Fritters will kill me – Paranoia #124CF2

Posted on May 3, 2010

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I don’t trust old men in trench coats. Take a peek at this cloak and dagger fellow. Very dapper, but what do you think he’s reaching for in there? A pistol? Wrong. A butterfly knife? Nope. A karate chop? N-uh. It’s much more likely a set of 18th century dental tools, designed from the very beginning for torture and interrogation, or at the very least the hush hush behind the scenes sort of affair.

It’s much more likely that he’s reaching for his Blackberry. He’s going to send a text to his daughter, telling her about the pastry shop he’s about to walk in. Do you want anything? he may say. She’ll ask for a fritter. He’ll pick one up for her. Get a cup of black coffee for himself. Smile at the pastry chef (He fell in love with a pastry chef once, so long ago now, but it only lasted ten minutes).

And then he’ll be on his merry way until BOOM!

Spy vs spy. Death by an explosive fritter. And that’s why I don’t eat fritters. Don’t trust the damn things one bit. So much filling.

And you won’t ever really be able tell what’s in one. No matter what the pastry chef claims.

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Posted in: Year 1: Paranoia