39) The Adventures of the Time Travelling Talking Pie

No one could understand what the pie was saying. The Ambassador of Time Peace (a role which had been created and filled within two hours of the pie’s discovery) sat with his heads in his hands. He had been working a desk job for the FBI a few hours ago. Now he was talking to a pie. He could feel his grey hair falling onto his shoulders. The pie waffled through a gap at the crest of the lid of the crust. Its breath smelt like blueberries. The Ambassador reiterated to himself that he was talking to a pie.

‘What I need to know…Pie, is how you found this microchip.’

The Ambassador lifted a green microchip, cut off at one corner, to the pie. The pie mixed it’s blueberries around and moved its crust lips as a response. The Ambassador ran his hand through his hair and felt the strands nestle in between his fingertips.

The microchip was a brain controlling device that had not yet been invented yet. The first concern regarding the pie was whether it was made in Russia or not. The Ambassador insisted that Russian pies were not particularly renowned, but a background check had to be run. The blueberries were from a farm in California, but the pastry was a mystery. Therefore the pie was still suspicious.

‘What does a-’ The Ambassador stopped to groan, ‘What does a Pie need with a brain controlling device?’

The pie’s gooey insides squelched in reply. The Ambassador swore the noises were higher pitched, as if the pie were speaking with urgency. Then the Ambassador reminded himself, he was interrogating a pie. He could be at home with his normal human children and his normal human wife yelling at his idiotic normal television set.

He took the brain control chip between his thumb and forefinger. An idea came to mind. The pie’s crust trembled, as if it knew what the Ambassador was about to do. He placed the microchip onto the pie’s surface. This was probably outside of what was allowed but he had two excuses; he was still getting used to the job and the suspect was a pie and therefore had no human rights.

‘English. Speak English,’ The Ambassador said.

The pie’s mouth moved slowly, the blueberries churning.

‘Okay.’

The Ambassador clapped his hands together.

‘How did you get the microchip?’ he asked.

‘From the future,’ the pie said, ‘It is all over for you.’

The Ambassador leaned forward with his palms together.

‘Just what are you saying?’

‘The pie is the master race. The human’s time will end.’

The Ambassador felt his stomach churn like a collection of steamed blueberries which had been lightly sugared. Then, one last time, he reminded himself of the situation. He took the microchip off the pie and put it back into the plastic evidence bag. The pie was placed in a Krispy Kreme doughnut box and whisked away.

The Ambassador needed to go home.  There had been a steak pie in the fridge for him to eat when he got back, but he didn’t feel like eating it anymore. It would stay good for another day; what was the harm?