I attended a potluck dinner the other day. Because of the brevity of invite I was scrambling for an idea. Luckily I took scrambling to another level: with my eggs.
Quiche has been something I’ve always enjoyed but never ate much of nor have I made it before. I just happened to have 5 dozen eggs lying around so I whipped up a eye appealing pie and scarcely had time to let it cool.
When I arrived at Brenda’s pad everyone was already there. Brenda’s friends from Zellers took my coat and their step-nieces ran over to give their uncle a big ol’ hug. Officer Hennigarry did the usual padding me down technique which always garnered an awkward laugh followed by a poorly delivered fist bump.
Lauralee and her crew from Flanigans brewery were there and it was her good friend LaShawn who took my quiche.. and set it with what looked like a table filled with many quiches. She looked at me and shrugged then the lights went down and a din of building excitement was in the air.
Teddy Bukinsky grabbed my arm and led me to where him and his girlfriend Momo where sitting, right near the exit, as per the norm. A bright spotlight landed on the host Malcolm’s cold, dead face. The man knew one expression and this was it. His voice wasn’t much less creepy. He pretended to hold a microphone between his wispy fingers.
“My wife and I throw this potluck party for all of you and how do you repay us? By bringing 13 quiches?! We provided the quiche! So why did you all copy us, you foul, foul individuals?”
A loud silence hummed in everyone’s ears. Then I did something I rarely do, especially at a function with so many undead people. I spoke up. “How was any of us supposed to know the other guy was doing quiche? I mean what are the odds? It isn’t even a common dish.”
Another long silence filled the air like poisonous gas consuming us all. Then Brenda pieced together a few words, barely. “You know what happens now, you dirty rat. You and Malcolm draw pistols.”
The audience cheered. “How dare you question him!” I was mindblown at the behavior of this group of living corpses I had known now for at least 3 weeks. “What is Russian roulette going to do? Everyone here is dead!” I spat that last word with vengeance in his face, now inches away.
Suddenly the place went pitch black. The rhythmic beating of drums was heard all around us and I felt a piercing at my side. Screams were heard, growls and groans to full on shrieks of doom. Blood was pooling on the floor and other cold metal objects were inserted into my muscle, bone and flesh. It felt as though it would never end; fellowship, music and eventually quiche.
It’s been years since that last potluck dinner and I have to say I am not a fan anymore. Was it the people? The ambience? Maybe my lack of a plus one? In any regard I keep to myself these days. Hell remains here on earth, at least a portion of it, but I go out of my way to avoid the portals dragging me into its vortex of gore. There are much better ways to spend an evening.
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