To whom it may concern

"Would you relax?" said Dash. "Obviously if we got takeout, we picked up some for you too."

"It's in the oven," said Simon. "It should still be warm, but if it's not, the microwave is only opening dimensional rifts one out of every seven or eight uses these days."

Marshall opened the smoke-stained and slightly warped oven door. Sure enough, three bags decorated with cartoon alien clowns sat on the bottom shelf, smelling like meat by-products and something that was almost, but not quite, mayonnaise.

"Thanks, guys," he said, reaching in and grabbing the nearest one. It was already cold.


Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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"How was the milkshake?" asked Melanie, lying on Janet's bedroom floor later that day with her legs braced against the windowsill and her spine twisted in the sort of eye-watering position that made anyone over the age of thirty cry out in agony.

"It was delicious," said Janet. "It tasted like one less demanding asshole in my restaurant, and also like chocolate, peanut butter, banana and Kahlua."

"The best flavour combinations," Melanie agreed, raising herself up on her hands as her bare feet braced against the faded pink wallpaper Janet had kept since she was twelve. "And Marshall?"

"Pouting, predictably."

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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