Just Muse Me 16.4.6 Win
It was a tradition. Every year since she'd first met the old bastard, Hank, and she had no intention of stopping it just because she'd been dead for a few days. She dragged Remiel along with her, of course.
"Ready?" Hank called, his voice strained by years of chain-smoking, lung cancer, and simple age, but no less enthusiastic for all that. And he was met with a chorus of equally enthusiastic voices.
"Ready!"
Remiel leaned in to murmur to her. "This seems like a waste of..."
"Oh, shut up and get ready to throw."
"Ladies and gentlemen! Start your pies!"
It was a tradition. Cream pie, cheesecake pie, peach cobbler. Pumpkin, apparently, by the color, but Pam was too busy ducking and skidding on the plastic sheeting to pay that much attention. Pies flew through the air, usually landing on people's backs or hips or feet or even on the plastic sheeting itself. Sometimes, on rare occasions, square on people's faces. Paul caught a key lime right in the face, skidded, and fell on his butt laughing so hard he almost choked on a stray piece.
When the pies were exhausted, people started throwing fragments. Of the ones that had fallen onto the plastic, some were still in good enough condition to be picked up and thrown again. Of the rest, some enterprising folk were peeling chunks off of their bodies and throwing them again.
"What is this," Pam laughed, skidding out of the way of a hefty slice of peach something. "Return to sender?"
"Damn right!" She wasn't sure who's voice that was.
Eventually there was nothing left that resembled food, and a rather pleasing melange of aromas in the air. Pie squished between her toes as she walked, still laughing, to the line. Those who hadn't gotten pie to the face were still giggling; those who had were picking it out of their hair and also giggling.
"All right, you clowns..." which prompted half a dozen people to scoop up mostly cream pie mush and fling it at him. "Hey! None of that malarky, now! Back on the line!"
There was some nudging and some more giggling, and a couple of people trying to trip each other and send others tumbling into the mess. Remiel, wearing most of a blueberry pie from his shoulders down, still looked confused.
"All right, Pammy girl..."
"Don't call me Pammy girl." She picked a piece of crust off Remiel's shoulder and flicked it at him.
"Look, you want this win, or not?" It didn't much matter; Hank took her surprisingly clean arm and stretched it high above her head, to a mixed chorus of groans and twice as many cheers. "Pamela Barnes, last one standing!"
She did a victory dance on the plastic sheeting. The pie-filled plastic sheeting, which served to further demonstrate her agility when she managed not to break an ankle in the process. Remiel still looked confused.
"What does that mean?"
To their credit, no one laughed. A few people snickered. Pamela went over to the back of the house and uncoiled the hose, fiddling with it while Hank explained. "The cleanest person after the April Fool's day pie fight gets to help the others get clean. With the use of..."
"Ice cold water!" Paul screeched, ducking behind the larger men.
"...." Remiel said.
"Ready?" Hank called, his voice strained by years of chain-smoking, lung cancer, and simple age, but no less enthusiastic for all that. And he was met with a chorus of equally enthusiastic voices.
"Ready!"
Remiel leaned in to murmur to her. "This seems like a waste of..."
"Oh, shut up and get ready to throw."
"Ladies and gentlemen! Start your pies!"
It was a tradition. Cream pie, cheesecake pie, peach cobbler. Pumpkin, apparently, by the color, but Pam was too busy ducking and skidding on the plastic sheeting to pay that much attention. Pies flew through the air, usually landing on people's backs or hips or feet or even on the plastic sheeting itself. Sometimes, on rare occasions, square on people's faces. Paul caught a key lime right in the face, skidded, and fell on his butt laughing so hard he almost choked on a stray piece.
When the pies were exhausted, people started throwing fragments. Of the ones that had fallen onto the plastic, some were still in good enough condition to be picked up and thrown again. Of the rest, some enterprising folk were peeling chunks off of their bodies and throwing them again.
"What is this," Pam laughed, skidding out of the way of a hefty slice of peach something. "Return to sender?"
"Damn right!" She wasn't sure who's voice that was.
Eventually there was nothing left that resembled food, and a rather pleasing melange of aromas in the air. Pie squished between her toes as she walked, still laughing, to the line. Those who hadn't gotten pie to the face were still giggling; those who had were picking it out of their hair and also giggling.
"All right, you clowns..." which prompted half a dozen people to scoop up mostly cream pie mush and fling it at him. "Hey! None of that malarky, now! Back on the line!"
There was some nudging and some more giggling, and a couple of people trying to trip each other and send others tumbling into the mess. Remiel, wearing most of a blueberry pie from his shoulders down, still looked confused.
"All right, Pammy girl..."
"Don't call me Pammy girl." She picked a piece of crust off Remiel's shoulder and flicked it at him.
"Look, you want this win, or not?" It didn't much matter; Hank took her surprisingly clean arm and stretched it high above her head, to a mixed chorus of groans and twice as many cheers. "Pamela Barnes, last one standing!"
She did a victory dance on the plastic sheeting. The pie-filled plastic sheeting, which served to further demonstrate her agility when she managed not to break an ankle in the process. Remiel still looked confused.
"What does that mean?"
To their credit, no one laughed. A few people snickered. Pamela went over to the back of the house and uncoiled the hose, fiddling with it while Hank explained. "The cleanest person after the April Fool's day pie fight gets to help the others get clean. With the use of..."
"Ice cold water!" Paul screeched, ducking behind the larger men.
"...." Remiel said.