Meals of Vengeance

It sits, not thirty feet away from me, separated by just one wall. I fear it, yet I crave it. Actually, I don't know if I even crave it anymore. How can anyone crave such a horrible thing, even with the veritable fountain of nutrition it promises? It just....got out of hand.

There are one hundred and seven different grains in that loaf of bread in the kitchen. One hundred and seven. Imagine it. I started modestly. "I'll try my hand at making multi-grain bread," I said to myself, "to pass the time on this bleak, rainy day, for celebrity poker is a re-run." The next thing I knew, it was four a.m. Now I can see the sun peeking above the clouds through the windows of my bedroom. Dawn has come. And I am frightened.

My door is locked. It's locked because I swear I can actually hear those grains making some kind of sound. When I stuffed the fiftieth grain inside the yeast, I sat down and took a long, troubled breath, because I sensed the ever-growing loaf move beneath my fingers. At seventy-five grains, there was no question anymore: the uncooked loaf pulsated like an evil heart. Yet I pressed on. But something about the sound....a loaf which pulsates because of an abundance of grains is a mere freak of nature, but a loaf which somehow cries out to be set free of its awful, cluttered chains of wholesomeness....that is something to beware.

Too many grains. Just too many. More than any human should ever have attempted. And what do I have to defend myself with? A lamp, perhaps. An old box of Iron Man comic books. What if....what if it gets in?

Absurd. Impossible. In its present uncooked form, it is utterly harmless to be sure.

But what if by cramming so many grains into its yearning maw, the loaf somehow acquired the intelligence to open the oven, set the temperature....and get in?

What then?

What then?