survey bag

Culinary Convention


Packing the last of her travel clothing into her second suit case she sighed, surveying the collection of bags she’d be taking with her. It was times like this that she was truly reminded of the world she was born into. Most of the time she liked to live a somewhat simple life running her tea shop, leaving the majority of running her families business to trusted individuals. But there where simply some things that only the CEO of such a large company could attend too. Such as this convention where the newest line of teas that Baggins’ Tea Industry would be introduced to the world for the first time. 

Zipping up the bag she added it to the pile, nodding to one of the maids to indicate that they could have someone bring her things down to the car. Moving to the window seat in her room she looked out over the garden as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. Who ever had designed pockets in dresses was a lifesaver in her opinion. 

Hitting the speed dial she waited for the phone to ring, smiling when she heard him answer. “I’m all ready to go. Are we meeting at the airport?”



           When Bentley realized that Dipper and Torako were no longer anywhere near the cart, he stopped dead in the middle of the frozen food section and stared at the bags of mixed medley and stir fry in suspended animation.

           “They’re up to no good, aren’t they,” he asked one particularly limp bag. It bobbed up and down in place and didn’t respond; if it had, Bentley probably would have just stared at it a bit more and then moved on.

           He sighed, swiped the thermoshield out of the way, and snagged first the sad bag of peas and carrots, then a more robust package of green beans. He tossed them into the cart, tilted his head and surveyed his options, then pulled a New California Medley mix from the bottom and slid the thermoshield back in place. He dropped the frozen veg on the other two bags and surveyed his cart. Milk, eggs, cheese, summer sau—he was going to put the summer sausage back, dammit Torako—bread, another small container of ice cream, and he was maybe halfway through the list at this point.

           Bentley scratched that the back of his head, and then pushed the shopping cart forward. Judging by the whine of the front hoverpad, it needed to see some maintenance soon. “If they don’t show up soon,” he muttered to himself, quiet enough that the old lady at the end of the aisle wouldn’t hear him, “I’m going to get myself a bag of goddamn chocolate croissants and eat them all by myself.”

           That was, of course, too much to hope for; not ten seconds after he’d turned the corner, he heard the crackle of the intercom. “Ah, um, would a Bentley Farkas come up to the customer service desk? Your children have been found. Repeat, Bentley Farkas to the customer service desk please.”

           Bentley stopped between aisles 9 and 10 and looked down at the sad bag of peas and carrots again. “I’m going to kill them before we leave the store, aren’t I?”

           The bag did not respond. Bentley sighed, then turned the cart around and headed for the service desk at the front of the store.

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