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One man and his Pie

Boothroyd McCalverston
[boothroyd.mccalverston@thewritegallery.com]

There was a young man who baked a talking pie. I don't know why he baked a talking pie. It annoyed him no end, as he had put cherries in it before he put it in the oven, and was looking forward to reaping the rewards of his labours. Had he believed that Religion worked for him, his Saviour would have been the first port of call. However, wishing to quash the myriad noises in his head instead of adding new, worrying ones, he chose gin.

           There was a young man who quaffed a bottle of gin. He drank the gin because he baked a talking pie. I don't know why he baked a talking pie. He felt he'd died. However, the noises resumed to assure him he hadn't, along with new worrying ones not totally unrelated to his lack of religious zeal, but mainly concerned with the presence of a talking pie. Fortunately, it wasn't attempting to engage him in conversation, so he could ignore it until he'd thrown up.

           There was a young man who swallowed an Andrews. An Andrews Antacid. Like they work. He swallowed the Andrews because he'd drank some gin. He drank the gin because he baked a talking pie. I don't know why he baked a talking pie, but he was attempting to come to terms with it. It appeared to be babbling incoherent nonsense at him, or rather at some unidentified Universal. The young man took a tentative step forward to investigate.

           Nah, screw this, he thought.

           here was a young pie, freshly baked, who sat on a counter, attempting to come to terms with its new-found conscious state. The first thing it had noticed noticing was an all-encompassing sensation of what it later realised was heat -- understandable really, as it was sat in an oven-hot pie dish. So it began attempting to express this feeling as sound, a natural reflex action: which disturbed its neighbour in the room, which further disturbed the young pie. Self-awareness was quite a stressful awakening.

           Paniety is the state of being bread, thought the pie, after a day of self-contemplation. In which case, it continued with remarkable leaps of logic, and created an interesting pun on piety. All the while, the young man continued an awed vigil over his tasty young charge, disbelieving his eyes, but not trusting his disbelief.

           "A talking pie," he was heard muttering in years to come.

           Conversation between the young man and the rapidly ageing pie (for a pie's shelf life is one of brevity even if its soul is immortal) began by accident.

           "Fuck me."

           "Oh! You can talk, can you?"

           "Fuck me some more."

           Fuckwit, thought the pie, with an immediate pang of distaste for its own foul-mindedness.

           "Stop being disgraceful, man. Are you really such a loaf that your vocabulary stretches only to the limits of bodily functions?"

           "Fuck-a-dee fuck-a-dee fuuuuuuck."

           Ugh, thought the pie, I had to be baked by a simpleton. They say you can't chose your family I feel a distinct offness in my filling.

           "Can -- can you see me?"

           The pie thought for a moment. It did have the impression that it could see, but it wasn't as if it had eyes, like a potato.

           "I suppose I can."

           "My Christ."

           Sad, really, mused the pie, that one such as I could be the result of some idiot buffoonery.

           "Vag on a stick."

           "For Queen and Country man, be silent!"

           It struck the young man as odd that a pie should be insolent; especially as it was to the very person by whose hand it had been filled, covered and created.

           "You can't tell me what to do! You're just a pie! I'll fucking eat you, you fuck!"

           "You'll do no such thing, you croissant-eared imbecile! I am your superior in every sense!"

           "Like you could stop me eating you, you fuck!"

           The pie and the young man now faced several dilemmas. The pie had discovered fear, and through fear had found the desire for self-preservation. The man was worried about how much noise a self-aware pie would make whilst being chewed up and swallowed.

           "I'm going to cut you up. Yes, into little pie-shaped wedges. With a blunt fish slice. Yeah. How d'you like them apples, eh?"

           "N-now listen, dear boy, you don't want to be rash about something as serious as this! Think about the implications man!"

           "Yeah! Oh yeah! You're gonna taste fine, yes indeedy. I'm gonna rip out your insides!"

           The pie yelped at the thought.

           Panic set in as the young man turned to the kitchen drawer.

           "Listen to me!"

           "Oh yeah! I'll listen! I'll hear everything you say!"

           "Just -- just -- just think! A-about the fame and fortune that you'll be throwing away! The TV appearances! The magazine articles! The money! Think of the money!"

           The young man thought of the money. Then he thought of the gnawing hunger that was the result of watching and listening to the pie for over a day instead of devouring the pie in the time-old human-pie relationship fashion. He retrieved his fish slice, and attacked with fervour.

           Two days later, the young man was experiencing some digestive discomfort. His intestinal tract was expressing some singular views on dietary fibre, albeit muffled by his impressive gelatinous beer belly.

           "Ugh! I mean, really! That could be a tumour for all you know!"

           Punching himself in the stomach, proving a far more difficult task than he had anticipated, had only produced welts and bruises and an uncomfortable swelled feeling. He believed that the pie was deliberately obfuscating his digestive processes as a means of revenge for the humiliation of being eaten whilst shitting one's mental pants out loud.

           "Would it kill you to eat more modestly spiced foods?"

           The young man groaned.

           It took two hours perched and sweating on the seat of his toilet, every vein strained to aneurysm, pain welling, sweeping, upwards from an over-stretched sphincter, for him to pass the mouthy shit. With a hugely satisfying and relief-filled [plop!], the talking pie, now a talking turd, was vented and expelled for good. Not that that stopped it from complaining.

           "You ingrate! You ! I'll see you swing for this! Two days! TWO FUCKING DAYS! Trapped, alone, BEING DIGESTED! You fuck! If I had hands, I'd wrap the brown bastards around your neck and wring until your head flew off like the cork from a bottle of Möet! YOU FUCK!"

           Flushing it wasn't as problematic as eating it.



About the Author (click here) © 2000 Boothroyd McCalverston, all rights reserved
 appears here by permission



Author Notes

           This was a work in progress until November this year, when I became disinterested in developing it further. I wanted to see what reaction it received from a wider audience.

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