Sentient pie. Not usually a problem, but today it was. Gladys chased the tin around the counter, hoping to get the lemon meringue to hold still long enough for her to cut a piece for the gentleman in the back booth with the creepy lazy eye and the talking cat. She supposed the talking cat should have been a tip-off that the pie was going to go horribly awry, but still. Pie wasn’t supposed to move about like that. Or say nasty things about her husband. The man with the “therapy cat” had better tip well, that was for sure.
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