The Pie

She asks me what my favorite scent is.
Pie. Pumpkin pie.
The best pumpkin pie I have ever smelled was a gift.
A woman who had scorned me had left it on her windowsill to cool in the gentle evening breeze as she slept with her new lover.
I took the pie and tossed in a Molotov cocktail.
The fire caught quickly, too fast for them to escape.
They burned to death while I watched, finishing every last bit of the pie.
Here I am, hiding in Mexico, waiting for the heat to die down.
Got any pie? Or matches?