I got all prepared for that cake show. Seems like it’s just a bakery having to make an assload of cakes. Nothing where people eagerly watch to see themselves get ripped off. They just aren’t as important as my stuff. It’s like Carlin said, your shit is stuff and their stuff is shit. Which, if you think about it, gives an interesting new meaning to the food called stuffing. I’ll make sure to remind y’all all about that one come Thanksgiving or Christmas. Those are good holidays for eating stuffing until you’re stuffed and then stuffing up the toilet bowl. Which isn’t the same thing as what’s on TV with the football players nailing each other, bringing each other down to the ground. You know, full body contact with other sweaty men, televised, just in time for some guy on a news channel somewhere to act baffled that some of these men, who are checking out the man upfield to see if he’s open, might prefer the unfairer sex.
Needless to say, I always keep a loaded weapon close at hand at large meals. In some cases, said weapon was someone else’s hand. That damn mac and cheese is MINE!
Where were we? Oh yes, the cake show. Can’t have a cake show without cakes. Me, I wheeled up with my own supply of cakes. Yep, a variety of little cake robots. Buzzsaw cakes, exploding cakes, flamethrower candle cakes.
I was all set up to unleash my glorious cake rebellion upon the frosted heretics of whatever ridiculous reality show they had with a name reminiscent of sex. I found the place ok. Brick building. There was a sign for Caking Orgasms, the show, but a smaller one than I expected.
This time, my assault began from behind. I parked in the oddly-popular rear loading area. I knocked on the door, fully suited up, but with the illusion of normalcy upon me. Just, less metaphorically than most people.
You Freudian bastards.
My invasion of the autonomous baked goods was halted, however, by the guy at the door who declared that “I’m to tell everyone this, but we’ve been watching what’s going on. If you’re actually the supervillain, we’d ask that you please come in and get your stuff. But please, until you prove you’re the right guy, we’re not letting you in.” He pointed over to a few groups of loitering people that I hadn’t looked closely at before. Some were in civilian clothes, some were in makeshift costumes. There was even what looked like a midget dressed as a duck. I say midget because it’s the term I’m most used to. Dwarf doesn’t sound right. Too much like a fantasy critter, though I expect most of them would like that. Well, not the women. You know how dwarven women are about their beards, so that’s some unpleasant implications there.
So I’m there in a bit of a dilemma, unsure what to call midgets, when I dropped the illusion and unleashed the robots upon the unsuspecting masses, mwahahahaha! It was great. This guy in a bull costume was smoking, but those blackened lungs were exercised at a bad time as a cake with candles all over the top spewed fire at him. He really shouldn’t smoke around all those people, but you can’t help it so much when your face is on fire. A guy dressed up in some weird uniform that said “Black Mesa” was set upon by a cake that hopped 8 feet into the air and landed on his head. He’s not going to be happy about the woodchipper in that one. Whew, glad he didn’t have a boner. That wood would not take a chipping kindly. How much wood would a woodchipper chip if a woodchipper chipped your woody?
The Moai hopped out of the back of the truck when they were done, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blasting from it. I adjusted the giant poofy chef’s hat on its head, then turned to the guy at the door.
“Come on in,” he said, and held the door open. Finally, about time I get some respect around here. I walked in and the Moai ducked its head to follow. The doorman actually showed me to a table with my machines set beside it. One was a large, gunmetal grey elliptical container with a panel on the front portion, which is where it swings open at. I ran my hands over it, checking it for damage, then popped it open. Everything seemed ok. There was where I put the suit, and the multitude of small, tool-equipped arms capable of repairing damaged portions of my armor. Incredibly useful for upgrades and it can throw together a new suit entirely given enough time.
The other was a shorter cylinder, about big enough to shove a human head in, as I know from practice. By the way, it might be inferred that I like large cylindrical objects based on how much I use them. All I can tell you on that front is that sometimes a cigar is just a penis. I mean a cigar! That was just a Freudian tongue slip over my cylinder. That line of conversation is over! Gah, this talking is hard, too long, and just gives me a throbbing headache. Anyway, that’s the nanite generator, in that it generates my regenerative nanites. I need more word variety.
Needless to say, such delicate tasks take some time and nom materials like it’s nobody’s business.
A pair of men approached with carts, “Is it ok if we get this loaded up for you?”
“Sure, go ahead. I’m not really used to someone being reasonable. While we’re at it, anyone know why they wanted this stuff?” I pulled a chair out at the table and sat. And motioned to my Moai to take one too. I turned back to the workers. They looked bug-eyed past me to the Moai as wood scraped over the cement floor. Civilians, you know? They act like they’d never seen a limbless magic Moai pull out a chair before.
“Uh, one of them got this crazy idea using the little tank to make a cake with real small layers of frosting or something,” Said the chunkier of the two, a fellow with a soul patch.
His buddy was taller and thinner and spoke up then, “Yeah, get this? The pawn shop guy made them buy these as a package deal. He heard some nutjo- I mean you were going after some stolen supervillain stuff. Guess no one was crazy enough to buy the suit.”
“Yes, you must be this crazy to wear this suit,” I said, trying to sound ominous and failing hard from the looks of the guys. Tell the truth, my mind was busy at the time. I was aglow with whirling, transient nodes of thought careening through a cosmic vapor of inventions. Sometimes I just get lost like that and a blender suddenly becomes a pressurized liquid food spewer. It’s kind of like when people forget birth control and 9 months later out pops a pressurized liquid food spewer.
The fat man dressed up with a top hat got my attention though. I guess they were serious with that blurb about trying to be a rock and roll cake experience. Behind him were some women carrying a cake replica of my helmet on it in grey and orange frosting. They set it down on the table in front of me along with a small plate and some utensils.
“Mr. Gecko,” the man said “or Psycho Gecko, whatever you prefer. I’m the owner here. Allow me to offer my apologies and this token of our good intentions in returning your property.” The bakers set the cake on the table and carved me out a large slice. “We hope this will prevent any unfortunate violence from breaking out and destroying the place,” he said. I think. I had unclasped my helmet and was uvula deep in my slice of cake, so I might have misheard a word.
I was as caught off guard as any of them when Honky Tonk Hero, this time in a powder blue jumpsuit with a fringed minicape, blasted in the wall and marched in, a mess of destroyed cakebots left behind him outside the building. “In the name of the King, I demand to know what travesty has been wrought here!”
Dammit, doesn’t that guy know how much I…scuse me, this cake is good. Mmm. Oh yeah, baby, that’s the frosting I like. What was I even…oh yeah, robots. Actually, I just grabbed a bunch of those little fighting robots they build, like from Battle Bots and Robot Wars, and stuck frosting and decorations on them.
That’s when the host walked right over, yanked his guitar away, and pointed to a chair at the table, “You, sit! You guys aren’t destroying my bakery today.” Would have been a good time to play AC/DC’s song about big balls.
So, our truce enforced by bakery’s rockin’ boss, Honky Tonk and I sat and had a bite of cake.
“So…how’s the family? Wife and kids or something?” I asked, making awkward small talk. He stiffened though. Guess there’s something offputting about a guy like me asking after your loved ones.
“…Good,” came his reluctant response. “While I have you here, I just wanna know, man, why you kill people left and right like you do?”
I shrugged, “Shit happens when you like to party with a loaded madman. Why’s that such a big deal, anyway? Don’t other villains kill plenty?”
“No, you horrendous hound dog. No one makes it a point as much as you do, and almost no one kills other supers.”
“That’s ridiculous. People blow up banks and skyscrapers and try to carve up the White House with space lasers but I’m the one killing too many people?”
“There aren’t many unnecessary civilian deaths at the White House and few actually succeed at that sort of thing,” he answered, glaring at me through his sunglasses.
“White House tour groups with old people and kids don’t count, eh? Whatever. So this is really because even after all that I pull, I still succeed? That’s got to suck. Ridiculous, cheesy guy like me. Fanboyish delight as I shout ‘This time the world will be mine!’ No matter how little you want to fear me, I’m the one filling the morgues and even if you capture me, it just looks like you stopped some old snack cake villain.” Lightbulb! I looked up at Honky Tonk, excited, “Hey, I got a great idea, work with me on this.”
45 minutes later, I flew though the wall into the parking lot, brick scattering all around me. I engaged in epic hand shaking at Honky Tonk and declared, “Curse you and your amazing cake, hero! We’ll meet again!”
Honky Tonk stepped out over the rubble, rubbing his fists, “And I’ll be there to stop you with the delicious might of Caking Orgasm’s next amazing creation. Only on Channel 3 after the 5 o’clock news.”
“Cut, that’s a wrap!”
I stood up and brushed myself off as Honky Tonk shot the cameraman a winning smile.
“Now!” I called out to the guys on the second story. More cakes, the show’s stale leftovers, rained down upon him. He was buried under all the cakes when I ran to the truck that roared to life. Good old Moai covering my escape. He was waiting for me in the back with the loaded up fabrication machines, so I hauled ass out of there while Honky Tonk was held up shooting another light-hearted commercial that I and the crew set up.