We all stared at Gladstone for 12 seconds. Finally, I sighed as heavily as I could, and said, "Yes. I have read that mold spores can do that." I stared each one of them in the eye, daring them to make a thing of this. "Let's all forget what just happened, but also be on the watch for mold spores." Another lengthy pause while everyone considered that. Finally DOB walked over to Brockway and punched him on the shoulder. "Sorry buddy. It was you or us. Glad you pulled through though." He thought for a moment before adding, "Tiger." "I don't think it was actually me or you," Brockway said, wincing as he examined his bleeding ass. "You'll never understand what it's like being in that situation," Swaim said cheerfully. He wiped his sword blade against his pants. "How the human body reacts when it's put in danger like that. I'm glad to say that I reacted flawlessly." Brockway glared at him, his head conjuring up ways to remove Swaim from his genitals. I paused for a second to make sure they weren't going to start up again, then turned to look towards the back of the fridge. Behind us, the mold's retreat had uncovered a variety of detritus. Bottle caps, twist ties, a fork. I looked it over curiously before my eyes settled upon something horrific. Against the side wall, slumped against a Tupperware container full of evil, sat a skeleton, its bones bleached white. "Is that?" I whispered under my breath, cautiously approaching it. "Ross?" Swaim said, finishing my thought. We all gathered around the skeleton. The mold had picked it clean. "How can you guys be sure?" asked Brockway, bleeding. "His medallion," I said, pointing at his neck, where a bronze medallion lay, the light catching it. The mold hadn't touched it at all. "It's the Wolinksy family crest. He never took that off."
__ Our hearts heavy, we continued towards the back of the fridge. When we arrived we saw the most horrible thing imaginable. A mass of mold the size of an ass had formed in the far corner of the fridge. Huge writhing tentacles sprouted out from it. A malevolent energy pulsed around it. It was alive. It was aware. It was watching us. "The Mold Queen," Gladstone said.
Swaim began arguing about whether mold could even have a queen, and suggested we try and find a name with a pun in there somewhere. We argued about that for awhile, but couldn't come up with anything better. Curiously, we did all decide that it was definitely a woman. After that we argued about how we were going to kill it, Gladstone repeatedly chiming in to remind us about the "unknowable effects of mold spores." "Salad!" Brockway shouted after a while. "That's the answer." He ran over to a brown paper bag with the word "Salad," scribbled over it in black marker. "I forgot I left this here!" "I don't think that's going to be good any more," Swaim said. Brockway ignored him and slashed a hole in the side of the bag with his sword. We peered in after him. Brockway's "salad" was a flat glass bottle, a mickey of some variety or other, its label long since peeled off. "Brockway family gin!" Brockway said, excitedly. "The key ingredient in a Brockway salad," he continued. "The other one's ice," he added, unnecessarily. "Your family makes its own gin?" I asked. "Legally we can't call it gin," Brockway said. "Also it's less a family and more a religion. And, for legal purposes, we don't make it, our creator makes it