Fork

Fork. Forks. Forks'.

"There are no forks," Owl said, as he ripped his forearm's flesh apart with studied persistence. "There is only the idea of a fork."

"I know a lot about forks," said a slightly bothered Ubermilf, who had considered them from every angle since that time when she'd been taken unawares. She had never been taken unawares since.

"That's what you think," said Owl, though he seemed to believe it. "What about spaghetti?"

Ubermilf couldn't be bothered. She knew she had to use an entire crew of self-infatuated, under-achieving dick-waving wannabes to get to her reward, which Nick had probably already nicked.

"Ok, I'll make spaghetti for tea," she said with little conviction. "Now -"

She had never spoken the last two words of this sentence before. Until now, nobody had ever asked her what they were.

"What was that," said a voice she thought she'd never hear again.