MC Part 2 #42
John dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“They’re the least popular dessert, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”
“But! But!” Logan protested.
“No buts! Nein! Nunca! Iie, ‘but’ ga imasen!” John struck a dramatic pose. “I declare I am the Dough Diva, and cannot be wrong!”
Logan’s eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise, or in an attempt to flee from the sight of John Frost’s sudden transformation into a Prima Donna chef. In all they years they’d been friends, Logan had never seen or heard John act that way. It was more than simply out of character; it was creepy.
“Okay, Dough Diva. How much shredded cheddar do you need for the fabulous dough you’re going to create?”
John turned to face him, and Logan nearly lost control of his bladder. The irises of his eyes were swimming with brilliant colors, and the look on his face was rapturous… or insane… The jury was out on which of the two choices was the most accurate.
“John, are you feeling okay?” Logan asked as he took a precautionary step backward.
“I feel invigorated!” His old friend shouted at the top of his lungs. “I’ve never been this excited before! Ever!”
John took several steps into the room, and Logan screamed like a masculine little girl.
“What? What’s wrong, Logan?”
Logan pointed one long finger at John’s waist, and shared the reason for his upset.
“You’re standing in the middle of the table.”
John looked down at the tabletop that neatly passed through the top of his thighs, and screamed. Reflexively, he ran away—still in one piece—into the steel door of the walk-in refrigerator. The door, uncomfortably attached to the laws of physics in the material world, stopped him dead in his tracks.
He collapsed to the floor with a meaty thunk.
Ignoring the metaphysical and paranormal strangeness, Logan vaulted the table, and landed in a crouch beside his old friend. He took John’s hand in his and gently checked the pulse in his wrist. Normal. The thing that bothered him was how cold John’s hand was.
“John? John? Dough Diva! Are you okay?” He took leave to gently slap John’s face a time or two for good measure.
“What the hairy fuck is a ‘Dough Diva’?”
“You were calling yourself that before you ran through the table and hit the door.”
John sat up, and cradled his head in his hands for a moment. It was pretty clear he was trying to reassemble his brains after encountering the steel door, so Logan let him be. He did note that John’s eyes were their normal misty hazel color.
“What did you have in that coffee, Logan? LSD?”
“No, it was Catoctin Coffee’s new Ethiopian full city roast. It’s a little heavy, but not psychoactive.”