Tick, tick, tick, tick.

A sturdy woman wearing a sleek looking leather jacket walks into the bakery, hauling several bags of flour in a little cart.

”I discern that my storefront has failed to become as ashen and fiery as the deadened embers of my heart,” she says. 

“I hardly had a fire going, dear, if you wanted everything to be consumed in a fiery explosion you should have instructed me to produce a cake.”

“Psh, better luck next time - did any of your suggested recipes generate any sales? I must mournfully admit that they’re all as bizarre as a pollywog dog with seven mouths and three molten earlobes, although they’re growing on me.”

“I gave away five loaves without requiring any form of recompense or purchase!”

The baker seems to think that, in this moment as in all moments of exceptional delight, a kiss is warranted.

Her wife agrees! 

And they do need to eventually de-kiss, unfortunately.

”Sometimes I suspect that you’re like a -“

The area at the very back of the shop is completely empty.

Then it isn’t.

“Boo.”

They decline to startle.

"Neighbor, darling, have you ever considered being a dear and using the door."

"One of these days you're going to pop in on us making love and it's going to be as awkward as a four-headed catfish trying to play the trombone in a wedding band - how can we help you?"

(The woman who suddenly appeared in their store is approaching six feet, and she's wearing glittering stiletto heels on top of that; she rather towers over them. A tattered black dress compliments her excessively dark lipstick and bleached blonde hair.)

"If I was gonna walk in on you two humping each other I'd do it on purpose, sounds like a fun time. Lucky for you I have other hobbies. Anything new with the bread?"

"I'm excitedly experimenting out several new varieties of yeast bread at the moment, with my wife's assistance! Would you like to try any of the superbly delectable kumquat bread, the enticingly sour blueberry bread, the visually interesting twist bread, the -"

"I'm not actually interested in any of your fucked up bread, I was just making small talk. Stick to the milk gig, the milk gig was working for you and it didn't make me wanna gouge out the eyes of the concept of yeast and then hit it over the head with a shovel."

"Aren't you just as charming as a deep sea monster with a side gig as a killer clown. What do you want?"

"I'm here with a favor to ask and a favor to give."

"This isn't one of your sex things, dear, is it, because we've already informed you as to our -"

"Babe, if I wanted to tap that, I would've already. Think bigger. Less with the whips and handcuffs, more with the mystic fuckery."

"... ancient prophecy? Celestial alignment? Timmy fell down a well again?"

"Bingo with the second one. In three days time, a blue moon appears - the real shit, not the crappy knockoffs that happen whenever a calendar farts. Your mother stole from me, when you were playing peekaboo and soiling diapers, and I liked her moxie enough that I gave her three gifts - no more periods for her, no grandchildren from you, and a dead husband. She thanked me. But, see, giving someone a gift when they've stolen from you, when you're the daughter of the devil? He'll let it slide, if it's just a couple plants. Different thing entirely, when they've swindled you of daddy dearest's favorite beans. Old man was pissed. So he turned me into a woman. And if you wanna have the gift retracted so you can keep children without turning them into stone, you'll listen to me, capiche?"

"You used to be - not important. Why didn't you tell us on some earlier date, instead of leaving us dangling in dangerous ignorance like spiders in the scope of some insectoid archer?"

"Because I like fucking with people, and it would be fucking hilarious if you adopted someone and then they turned into a statue and you were all sad and shit? Anyway. You willing to help me to get a kid. I've done lots of fucked up stuff to get kids, your mother was pregnant when I gave her her the three gifts and I ended up transferring the pregnancy."

“You gave birth to a biological sibling of mine?”

“Half-sibling. Your mother was kind of a slut. And he’s mine, and you aren’t going to ask any more questions about him unless you want me to carve off your face and turn it into a fucked up sockpuppet.”

“Would you be at all willing to get to the point, then, dear.”

“Yes. In order to retract the gift and all the mumbo jumbo that came with it, I need four symbolically appropriate ingredients: first, the hair as yellow as -“