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The living room smells like burnt popcorn and fabric softener, which is fitting considering Phil's makeshift judge's robe crinkles with every movement—a black bin bag belted with an old USB cable, his "gavel" a wooden spoon against the armrest. Dan's ensemble is less judicial and more questionable pageantry, the pink duvet draped over one shoulder like a toga, its fluff shedding onto the carpet like synthetic snow.
"Order in the court," Phil announces, smacking the spoon down with a hollow thwack. "The defense has the floor."
Dan tosses his hair—which is not, in fact, a duvet-related choice but his actual hair—and clears his throat. "Exhibit A," he declares, pointing to the half-eaten bacon sandwich on the coffee table. "The *sizzle*, the *crunch*—that's onomatopoeia in edible form. If animals didn’t want to be eaten, they wouldn’t audibly beg for it in the frying pan."
Phil narrows his eyes. "Counterpoint: Cows go 'moo', not 'eat me'."
"That’s because you’re not listening hard enough," Dan retorts, clutching the duvet like a sash. "The microwave’s beep-beep-beep is the people’s choice. Bacon is the people’s right."
Phil considers this, tapping his spoon against his chin. "Your logic is flawed… but your passion is convincing. Case dismissed."
He leans over, knocking a tower of empty crisp packets off the side table as he steals a bite of Dan’s sandwich.
Dan gasps. "Corruption!"