“SLADE!” you bellow. “You said you’d been taking a hot shower for ages, but there was no fog on the mirror when I came inside. I remember, I threw myself finger guns in it!”
Slade’s grimaces. “You shithead. You just had to get all snoopy, didn’t you?”
He reaches into his rugby bag and pulls out a tire iron, advancing slowly towards you. The others back away.
“Yeah, I ate your pizza, loser,” he says, sneering. “I stuffed it into my rugby bag when you were upstairs, before you even got in the shower. And I enjoyed every bite, too!”
You drop back into a crouch, bouncing from one foot to the other like boxers in the movies, hoping those two karate classes you took in Year 6 will pay off.
Slade swings the tire iron. You duck. It whistles over your head. You punch him twice in the gut, pow pow! His abs are rock hard. Your blows have no effect. You stagger back and stumble on the empty pizza box. You’re on the ground. Slade is advancing with the tire iron.
Suddenly there is a loud “WOMP.” Slade is down. Out cold. Unconscious. Iced. Igor stands over him with a frying pan.
“Hell yeah,” he says. “That guy was a douche anyways, hehehe.”
“Igor? You don’t sound like a robot!” you say, startled.
“Yeah,” Igor says, laughing. “I was just talking like that for the last few months as a prank. Gotcha.” He grins, and helps you to your feet.
The others gather around. “Well,” you say, “it looks like the mystery of the missing pizza has been solved.”
“Anybody want any of my dinner?” says Igor.