It was a lovely Saturday morning. Mr. Loaf and his sweet darling wife, Loafette, were doing what bread does best, loafing, when they heard a strange crinkling noise. Smoke and the scent of burning remains filled their home as they were dragged from their beds and jammed into a dark, narrow space. There was only a narrow wall between them. They could still speak with one another, even as the walls began to slowly heat up. Mr. Loaf perished in that cramped space, listening to his wife’s dying screams, before his lifeless body was mercilessly tossed on a ceramic surface and carried out onto the table.
There, I, Laura, stared down at our breakfast spread of eggs and bacon and orange juice, and reached for a piece of toast. I had but one question at the fore of my mind, nagging me.
“Where’s the butter?”
Yes. That happened. Unlike most college students, my housemates and I actually sit down and have meals like civilised people. Saturday morning breakfast is a favourite of mine. Kadien and I were joking around while eating toast, wondering if bread was kosher considering how often we put them into miniature ovens.
We’re going straight to Hell; we have no illusions about that.
Perhaps then the bread will have gotten its dulcet vengeance as it watches us from wheat-heaven, mocking our eternal plight in the Ultimate Oven. Buy one get two sinners’ souls free! Sounds like something out of a Williams-Sonoma catalogue, right alongside the Cheese Platter of Ugolino and the Santoku Knife of Brutus. Come on in! Everything’s discounted at a quarter of your soul!
I don’t know about you, but I’d shop there.
--Laura
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