A few years ago, my wife and I went to a wedding. Not your normal chapel-at-the-end-of-the-street affair. This was one of those occasions where the bride and groom get 150 of their closest friends and make them drive 200 miles into the middle of nowhere to spend a night in a cabin.
I can’t stress just how remote this retreat was. If you didn’t know this place existed, there’s no chance that you’d ever accidentally find yourself there. It is so far out of the way that when the zombie apocalypse happens (and it WILL happen), I will be heading straight there to ride it out. My car could barely get us there; the shambling undead would have no chance at all.
We parked in a rocky crater and found our cabin on the north side of a lawn square. Everything seemed nice, and I was glad to shut my eyes after the heinously long drive. My head had barely touched the pillow when I was jabbed in the ribs and told to get dressed: the ceremony was starting shortly and the reception would follow immediately. Grateful for an excuse to complain, I grumbled the whole time, putting on my suit.
The ceremony passed without incident and we had eaten our meals in the retreat’s large dinner hall. The dessert plates were being handed out—mousse and brûlée—turn by turn. Everybody was waiting for the bridal party to start eating when the sound of a microphone being switched on crackled through the room.
“Sorry to interrupt your dessert, everybody,” the bride’s voice wailed from the speakers. Everybody reluctantly put down their spoons to pay her the attention deserving of a bride on her special day. “Where’s Wil Winters?” she asked.
Being singled out by a bride at her own wedding bodes poorly; I slunk down into my chair and tried to turtle my head into my collar. Eyes from all tables scanned the room and an indistinct murmur rumbled above my sunken head. My wife glared at me; if she had laser-vision, I’d’ve been instantly vaporised.