Murdersocks: Chapter 7: In which stuff happens again and the inscreptible climax draws near

16-crust in dish

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“I’ve got it!” I screamed with the volume of a dozen epiphanetic elk.
I didn’t mean to say it out loud at all, but it out loud is how it happened.
The tent being made of thin fabric, my cry of eurekitude was projected for about a kilometer radius.  The one mountainy man I hadn’t already murdered came running to see what I was talking about, which, unfortunately, led to his death, but I won’t tell you about that.
I was now past murder and looking toward a future life of something else.  Something less… murdery.
Where was I?  Right.
The reason for my outburst was that I had thought of an answer to the question I had asked myself the previous night.
The question, “What would Grandpa Roderick Lentilstein Smythe do?” had an answer so straightforward and obvious that I was ashamed to have taken four and a half hours to think of it.  Please don’t tell anyone that part.
The answer was “Grandpa Roderick Lentilstein Smythe would bake crow pie!”
To the uncomprehending Murdersocks and their birdminded henchbirds, it would seem that I was simply offering them some food and then SPLOUNKCHT!  I would have them in my trap.
I skipped murderously toward my former workplace.  The Socks could not suspect my treachery no matter what, so I didn’t try to resist when they pointed me toward a family of nomadic cat-walkers on their way to another village.
Their sacrifice would not go unnoticed by the universe, I knew.
The bakery collided with myself at a quarter ’til eleven that morning, since I had skipped at high speed and the murdetour was brief.  Luckily, the door the door was already open and I coasted easily into the pie-station.
I mixed and kneaded the dough as I had done a thousand times previously, doing my best to not think about my actual plan.
Intentionally not thinking about something is popularly thought to be impossible, but I am one of those few individuals who can.  It took years of daily training with an absence of pink elephants and I never understood what the training was for, but now I did.  Somehow, Mama Lindelline Severnaya McNerrister diFlansworth and Papa Ottlemeyer Nobunaga Jenkins Smythe really had known what was best for their son.  I wished they had been there to see me not think.
When the bottom crust was rolled and panned, I sprinked a small gatchling of birdseed into it, and took a couple steps back for (I told myself loudly) no reason at all.

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