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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol II No. 4 |
| Hoist the Jolly Roger |
As Hasufel makes to head after the pseudo-Irish vassal of Armstrong, Microphonie takes hold of him, aided by Gordy. "It's not worth it," he says. "It really isn't. The malt loaf left over from yesterday would have been stale by now anyway. Not food fit for a Goddess. He hasn't cost us anything."
Ravenbait is glowering at door, through which the satyr vanished, only her absolute stillness and, should the observer dare to look, the intensity of the disturbing movement in her black eyes indicating that she is in any way affected. Kitzy looks to be on the verge of tears, and Kathy is hugging one of the ferrets for comfort, Tim's arm around her shoulders.
Bek starts off on another rant about male chauvinists. The aim seems only slightly off-target this time and the others let her carry on. There is a sense of utter despair in the Cake Stop. Clare does what she can; scouring the shelves for cakes and breads that might help fill the gap until the calamity can be resolved. She refuses to think about the possibility that it cannot be resolved. The folks of the Cake Stop are an extraordinarily resourceful bunch, after all, the kind of readership any magazine would be proud to consider its own; if
it could see how fortunate it was to have them, of course. She finds some saffron loaf, some eccles cakes and an inferior brand of malt loaf that was purchased because it was organic. There is some banana bread; some with sultanas, some with chocolate chips, some with both. She fetches the packets of garibaldis and fig rolls and retrieves a honey cake with caraway seeds that her Mum had made her. She knows, however, that although she may tempt the others with one of these perfectly pleasant delights, the woman still staring, statuesque, at the door will not touch them. It could be that the Priestess of the Temple could starve to death!
"I will take the last two to the Temple," Ravenbait says. "The Temple Maidens have been well trained in the dread art of Dimac by the mighty Gunner, and have learned the Weirding Way. They know the killing words, and the ways of setting a man on fire by the Voice. If the worst happens, all can bring about the end of a man by subjecting him to more pleasure than a mortal can bear."
"That's sexist," says Chuffy.
"It applies to women as well. If they are that way inclined, the Temple Maidens will serve them. If not, we took some cell samples from Gunner and cloned a set of Temple Guards, all of whom have his irresistable Adonis features. Steelman and Sheriff Strutt have trained them well in the ways of pleasuring a woman," the onyx-eyed woman replies with an exasperated sigh.
"Oh," says Chuffy, mollified. "That's alright then."
"Ravenbait, "says Kathy, slowly, a metaphorical lightbulb popping into life above her head. "Did you say those were the only two malt loaves left in the factory?"
The woman turns, sadly. "Yes, I'm sorry Kathy, I looked for more but there were none." She appears to feel she has disappointed everyone.
"So what happened to them?" Kathy ponders. "If they had been destroyed, there would have been some trace, surely?"
"By jove she's right!" exclaims Rigby. "The malt loaf hasn't been destroyed; those are not the only two left in the country. They have been kidnapped! Ladies and gentlemen, we are looking at the crime of malt loaf rustling!"
"No," Kathy shakes her head. "This isn't rustling. This is piracy!"
"Well there's only one answer to piracy," says Gunner. "Hoist the Jolly Roger. It's our malt loaf that we want, and our malt loaf we shall have!"
A cheer erupts through the room. Within moments the Cake Stop flag has been taken down from the pole on the roof, Redshift nimbly climbing the ladder up through the skylight. A skull and crossbones is left flying in its place, snapping in the breeze.
"'ang on a minit m8, if His lot nikt the molt loaves, why r we flyin' the pyr8 flag?" whines
Thyroid.
EvilChuffy ambles across the room, stout wooden stick in hand, and gives the impudent
youth a damn good smiting.
"Because..."
>SMACK!<
"Ve..."
>THWACK!<
"Vant..."
>CRACK!<
"To..." >SMITE!<
quoth Steelman, joining in enthusiastically.
"Aw, why do you always hit poor Thermic?" asks the lovely Kooky, momentarily distracted
from re-reading her mention in C+ news.
"It's tradition, an old charter, or something," explains Ravenbait.
Thanatos falls to the ground and passes out. The horrible wailing from the jukebox winds down into silence.
"That explains a lot," says Redshift, deftly programming-in the code that would bring
Shriekback's 'Oil and Gold' pumping out of the speakers.
"If we find Him, how are we going to get the malt loaf from him and back here?" asks
Kathy.
"Well, there's that box load o' nasty yellow food bags in t' back," suggests Microphonie,
"Y'know, them that clash horribly wi' t'red bikes," he continues in an over-exaggerated
Yorkshire accent.
"And we'll need some way of getting Him out in the open so we can give Him a good
kicking. We need a decoy, someone who'll get His aggression going, get Him to attack for
once," Gunner observes.
Ravenbait's eyes scan the room and fall upon the figure of Thanatos, who has decided
to play dead for fear of a futher beating.
"I have a plan," she says. "Gather round."
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