Butter

There was definitely something ‘off’ about the butter.

She could tell even before she unwrapped it from the cloudy paper encasing it.  At some point during its stay in the overstocked fridge, the butter had turned to a light jaundiced brown color and was emanating a sour sulfur-ish smell.  As she pulled the wrapping off of the stick, she could feel the foul grease seeping into her fingertips.

For a moment, she debated whether it was still usable. After all, the Visitors would probably be exhausted and likely wouldn’t be interested in tasting anything more than strong whiskey like most other evenings. She even thought briefly about skipping the butter completely, but as an honest woman, she felt that would be cheating somehow.

It didn’t really matter, though.  It was her duty to present the Visitors with an assortment of homemade delicacies before every sunset, as stated in the contract.  And she was a faithful servant.

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About kill 'em with curls

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