That’s when you said, “We need to deduce who damaged the biscuits.” I think I remember asking if you felt alright. You said you were fine, despite the fact that you obviously weren’t. Your arms sagged beneath your waist, your eyes were bloodshot, your wrists swelled, and you couldn’t swallow very quickly. “Let’s enjoy some more champagne,” Virginia proposed. “No, you’re not supposed to do that; it will make the death more painful,” Oliver argued. That’s when you addressed everyone. “If we can form a cohesive story, we may have time to document it before anything else goes awry.” “What good would documenting do?” Denver took a break from caressing his Mickey Mouse forks. “It would serve as a warning for proceeding the Red Lobster Room grand openings and similar events,” you continued to fight. I think you even whipped out a map of the Red Lobster Room, blueprint style, but that could have just been the biscuits. “There’s a high probability that the culprit has already left; it doesn’t matter. No one initiates this sort of mass attack if they’re not part of a larger organization. We know they’re going to strike again if they don’t get what they want. It’s only a matter of time before the same group goes after the Community Aquarium Fishery & Cafe, or worse, our homes. They’re after us, or the restaurant entity, and, well, at least one of them can still be protected.” Virginia mentioned something about speculating over anyone who did not scarf a biscuit, to which Oliver countered that there were far too many guests to keep track, to which I responded that Oliver, Virginia, and myself had eaten several without any physical symptoms other than lightheadedness on my part. “Besides, don’t you want to know?” You looked at me with such earnestness; I couldn’t turn you down. I supposed I would want to know, too. You suggested we split up, which led to us and Oliver working to find other spiked foods or suspicious characters in the basement; Denver and Virginia searched the premises from the balcony down. We didn’t make it very far before Oliver began collecting coins from the ground. “What are you doing?” we asked in unison. “Look at this. Royal Embassy embossed.” A struggle, a dimmer atmosphere, and you and I found ourselves back in the kitchen. No, it was a different kitchen this time, slightly smaller, and fancier, with genuine ruby chandeliers and painted glass windows. We decided we’d received sufficient information about the biscuits for now. You stymied me when you asked for my hand, but played along. You wouldn’t remember this, but somehow we ended up performing our version of the tango at one half the normal speed across the room. The room was positioned directly under the lounge; we could hear every note of ”Stayin’ Alive.” Wonderstruck, I followed your lead across the miniature dance floor. The stereo cut after the third chorus, reminding us of the reality we couldn’t alter. “How many biscuits have you had?” you whispered as if you suspected. “Maybe five. Yourself?”
157