“Honey, I’m home” is not a phrase I use often. The routine of my arrival generally coincides with someone napping, another sleeping, one video gaming, another may or may not be at work. Today, there were strangers in my living room eating cake. That was unusual. Not the fact there were strangers in my house. The fact there was cake.
The children are adults and their friends come and go frequently. Garage side business customers drop by at random times day and night. It keeps me from roaming the house in my underwear during leisure time. Sweatpants at least are required.
But we hardly ever have cake in the house. The family is not big fans of sweet desserts and we rarely bake (or purchase) cake for ourselves. These people were eating slices of some unknown flavored confection with layers of frosting showing at least three tiers. Fancy cake. I noticed they had the correct forks and napkins folded on their laps. Something different was happening.
“Hello.” I said.
They turned towards me and smiled. One extended their plate and offered, “Cake?”
I declined and noticed the pistol in a shoulder holster of the one as they withdrew their plate. A badge glinted on the belt of the other. I had heard about these people. This was bad.
They were the next evolution of the telemarketer. No longer content with calling random people at all hours of the day and night, they had mobilized into two-person teams that would arrive at your door with cake. These two were from either some law enforcement charity or fireman’s society. Probably both. They were teaming up recently. I should have known something was out of place with the red truck parked in the street.
You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.