There is a war brewing. Or rather, there is some epic revenge brewing, I just need to decide exactly what is appropriate. So far I am torn between feeding Beloved to enraged Honey Badgers (and is there any other kind of Honey Badger?) or making his brain melt by making him watch BBC channels with numbers above 2. Or making him watch reality TV until he loses all faith in humanity and slowly fades away from sheer despair.
Reality TV is much more easily obtained than Honey Badgers, it has to be said. I think that’s a fundamental flaw of society – less fly-on-the-wall, more enraged mustelids!
But what heinous crime did Beloved commit to earn death by badgers? Why, so provoking was it that I suspect he may be trying to commit suicide by Sparky.
See – I bake. This is well known. I bake all kinds of scrummy goodness, completely from scratch and all designed to ensure you will die from severely clogged arteries but damn it will be worth it.
I baked my spiced lamb and yam pasties
I baked a smoked salmon and asparagus quiche
I baked breakfast parcels (bacon, tomato and red Leicester cheese wrapped in a thin, flakey shortcrust)
I baked pork pies. Actual hand raised, hot-water-crust-pastry from scratch pork pies.
I baked tea cakes and crumpets.
They were all there, in the fridge and the bread bin, begging to bless him with the heavenly joy of their super deliciousness. And what does he do?
He goes to a shop. Not even a bakery, but a corner shop. And he buys sausage rolls. Shop bought sausage rolls. Wrapped in plastic. Made in a factory from air, sawdust and pastry shavings.
And he brought those sausage rolls home, to our home, to our house that has all of these delicious baked things inside.
And he ate one.
Let me reiterate. Surrounded by the delicious fruits of my labour, he instead chose to eat a sawdust-and-sweepings artificial ingredient slab of nastiness.
And he let me see him.
And then he dared to say “what?”
One day future generations will point to the crater that was once this city and say “welp, he did deserve it.”