Get that pie out! The crust has bubbled into cracking, the skin erupting sugar shit and hot lava death by now. How many mouths wait, watering? You are nothing if not the bringer of pie. Would you exist without these pies? Not in this form. Not with those hairs bouncing in the oven’s heat, singed and singing noxious notes in the nose of the lady that waits for pie. And the lady that waits hates waiting!
Apple, cherry, (what the fuck is this?) peanut butter? Throw this one at the first clown handed dandy you see. It’s not hot and the lady only likes them hot as hell-fire. She cums with the burning of tongues. Pies like napalm sandwiches she frames on the walls of her memory’s palace. Her very teeth need blackened with the soot of my culinary heresies. This is not the queen you revere. This is not the old one with the tits in the window or the young with her ass on the seesaw. Those ladies will wait. The lady that waits will not. Why are you still standing here with pies in your hand, cooling in the energy thieving air? Go. Go now. Put knees to ground and crawl if the way is too cramped. Cut guts from those in your way and string them like ladders across the frozen falls of false expectations. Take turds and blood and become friction free.
Time is not kind to a pie and a lady that waits is kind to no one when she waits for pie.