12 Days of Misery

Day 7

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me

Seven pint-sized captors

Six gruesome killings

Five vicious felines

Four cold shoulders

Three silver bullets

Two motel beds

And an old friend in university

"OK – fuck, marry, kill – Osama Bin Laden, Silvio Berlusconi, and Tommy Wiseau." Eric turned the ignition off, and the engine went quiet.

"Easy. Marry Tommy Wiseau for his wit an unparalleled authenticity."

"Fair enough. I wouldn't mind being Wiseau's life partner if I swung that way."

"Eric, you wish you could get someone like Tommy Wiseau to love you. Or anyone, for that matter."

"My mommy loves me."

"With great reluctance, I'm sure. Anyway, I'd fuck Berlusconi because all those countless mistresses couldn't have been wrong."

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say that they were more interested in his money than his stunning looks and sexual prowess."

"Well, it's moot anyway since I'd have to kill Osama. That beard is just really, really gross. And those fish lips – ugh."

"That's your problem with Bin Laden?"

"Yeah, and I don't like men who live in caves either. That's so 20th millennium BC."

"Any opinion on the thousands of innocent lives he's taken?"

"Yeah, I mean I guess that's pretty lame too."

"Good talk. Anyway, let's go – I'm starving. I hope they have quiche in this place." Eric opened his car door and stepped out into the crunchy snow.

"I don't think this is that kind of bakery. Also, I never took you for a quiche guy." Cassie followed suit.

"What's wrong with quiche?"

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with quiche."

"OK, then what type of guy would be a quiche guy?"

"Um, skinny jeans, man bun, MacBook, subtle lisp, penny farthing."

"The fuck is that?"

"Those Victorian bicycles with one giant wheel and one tiny one."

"Time travelers like quiche?"

"Eric, not to change the subject, but I think something in your brain broke. You've been talking exclusively in questions since you got out of the car."

"Have I really?"

"Shut up." She punched his arm as the automatic doors of the bakery opened to greet them. "Come on. Let's find your quiche."

"Sure is empty in here."

"We're in a bakery on the side of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in rural Minnesota. Were you expecting roaring crowds?"

"I was expecting someone at the till, for starters." Eric rang the little bell at the counter.

"Maybe they're closed."