Crybaby Boy

Chapter Ten - This Little Piggy

Chapter Ten - This Little Piggy

“This little piggy went to market.  This little piggy went home.  This little piggy got slaughtered.  And this little piggy pretended to be dead so he wouldn’t get killed.  He got cooked and eaten anyway.”

- Winona Mason

The wondrous things people remember at the worst possible times.  This was one such time.  I just had to remember my grandmother’s rendition of “this little piggy,” and I assure you, it didn’t get my hopes up.

            Thanks to my wondrous proclamation that Peyton and I were the pizza delivery service, I got put in charge of cooking whilst Flick and Peyton looked though documents Flick had obtained through hours of hard, diligent hacking.

            Naturally, I was given a list of things I couldn’t cook.  It would have been shorter had Flick given me a list of things I could cook with his “allergies.”

            The list went a little something like this: No!  No!  No!  No!  No!  No!  No!  No!  No!

            And virtually everything in this man’s cabinets was on his no-no list.

            Now where’s the logic in that?  If you find any, call me.  Oh wait, that’s right, I can’t afford a phone (well, I probably could, but I don’t really have a use for one).

            So, if anyone fever finds logic in Flick’s cabinets being full of things on his no-no list, leave a message on my grave, because I’m not likely to survive this… mess.

            I dug through Flick’s kitchen by the dim flicker of the last few functioning light bulbs.  Either he had no replacement light bulbs, or this guy just hated light.  I was tempted to open a window, but he had them boarded shut, behind the heavy black out curtains.

            When I got to his fridge, I was greeted by bag upon bag of bread, squished together in the top three shelves of this colossus.  Beneath the bread were bottles and bottles of pre-made smoothies.  Upon examining the contents of the even bigger freezer, I found bags of potatoes and frozen fruit.

            No fruit, bread or potatoes were on the list.  I think I just fond what this guy eats.

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“What’s that smell?” Peyton peered into the kitchen, her jaw dropping as I looked up.

            I waved.

            Peyton screamed.

            “Peyton?” Flick jogged up behind her, seeming warn out by that little bit of physical activity.  Either that of he and Peyton had gone off and- that thought made me gag.

            “Kaite!”  Why in the name of Hades are you wearing an apron?”  By the way she said apron, you’d think I had gone off and murdered a baby, cut open the stomach, pulled out all of its organs and then stuck my feet inside to use the kid as a slipper.

            Flick liked back and forth between Peyton and me. squinting in the light.  His face looked even paler and waxier in this light.

            “Kitchen rule number one,” I said, pausing a moment for added effect.  “Do not yell at the person with a hot pan,” I gesticulated down at the pan on the stove in front of me.

            “Kaiiiiiite--!”  Oh no she did not just drag out my name.  What a naughty girl.

            “Yes Peyton--?” I gave her the most charming smile I could muster.