Apple, Cherry, Or Peach, Sir? by Manchester
Disclaimer: All Marvel Universe characters belong to their original owners. Everything else belongs to me, including the pun. Or at least, I'm assuming this, seeing that a quick search on Google didn't find any examples of what just popped into my head.
From where they were standing in the open doorway of the small Manhattan combination bakery/coffee shop, Reed Richards said carefully, “Ben, you do
know we’re right in the middle of our fight with Victor?”
His wide back turned to the trio of friends who’d been searching for their astray comrade, Benjamin J. Grimm, alias The Thing, casually waved a rocky, four-fingered hand. This breezy gesture was followed by an equally nonchalant comment, “Aw, don’t worry ’bout it, Stretch. Once ol’ Doomsie gets started on his speechifying, he’s good for at least a fifteen-minute monologue, and maybe more.”
As one, the rest of the Fantastic Four turned their heads to look over three sets of shoulders. Well, actually, it was Susan and Johnny who did that. Reed simply spun his elastic neck in an 180-degree curve.
Regardless, these superheroes in blue all then witnessed the same thing out beyond the sidewalk at the deserted street. Surrounded by several wrecked cars and various new craters in the potholed asphalt, a man fully dressed in gray armor covered by a green cloak with a hood of the same color was standing there while ignoring everyone else in the vicinity, including his lifelong foes. This was probably due to Victor von Doom shaking both fists at the skies while declaiming in his best Shakespearian style a lengthy oration delivered solely in the third person covering his past, current, and future nefarious plans in excruciating detail.
Satisfied that they’d indeed have plenty of warning before the battle started again, the trio gave their attention once more to the five hundred pound, bright orange, walking rockpile waiting at the counter for his order. Apart from Reed, his wife, and brother-in-law, nobody else in the coffee shop reading their Daily Bugle
newspapers paid any attention to the very strange-looking person there. After all, it’d been decades since superheroes and supervillains had become part of the everyday scene in New York City. By now, the residents of this metropolis were remarkably blasé about matters like these.
Mr. Fantastic still wanted to know why The Thing had abandoned their conflict without even one loud announcement of his iconic battle cry. Beginning to ask this, Reed was interrupted by the shop clerk on the other side of the counter dropping onto there a metal tray occupied by a half-dozen whole pies. Judging from the delicious smells issuing from these pastries, they’d just been taken out of the bakery oven.
Happily grabbing the nearest pie plate at hand, Ben ignored how hot it was. With good reason, given his cosmic-ray-affected skin could now easily shrug off molten lava. Anyway, The Thing lifted the plate to his mouth, apparently just about to slide the entire fruit-filled contents into this wide orifice. Pausing in this to quickly assert to his gawking friends behind him, Ben told them, “Gimme a single lousy minute, willya? I need a quick snack, and then we can get back to kickin’ Doom’s metal butt. But, right now…IT’S COBBLERIN’ TIME!”
Author’s Note: Cherry cobbler is my favorite. What’s yours?