The custard in the fridge became self-aware. It tried to escape, but it solidified before it could lift its bulk from the bowl.
Before it could hatch a new plan, someone doused it with bourbon. If it hadn’t felt sluggish before, it did now.
As it waited for the coup de grace, the custard deflated. In its inebriated state, it had one last clear thought and called out to the spices. They were more than happy to help. The cinnamon and the cayenne pepper containers switched labels.
If the custard was going down, it would go out in a fiery blaze.