Today’s ‘daily prompt’ was very odd:
You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.
but something leapt to mind, unbidden and almost fully-formed. It’s something of a departure from my usual drivel; I have no idea if it’s any good.
In the last twenty months, I’ve touched on several different topics/themes/subjects/whatever. I’ve talked about curling. I’ve talked about computers. I’ve talked about games. But the first thing I ever talked about was peeing.
One of the little joys of getting older is waking up in the middle of the night and having to pee. Age is an obvious culprit but thirty seconds with google lets me shift the blame to my parents. (Sometimes the internet can be wonderful. And not just when you feel like dropping a metric ton of explosives on someone.)
I still think it’s mostly age, though.
So it wasn’t a huge surprise when I woke up at — well, I’m not sure. It was dark. What was surprising was the soundtrack. There’s not usually a soundtrack but Frank Zappa was singing “You know sometimes in the middle in the night.”
Wait — didn’t I turn that off? I was sure that I had turned that off. But there it was, so I had to get up for two reasons. Before Frank could veer off to something wildly inappropriate (because I knew he would) I grabbed some shorts and stumbled down the stairs.
I stopped stumbling, though, because there were people in the living room — a couple eating dessert and listening to NSFW music. My first thought was “Ben let them in.” My second thought was that that was ridiculous — Ben doesn’t know where I live, let alone have a key. So the obvious course of action was to ask.
“Umm, who are you” I asked the redhead dressed entirely in black. She was eating pie.
“Wormwood-Scrubs” she said. She gestured to the brush-cutted man next to her who had a mouthful of cake. “And this is my colleague who happens to be named after a squash. This is excellent pie, by the way.” The Man Named After A Squash said “Mmf mmf mmf.” Frank sang “Push it all the way in your eating hole.” I wondered if I was dreaming.
“Umm, why are you in my living room eating pie?” was all I could think of asking.
“I had to — the only cake in your refrigerator was cheesecake and I don’t eat dairy. My associate says that it’s exemplary, though.” Her associate said “Mmf mmf mmf.”
I decided that I had to be dreaming because that almost made sense. But there was a pressing issue.
“Umm, wait right here — I have to visit the Little Programmer’s Room.”
When I came back the music had stopped and they were gone.