growled. That was my first warning that things were going to get worse. I thought quickly, frantically, anything that would get her to forget that I just killed all her pies.

“The pies were evil and deserved to die!” I explained, hoping she wouldn’t catch that note of pleading in my voice, like I was trying to justify slaughtering pies as they slept (not that I was, mind).

“You idiot!” My sister punched me full in the face. Honestly, she barely came up to my shoulder. Where did she get the raw power to knock me over?

“Those pies were for my school bake sale tomorrow, moron! How can I sell these now! ”

“But they killed my cake buddy,” I complained, pointing to the pink cake, now with a fork run through its center. I vaguely remember going berserk when I saw his impaled body fall. That’s probably responsible for my high pie count.

“I don’t care!” yelled my sister, pointing her finger dangerously close to my eyes. My knees couldn’t stop shaking at that point. I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, jut so she wouldn’t yell at me anymore. “I have to stay up all night making more pies for the bake sale and you’re helping me!”

And that’s the story of how I ended up helping my sister make some pies (and the story of how my sister threw out most of the stuff in my room, just to make sure she got rid of all the hallucinogens).