Challenge #02462-F272: A Not-So-Little List

Rael's introduction to cream pie, please. -- Anon Guest

[AN: You can find something similar in my very first anthology under the title of Time Out From That Good Fight (It should be in the late one hundreds, but if not, here's the link to the version on Steemit.]

Was there any bigger portent of impending doom than Shayde singing a certain song from The Mikado? Rael had unfortunately found out that the answer was 'yes'. It was Shayde singing a certain song from The Mikado, whilst wearing Insulter Silvers and filling aluminium pie plates with shaving cream.

"I'd ask," he said, "but finding out involves a sanity check."

Shayde stopped singing to grin, which would have raised his hackles if he had had hackles to raise. "Aw, c'mon. You know you're curious."

"This is connected with your latest public service," he deduced. "It is tax season..."

"Aye, guid," she said, spraying the interior of another pie plate with foam. It slowly expanded into creamy-looking mounds of imitation confectionary. It looked... almost delicious. Shayde had evidently done something like this before. "and...?"

"And you're helping balance the scales of justice with your own special brand of 'flavour'."

"Of fookain course I am." Shayde singsonged. She lined up a tray of these faux pies with a rack of similar creations and counted them. "One more fer luck, then..." She started lining up empty pie tins on a new tray.

"This is a Pre-Shattering Terran Tradition you're bringing back into existence."

"One that should'nae have ever gone extinct."

"What's it called?" he sighed. Powers damn it, she was right. He was curious. "And how authorised is this activity?"

"It's called pie-ing, and I vetted it through Chief Insulter Wattanabe-sama."

Yikes. Top of the totem pole, then. "Not quite an answer, Ambassador."

"He gave me a list." She handed it over.

Oh... so many assholes and so little time, as the Human saying went. Many of them were on his personal list of people he dearly wanted to extract a pound of flesh from. If not a pound of flesh, then an equal weight of humiliation and mortification would do. She'd never have the time to get them all...

"Do you want some help?" he said.

The resultant laugh could have come from planet-conquering evil overlords. "Oh aye, it's what ye might call an open contract."

Tax season should never be this much fun.

[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / mg7]

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