The Good Ship Impeachment quietly rocked, as Poirot took a pensive sip of his espresso. “This merciless peach is hiding aboard,” he muttered. “But we shall seek it out. N'est ce pas, Hastings?”
“I hope no one’s eaten it, old chap,” said Hastings. “I draw the line at plunging the you-know-what, you know."
“I,” said Claude Monet, angrily, “am against the drawing of lines.”
“Last time I was in a line,” said Buffy, with a pout, “I killed a man.”
“Was he the President or a vampire?” asked Baby Bear, nibbling a piece of brie.
“Sadly neither,” sighed Buffy. “But like I told the officer, when you’re queuing for cold meds, everyone looks undead.” She frowned. “I thought it was a rather public-spirited slaying. He was a queue jumper. What about that doesn’t deserve a dusting?”
Gender arrived with queasy-looking Othello. “Sorry we’re late. Othello barfed into the ocean.”
RuPaul, having just returned from the gender-neutral bathroom, was wearing a fresh coat of lipstick to match his scarlet gown. Taking his seat next to Othello, he asked, “Were you horribly seasick, my queen?”
“Honestly, I was just jealous,” said Othello, who was still looking green. “I’ve been throwing up pure bile.”
“We tried to walk it off,” said Gender, “but the poor mite’s consumed.”
“Did you see a peach on your way here?” Buffy asked Gender and Othello. “We’re told it’s committed bloodthirsty crimes against humanity—and various foodstuffs. Plus it’s suspiciously fuzzy and orange. Very unnatural. Greenpeace is going nuts.”
Bond—James Bond—sidled up to the table, gun cocked and at the ready. “Damn peach is sure as hell nearby,” he said, sotto voce. “There’s juice in the hold.” He twinkled at Red Riding Hood, who was pouring herself a coffee. “Nice outfit. Screams wolf bait. Fancy a game of poker?”
“Poke you,” snapped Red Riding Hood.
Bond took a seat next to Red, “For England, I’ll poke anyone.”
“If you can’t poke yourself,” said Ru Paul, “how on earth you gonna poke somebody else?”
“It’s the U.S. of A. that’s poked,” said Gender, as the ship gave a mighty lurch. They pulled off their sequined top hat and handed it to Othello, who promptly started to barf right into it. “I blame the peach-in-charge.”
“We should grab that darn fruit by the peachies,” said Gender, fanning the air.
Baby Bear’s jaw dropped. “No way is that leadership-speak.”
“Crack a newspaper, why don’t you,” said Gender.
The ship gave an almighty lurch. Everyone grasped their glasses and plates, to the sound of clattering cutlery. In spite of the pitching ship, Poirot rose, and tried, in a dignified manner, to pace up and down. Every so often, he wobbled. “Mes amis, this peach’s pronouns. . . do we know what they are?”
“He/him?” asked RuPaul.
“They/them?” asked Red Riding Hood.
Gender gasped at Red. “They/them? For a peach? That’s highly inappropriate!”
“Last time I looked, foodstuffs were still it/its,” said Buffy.
“Knowing this peach, ladies,” said RuPaul, “it’s likely a who/why.”
“Or,” said Red, “we could just call a peach a peach.”
“Bien sur,” said Poirot. “But is it still a peach, ma petite, if it incites the violence, the white supremacy, the misogyny, et surtout, the imprisoning of the innocent?”
Buffy gave a shrug. “Sounds more like the First.” Her eyes widened. “Could the first-ever evil have taken the form of a peach?”
Claude Monet gave a howl of excitement. “Buffy, what an image!” he cried. “Vite! Where are my paints?”
Buffy’s cell phone gave off its telltale whistle-blowing noise. Reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket, she muttered, “If this is another horny vamp, I’m gonna start charging.” But before she could check, the restaurant door suddenly swung open, and there stood Nancy Pelosi, carrying a pie. She placed it on the table. “Anyone for just desserts?” she asked.
Poirot rose, eyes bright. “This is a peach pie?”
“Is there any other?” said Pelosi.
“Mon Dieu,” said Poirot, his eyes bright like daggers. “The peach—it was smothered in pastry, then baked to oblivion. The mystery—it is solved!"
Healthy applause rang out from around the table. Even Bond put down his gun to clap.
“We’re all born naked,” RuPaul told Pelosi, “and the rest is pie.”
Buffy pulled out a stake. “We don’t want this peach to rise again,” she said, plunging it into the pie, and sending peach drizzle everywhere.
“Timber!” cried Baby Bear, as Pelosi took her seat between Hastings and Monet. The latter, who was still painting furiously on a small piece of canvas, didn't look up.
Buffy pulled her stake out of the pie and licked the tip. “Mmm,” she mused, “I don’t usually eat stake, but this one’s cooked to perfection.”
“Ding dong, the peach is poked," said Red Riding Hood.
“For England!” said Bond, putting down his gun. “This pie looks shaken, but, I’m pleased to say, not stirred.”
“Let’s dig in, and celebrate my latest masterpiece,” announced Claude Monet, raising a freshly daubed canvas from beneath the table. “Surrealists, eat your heart outs—I call this one, ‘Ceci n’est pas une peach!’”
The painting was murderously refreshing.
“Let’s rip this pie to pieces!” cried Red Riding Hood, reaching for a knife.
Bond stretched his arm along the back of Red’s seat. “You have quite a mouth, for a fairy tale character.”
Red Riding Hood laughed dryly, cutting her first slice. “All the better to eat you with,” she said.
—Star W.
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