Some coworkers and I jousted Peeps. I got a bit melodramatic about it.
We colored one side of the plate blue and the other red, then armed our marshmallowy warriors with toothpick spears. My heart went with the red soldier– his standard bore the red of blood, of passion, of victory! Once the plate was set inside the microwave arena, there was no turning back from the glory that awaited.
I nodded at my companion, who pressed the button to send an electronic beep blaring across the field of battle.
It had begun.
Soon, the fighters were awash in radiation, their bodies swelling like fish rotting in the sun. A burnt, sugary stench filled the air. My heart stopped as I saw my red soldier topple over to one side. My companion, who’d bet on blue, was quick to declare her own knight the victor. She moved to open the microwave door, but I stayed her hand.
A closer look and we saw it– immediately after my champion had fallen, hers had done the same, perhaps thinking that it was safe to lay down his arms while his foe rested. Such was not the case, as the red warrior’s apparent fall from grace was merely a feint to lure his foe into complacency. As soon as the blue knight lowered his spear, my red champion went in for the killing stroke. He puffed to an enormous size and thrust his spear forward.
We gasped in awe as we watched the red Peep’s spear rend his foe in twain. The once-proud blue warrior collapsed in a heap of bubbly ruin. The battle was done, the victor clear.
We drew the plate from the microwave and bore witness to the carnage we’d wrought: blackened sugar and wizened marshmallow bodies littered the field of conquest. Bloodlust slaked, we knew in our hearts that such a spectacle would not grace our eyes for another turning of the seasons. Easter, that blessed day which fans man’s barbarous thirst for feats of sugary daring to an unquenchable flame, was over.