In the Unlikely Event... by Saxon Bennett Page B

taking another two steps back.
    Bud hopped up on the kitchen island as the first kitchen stool was overtaken by the blob.
    “Do you have a plan? What the hell are we going to do with this stuff?” Chase said. The blob reminded her of a bad horror movie where mutant yeast threatened to overtake the town.
    “I’m still thinking,” Bud said, studying the mess. She gently poked a finger into the blob. It moved like an alien spore about to give birth.
    Chase stared as the blob threatened to take over the kitchen. She was the household safety master, but industrial-size blobs were outside her ken.
    “We have to contain it first,” Bud said.
    “But how?” Chase said.
    “I know,” Gitana said. She rummaged in the cutlery drawer and pulled out an ice pick. She dashed at the blob like a knight jousting an opponent. She stabbed viciously.
    “I don’t think you should do that,” Bud said.
    “Why not?” Gitana said, pulling a French chef knife from the kitchen island. She fenced the blob and then the blob exploded.
    Instantly, like a water balloon bursting, dough covered them. Chase flipped into safety mode. “Clear your airways,” she shouted. She dug dough out of her eyes and went for Bud, trying to find her mouth. Bud was covered head to toe and Chase couldn’t see her mouth. She thrust a finger into the doughy mess.
    Bud screeched, “Ouch. I can breathe. Get your finger out of my ear.”
    “I was just trying to help.”
    “What?” Bud said. “I can’t hear you. There’s too much dough in my ear.”
    “That’s not dough. It’s my finger.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind,” Chase said.
    Chase dashed for Gitana, who lay back against the wall, having taken the full force of the explosion. She’d managed to clear her face, but she looked like she was lying beneath an ecru-colored, overstuffed feather comforter. Chase helped her to her feet.
    “Holy mother of fucking Christ,” Gitana said.
    “I don’t think even the Virgin Mary could have stopped this,” Chase said.
    “I say we stick to unleavened bread,” Bud said.
    “How are we going to clean this up?” Chase said.
    “Can you pass me the phone book if it’s still available?” Bud said.
    “Why?”
    “We need a specialist.”
    Within thirty minutes the You Make Them—We Clean Them van pulled up in the driveway. The dogs, who thankfully had been out in the yard when the blob disaster occurred, barked in full guard mode as two burly men dressed in yellow biohazard suits approached the house.
    “This is so embarrassing,” Gitana said, as the two men examined the kitchen.
    “We’ve seen worse, ma’am,” one of them said.
    “Really, what?” Bud asked. She pulled a piece of dough out of her hair.
    “Well…” said Bill. His name was on his pocket.
    “I’m sure there’s been one, it just doesn’t come to mind,” the man named Dusty replied.
    After a brief consultation between themselves they got their equipment—a snow shovel and a large wet-dry vac. They lubed the dough with a solvent. Bill shoveled the blob toward the vacuum hose while Dusty held the hose in place. The whole process took an hour and a half and they even cleaned the oven.
    “Good as new,” Bill said, wiping his hands on a rag.
    “Thank you so much,” Chase said, adding a forty-dollar tip to the bill.
    Dusty handed her a card. “Just in case,” he said.
    Bud walked them out. Chase suspected she wanted a peek in their truck. Knowledge was power.
    After the disaster cleanup and three long showers, they sat down to dinner. “At least the alfredo turned out,” Gitana said, looking down at her plate. “Well, sort of.”
    “It’s a very earthy color. It makes me think of Vermeer,” Bud said.
    “I didn’t realize the portabello mushrooms would do that,” Gitana said.
    “It tastes fabulous,” Chase said, and it did. In the kitchen, Chase’s phone rang again.
    “Four hundred and thirteen,” Gitana said.
    “She must be out of her meeting,” Chase said, taking a