Plot Twist

"Oh Mother," said Samantha.  "Put away that stick of butter."

"Oh Samantha," said her mother.  "You haven't gone veggie on me, have you?"

"It's 'vegan' Mother, and yes I have."

"Your father wouldn't have liked that, you know."

"Samantha let out a laugh and then stopped herself.  As a child, there were many meatless dinners.  There was no money to buy any because her father had spent it all on liquor.  He would then accuse Samantha and her mother of stealing from him.  One time, he pounded his fist on his puffed-out chest and swore that he, the provider and man of the house, would go out and hunt for meat just like in olden days.  That night, he killed the family dog, cooked it, and forced them to eat it.

This was her father, a man who was frequently unemployed, always abusive, and took far too long to drink himself to death.  His funeral that afternoon had been attended by Samantha, her mother, and a half dozen of his buddies from the bar.  It was from overheard conversation that Samantha learned that her father had a reputation among his pals as a real "pussy hound."

He was, in short, a typical male, perhaps even worse than most.

Samantha poured a cup of peanuts into the saucepan containing water, sugar, salt, and corn syrup.  She then slowly stirred the mix together as it simmered on the stove.

"What are you using instead of butter?" Samantha's mother asked.

"Rapeseed oil."

"Rape seed.  That's fitting.  It was, after all, one of the prime ingredients in your conception.  It's funny.  If I has been more successful fighting your father off, you wouldn't even be here."

Samantha and her mother watched the water slowly boil from the saucepan.  After most of it had evaporated, Samantha stirred in the rapeseed oil and baking soda, and poured the contents on a cooking sheet to cool.

"He used to beat me, you know," said Samantha's mother.

"He used to molest me," said Samantha.  "I think that's worse."

"Yes, but did he beat you?"

"Sometimes."

"He beat me a lot more than sometimes, I can tell you that much."

The two women stood and stared at the steam rising from the molten peanut brittle as it began to congeal and harden on the cookie sheet.  Each passing minute seemed like an eternity.

"I have cancer," Samantha's mother said.

"Me too," said Samantha.  "What kind do you have?"

"Ovarian."

"I have breast cancer.  That's far worse than ovarian."

"Is not."

"Is too."

At that moment, the fabric of the fictive milieu ripped open and out I stepped, brushing fragments of suspended disbelief from my shoulders.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Samantha's mother.

"Can't you see we're having a women's moment?" added Samantha.

I put my hands on my hips and cleared my throat.

"I am a dissatisfied reader who has Gumby power and is not afraid to use it," I said.  "I have never been a big fan of Ms. Leeks but was content to endure her contrivances, or rather had been until you two came along.  Good God, have you listened to yourselves?  I had no choice but to step into you little story and take matters into my own hands."

I jumped up on the table, straddled the cookie sheet, and began to pull down my pants.  The two women gasped in unison.

"Cool your jets, ladies.  I'm just here to shit on your peanut brittle."

When I squatted down, it dawned on me that my own existence could be nothing more than a work of fiction as well.  Maybe some reader of my story would be just as disgusted with me and use his or her Gumby power to enter my world to dish out a similar form of literary criticism.  But it didn't have to be that way.  Fictional or not, I knew in my heart that I possessed free will.  I could shape my own destiny.  I made a pact with myself to do just that. 

Confident that I was entering a new era of being the best person that I could be, I pinched off a section of bowel movement that hit the hot vegan peanut brittle and sizzled like steak.