B-Movie Attack by Alan Spencer Page A

a black apron covered in powdered sugar and a baker’s hat was wadded up in his left pocket.  
    Peggy channeled her nervous energy into a conversation. “May I help you, sir? Are you interested in our annual contest?”
    “Ah yes,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I love baking pies, pastries, delicious creamy cakes, strudels, cookies—always a baker’s dozen. No more, no less. Oh, and mmmmm , lemon tarts—lemon squares—bricks of fudge, donuts, bear claws, Danishes. Every good bakery bakes those fresh daily.”  
    The man gawked at the other side of the counter. “What, no soda fountain? Oh, the kiddies love it.” He leaned in close over the glass display and gave her a wink. “And the adults do too.”
    “Um.” Peggy was confused. “How can I help you?” She noticed his nametag. “Mr. Baker”.
    He eyed her with a hint of disappointment. “Are you pie-eyed today?”
    Peggy was offended. “No, I haven’t been drinking.”
    “Do you run into the same problems I do being a baker?”
    She didn't mean to sigh. “And what would those problems be?”
    “I always run out of filling for mincemeat pie.”
    “Nope. I keep plenty on order.”
    The man’s face twisted into incredulity. “What do you mean you don’t run out? Then you’re not making it right. It’s not fresh if you don't run out. You get it out of a can, is that your game?” His expression of delight changed into psychotic malice. “No, you’re one of those bakers who don’t care about quality or their customers’ bellies. I care about their bellies very much. And you should too.”
    Peggy pointed at the door. “Please leave if you’re not going to buy anything.”
    “Have you ever tried mince-Harriet pie?”
    Her instincts kicked in and every inch of her body told her to bolt out of the store and scream for help. But she stood in place, afraid to give the man a reason to pursue her. If he stayed on his side of the counter, she’d be okay, she decided. “M-mince-Harriet pie?” She played dumb. “Is that your mother’s recipe?”
    “Actually, it is. She's the main ingredient! ”  
    Peggy had failed to notice the knife handle jutting from his forearm. He pulled the blade from his flesh, the exit creating a cough of blood. “But mince-Peggy, I’ll have to try next. My new recipe! Oh, I can’t wait to fill my pies with you.”
    Peggy turned to sprint to the back room when the large bladed knife was shoved through one temple and out the other. Both eyes were popped by the speeding tip of the knife. A wall of steel occupied her sockets.  
    The woman flopped to the floor dead.  
    Mr. Baker smelled more workers in back. Soft hints of perfume. Powdered sugar. Condensed milk. Aftershave. Apple filling. Cinnamon sugar. Raw dough. Perspiration. Hair spray.  
    Enticed by his olfactory senses, Mr. Baker thought the next victims would create many wonderful steaming-hot pies.  

Chapter Seven
    Billy Carton returned to his father’s room in the recovery unit. Wayne was in a deep sleep. The morphine did the trick. The nurses checked his vitals every hour on the hour. Each nurse reassured him Wayne would make a full recovery. Sitting in the room, Billy read an issue of Reader’s Digest , specifically an article about the increasing shortage of competent teachers in the high school system and how America was falling behind in Math. Yeah, what’s new?
    It was difficult reading anything too intelligent, so he tried Mad magazine, but even that proved troublesome. He closed his eyes. He’d consumed four Advil to ease his headache, the headache that had arrived the moment he'd witnessed the man blow himself up. The image of a ball of blood erupting on the crosswalk refused to leave his mind. The problem: in his memory, he didn’t remember seeing the man carry a detonator or anything resembling an explosive device. Another thing, where were the man’s remains? His guts should’ve been dangling from the streetlight, he thought.
    I swear