The Breadstick Thieves

ACT I: The Breadstick Thieves

"Haven't we crashed enough parties? We already took all the breadsticks we can fit in the car."

Brandon scoffed at the absurdity of the question and took his gaze to the breadstick-filled car. The trunk was filled with breadsticks. The back seats were filled with breadsticks. The front seats were nearly filled with breadsticks (breadsticks were carefully stacked on the passenger's seat, leaving the driver's seat bare).

"Can't we just go back to Olive Garden and get breadsticks like sane people?"

"Charles." Brandon walked toward his friend, and put his hands on Charles's shoulders. "Honey."

"Don't call me that."

"Sweetie."

"Please stop."

"You know we can't afford to go to Olive Garden again, and you know that 'all you can eat breadsticks' is a sham."

"Okay. Sure. Whatever. But we can't keep crashing parties. We've made a name for ourselves, you know — the Breadstick Thieves. The police haven't caught us yet, but they're onto us!" He wagged his finger furiously.

"We'll be fiiiine. Relax."

"Where are we supposed to sit, Brandon?"

"Charles, my dear friend, the question is not where are we supposed to sit, but where are you supposed to sit?"

"Come again?"
"If you observe," Brandon took on a British accent, "there is only one seat left."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Thus, I will be driving home, and you will be taking an Uber."

"I don't even have the app—"

"Elementary!"

"Be serious."

Brandon resumed his normal voice. "I am being serious. You're taking an Uber. I already called you one." Sirens started blaring in the distance, getting ever closer. "See? It's on its way."
"I don't think that's an—"

Brandon got into the car and shut the door. Some breadsticks tumbled out of their stack and onto his lap. He ate one, turned on the car, and drove away, leaving Charles in the dust.