A man in a chef's hat, apron, and yellow crocs holds a pizza slice and stands over a shirtless man in boxers lying face down on a lawn with a pizza box.

Christopher is passed out in the recliner after the party. You try to shake him awake, but he mumbles something like, “Five more minutes,” and farts audibly in his sleep. The front door creaks open. Christopher finally stirs. “Huh? Oh, pizza’s here?” He stumbles toward the open door, yelling, “Yo! Don’t leave it on the step this time!” He steps outside in boxers and socks. You hear Chris’s muffled shouting: “Bruh, I told you no olives! NO OL—” You hear a thunk, a squelch, and a loud “Ow!” You run to the door just in time to see Christopher face-down on the ground, a frozen pizza slice jammed through his hand. He groans, “Guess that’s extra olives then.” There, over Christopher, stands The Mozzarella Murderer — A man with a chef’s hat, an apron, no shirt, yellow crocs, and a fashionable mustache that could slice through any pizza! “One pizza coming up! Express delivery!” He throws a frozen pizza slice and it lodges in your shoulder. “Rest in pizza!” You stumble backward, slamming the door shut and dragging Christopher in by the leg. He’s still mumbling incoherently, clutching his hand. “Dude,” Christopher looks at his hand, “Is this cauliflower crust?” Chris sits up. “You know who that was, right?” You blink. “Some deranged New Yorker?” He shakes his head. “That was Marco di Mozzarella. Fired from Italy’s National Pizza Team for ‘unethical topping usage.’ He swore revenge on everyone who ever ordered pineapple.” You stare at him. “You ordered pineapple last night, didn’t See more