Four and Twenty

The Pieman blinked his eyes, rheumy cherries in a flaky crust. Hot red juice dripped down his foil tin as he grinned welcome at his supplicant. His mouth was a crimson gash. He was fresh from the oven.

"Speak," he said, his voice the high-pitched piping of steam forced through a crack. "We are listening."

"Please, sir," said the groveling peasant. "The money... I've been working the mulberry bush, sir, but..."

"We can," the Pieman interrupted, "perhaps make alternate arrangements. Money is not necessary. We will also accept... thumbs."