I love pizza. I love cheese puffs. I love ice cream, but most of all I love pickles. I put them on my pizza, eat them wrapped around my cheese puffs and on top of my ice cream. I buy a jar everyday because I eat them too quickly. Today I saw some signs pointing to a small trailer selling all kinds of flavored pickles. I pulled in right away.
“Hi. Any pickles today?” said the small foreign man behind the register.
“Uhhh. I think… I’ll have…”
“How ’bout these,” he held out a small pickle jar that was in a foreign language. It had a red tinge to it.
“Cool. How much?”
“Five.” I paid him and climbed back in my truck.
When I got home I decided to eat them while watching the TV.
“IN OTHER NEWS, A RUSSIAN MAN SELLING PICKLES IN OSHIAR WAS ARRESTED BECAUSE HUMAN REMAINS WERE IN HIS JARS. THEY WERE DISGUISED LIKE PICKLES.”
“Hmm. Good thing I live on the line of Oshiar and Centerville,” I said as I turn the channel, shoving a pickle in my mouth.
Author’s Note: Follow me on Instagram @scary.pasta
