Destroyer of brownies

I baked brownies last night. They were still warm when Oscar called me from Crazy Horse, a bar on W. Kirkwood, which is apparently a B-town staple. I left the brownies, uncovered, sitting on the counter. I almost had a mini-heart attack on the road. Oh shit, Destroyer's gonna eat the effing brownies. Only, Destroyer's 700 miles away. *mope* But I met some nice seeming people. They talked about photons. Like torpedoes? Nope, like real photons. Fortunately, I decided not to go the endearing ditz route by saying something about futons. Eesh.