"Whooooa!!"
Woundwort ducks just in time as the speeding spheroid of salsa shoots towards him...
over his head...
and connects squarely on David E. G. and his doting crew of FBW R.N.s.
"Tsk tsk tsk. Really ought to watch your aim there, RD."
Woundwort punches a few buttons on his wrist computer, summoning a large contraption vaguely resembling a WWII anti-aircraft gun - but loaded with lemon merangue pies instead of AA shells.
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!!!"
Jumping into the control seat, Woundwort switches the gun to autofire, aims, and sends RD reeling into the kitchen area with a rapidfire stream of fresh pies to the face.