Pickles

Phase One: Desire

As with all things, so this began with lust, gastronomic in origin as it may have been. It wasn’t a glut, no, that would involve a gorging until the very fabric of my tract bulged and whimpered at the seams. No, I was not going to be a zombie, a zed-head, struggling and moaning at the thought of delicious and tender flesh, far from it. My lust had a laser’s pinpoint precision. I knew what I wanted, and it floated, contained, just out of my immediate grasp, mocking me with all its brethren.

 

Phase Two: Contemplation

One could not go about sating this lust with barbaric force. That would just result in emergency rooms and far too many stitches for comfort. There would be messes to mop, smells to defunk, and still a persistent tacky stickiness would always remain there in the locus of my Waterloo. Alas, simplicity it wasn’t, extricating my desire from its cell. I had but two options, both springing from the same mother font: Wrenching the doors away solo or with my au pair.

 

Phase Three: Execution

Some may call it daftness, others stubbornness, others blind want, but I call it practicality. Going it alone, while it does lend one few options for blame for failure, is by far the most simplistic of knee-jerk reactions one can make. And make it I did, and suffer I did. There was straining, reddening of the face, bulging of the oft-underused biceps, and much, much grunting; yet no reward to reinvigorate the expended effort. Futility, that sinister witch, cast her spell over me and I was helpless before her, writhing in my own loss.

 

Phase Four: Recalculation

Solo was a no-go and my options fell to one, namely she, who was incapable of even the simplest of the acts of liberation. She who many times came to me for just such an event was now my only other hope. And hope I did, for isn’t there strength in multiplied numbers; in pooled ignorance, cannot there be found a solution? Cannot many different torrents, each comprising but a fraction of the whole, come together and engineer a solution? With this hope resting comfortably on scented pillows above I beckoned her, and she came with doubt.

 

Phase Five: Doubling

There was straining, reddening of the faces, bulging of the doubly underused biceps, and infinitely more, though for the most part softer, grunts of frustration. The witch remained and we were both of us incapable of exorcising her magics. One and one were two, but two was less than needed. Fingers groaned under fearsome manipulation and to no avail. Knuckles cracked, reddened, grew white, and red again, and still no release. Fingertips slipped, mocked by friction, and found no purchase. We were failed.

 

Phase Six: Defeat

There was no solution, no way to end this plight. And so we retreated, defeated and unsatisfied. There was nothing to show for our aches and our arthritis, for our fear of carpal tunnel. It was a grim day that, while starting with the most glorious of promises, ended up mired in a swamp of ineffective nothing. It was a disaster, tantamount of the removal of the chips from the cabinet only to find that the opener had torn asunder the opposing end, leaving gravity to do the work of the now depressed esophagus. With shame, the lusted were replaced in their greater holding area, victorious in their confines.

 

Phase Seven: Delay

Out of sight, out of mind.

 

Phase Eight: Brushfire

Then came the night, a few past the first skirmish, when the lust struck again. It would not be denied, not by force of will or by force of vacuum. The desired objects would be attained, even if the previously forsaken barbarism needed to be enacted.

 

Phase Nine: Satiation

The subjects were removed from their greater container and once more placed on the field of battle. Positions were readied, hands were carefully dried, and with the application of one, two, three grunting twists their microcosm was open to my hungering. And with absolute relish I devoured two of their ranks, their pulpy innards squishing so wondrously throughout my gnashing mouth. Their blood ran green, and dribbled down my chin, their skin cracking and snapping under my onslaught. It was glory. But as I said, it was no glut, and the camp was resealed, though not so tightly as before, and replaced in the chilly confines.

 

Phase Ten: Four A.M.

The lust had a baby sister. She wanted another. She was not disappointed.

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