by M. J. Joachim
“Pickles! Pickles! How the heck did pickles end up all over the floor?” Patricia screamed as she slipped and went flying across the room, upon getting home from work.
Paul quickly came to her rescue, helped her up and tried to explain. “I ran into the pickle police today, Pat, and they told me the only way to prevent being arrested for pickle fraud was to pick my pickles from the rest of these, and prove they’re mine.”
“Pickle fraud!” Patricia screamed back at Paul. “Pickle fraud!?”
“Yes, pickle fraud, Patricia. I don’t even know what it means, but since we preserved so many pickles last summer, and I don’t know how to prove any are ours, I thought it best to place the pickles out where I could see them all, to figure out a way to identify them.”
“Pickle fraud is police talk for prostitution pyramid schemes, you numb nuts! Don’t you know what a pickle is by now, for crying out loud?” she screamed as she set her purse on the table. “Now I’ve got to go get changed and prepare for my next john,” she said. “Thanks for letting me know the pigs might be onto us.”
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