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Going Native

John left for an appointment in the middle of dinner tonight, claiming from the front door, "sorry to abandon you...but I'm really not. Hahahaha! Oh, just kidding. Hahahaha! Ahem." As soon as the door closed behind him, Bryce and Quinn leapt from their chairs and grabbed some nearby kitchen twine to bind me to my chair and sacrifice me to the fire gods of chaos. The hot pokers of Not Eating Dinner soon gave way to those of Yelling, Spitting Food, and Hopping On One Foot Around Hungry Victim While Complaining.

We were having baked potatoes and assorted leftovers and fresh vegetables. You can see why the kids would take this opportunity to torture me. Where are the chicken nuggets and french fries, slave? What are these "vegetables" of which you speak? We shall tie you up and sacrifice you. Perhaps your absent spouse will learn a lesson from your untimely demise.

I had to think fast. I felt my blood pressure rising with every new torture device, and I knew the end for me was near. "Hey, guys!" I cried in an attempt to cover my fear and desperation with cheer, "Uh.... let's see, let me think, what was I going to say? Oh yeah. Quinn, I need some help cleaning up the kitchen!" The "need some help" phrase caught the powerful creature's attention - I could tell by the way he cocked his head to one side like a puppy - and I knew I was in. "Yeah, yeah! I totally need YOU to be the one to take the plates over to the dishwasher!" His eyes lit up. I'd kept that gem in my back pocket for just this type of emergency - the Quinn creature loved the dishwasher more than life itself, and sought out reasons to send the large plastic door slamming back into the closed position, and now this foolish prisoner was offering to let him oversee this incredible display of modern technology?! Sublime. Just what he'd been waiting for.

In the meantime, Bryce the overlord was becoming confused by this new turn of events. Wait a minute. Quinn gets to load the dishwasher? I don't think so! This is my operation, and if anyone here is going to benefit from the hostage's desperate plea for life, it's going to be ME.

They untied me, removed the hot pokers from my side, and turned their attention to the joy of loading the dishwasher. They were so impressed with my dishwasher possession that they were just in the process of lifting me to a throne of couch cushions and folded laundry when I made the mistake of mentioning bath time. Then, as if awaking from hypnosis, the commitment returned to their eyes and they began their sacrificial chant anew. It mostly sounded like wails and shrieks, but it worked, because I think my brain bled out in a thick ooze, leaving only the part that reminded me of my biological imperative not to destroy my own genetic material.

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