[OOM: The stairway between the bar and the guest suites.]

"Do I even want to know what the hell almost just happened down there? Aside from the fact that you almost got yourself a one way ticket there?"

Mike is breathless. His fight or flight response is on overdrive.

[OOM: Rm 134]

Mike had truly embraced the pie-making challenge. Kitty would get her daily offering as per Indy's ill-weighted bribe, but more than that, Mike had immersed himself in a bake-a-thon of epic proportions. It kept his mind busy. It kept his hands busy. It was something that took his mind off her. And in light of recent discussions, it kept him from sleeping deeply enough to dream. So the kitchen of 134 had become his sanctuary over the past few days. It had also become a laboratory for his filling experimentations, and a sweltering forge for pie production and cooling. Organized chaos of ingredients, and sampling notes reigned across every surface, even spreading as far as the dining table. And everything in that part of the suite had taken on a light covering of flour, including Mike and Stampy.

Indy left Mike to it, only being called upon to get more pie dishes from downstairs, find room to store new products in the refrigerator, or change up the cooling pies on the various window sills and high places in the suite that were out of range of Stampy's trunk.

Pies of every shape and kind started to emerge from the oven on Saturday: familiar flavors like cherry, blueberry, pecan and apple, and less familiar ones such as strawberry rhubarb, mango and pear. Others made their way straight into the fridge: French silk chocolate, key lime, banana cream, lemon meringue and coconut custard. And so many more, from traditional to frighteningly exotic. It continued over the entire weekend, with little respite, and he was still industrious before today's scheduled tending shift. Ideally Mike was working towards a unique signature pie. Something he'd be remembered by. And his Turtle Mocha was getting close to perfection...