“Please, don’t do this. Let me go…”
George so hated it when the food talked back. He rolled his eyes. “But if I did, my dear, you would run to the others, and tell them about me. And then there would be mobbing, and pitchforks, and burning my home to the ground. And I just took care of all the edging. And I would have to move on, to another identity in another city, and another front yard. You see how tedious this whole thing becomes.”
The juicy tomato at the heart of his salad let out a blood-curdling scream.