Cake for the Pre-Post-Pastry Era

The cake was not modern enough. Nor was it a pastry, which was not as important as it sounded considering he was competing in the ‘Best Alternative Pastry’ category. Ralph read the note attached to the base of his cake, Entry 12- ‘Too many flavors impinging on the experience of the sugar. Not enough cinnamon.’

A voice spoke from a cube floating in the air wrapped in brown, processed tree shavings. Ralph could not remember what the tree shavings were called.

“So you believe this is an important event in your life?”

Ralph recalled that the wrapping was called paper, an old earth material that would never be used to wrap a CommunoCube.

“My whole career depends on this.” A dread of vanity, of incongruity, of illogical existence grew in Ralph, the aspiring Master Baker. He turned to the box when the voice cut him off.

“Continue then.”

He looked down at the renegade pastry, and then up at where the box had floated. The growing dread had vanished along with the box. He’d been imagining things, or daydreaming. What were those tree shavings called again? Winning the competition had mattered more than remembering a piece of trivia, but he’d lost already, so nothing mattered.

For the past two months, the flavor chocolate had been out of fashion. In the realm of celebrity baking, that meant it would be out of fashion forever- until it wasn’t. He let himself have a moment of quiet solace while munching on a piece of his chocolate cake. The pre-1950’s America levels of sugar brought out an uncompromising bitterness that left the mouth dry. It was supposed to be the bold choice that finally broke the chokehold cinnamon rolls had had on the celebrity baking competitions for the last three years. Anyone could make a delicious cinnamon roll and everyone claimed their recipes were from their grandmothers while using ingredients bio-engineered to cause the consumer to salivate for the next bite while still eating the first.

Cheating, nepotism, marketing, and political connections were all more powerful than sheer skill in these competitions.

Ralph sighed and started a lonely walk to the apartment where Zoristro waited for him. He remembered that his baking wasn’t him, it was what he loved doing. His wifando still loved him, and his mom-father still loved him as their one and only child. The world was still indifferent to his cakes and his baked goods. Everyone ranted and raved, talking about how brave it was that the greatest bakers on the world stage had the bravery to rethink the cinnamon content of a roll, and even to rethink the term roll. Ralph hadn’t wanted to play their games of terms, so he’d entered the contest to test the boundaries even further, by making a chocolate cake circa 1940’s America.

Ralph thought he’d been on the edge of something great but, like many others, he’d found that all people really wanted was over-sugared cinnamon rolls.

He called Zoristro, his lover and legal wifando.

“Hey there Ralphie, sorry to hear about the cake. That cinnamon roll that won was certainly bordering on a Bundt cake, but who are we to judge?”

“Thanks Zori,” A popping sound momentarily interrupted the call. “I hear you’re already getting the wine ready.”

“Wine in victory, wine in defeat, wine to stop the tears, and wine to bring more tears.”

“I don’t know if I’m up for a bender tonight.”

“You say that right now, but from my estimation you are only about a quarter of the way home, and by the time you get back this wine should be perfectly aerated, and its sweet aroma will fill the whole apartment, making it irresistible .”

“Something is different about this time.”

“You say that every time.”

“Well the first twenty times I thought that I could keep going, that I could still become a proper celebrity Baker, maybe even become a Pastry Pastor or Cake Decanator.”

“You say that as if you actually want to go into politics, Ralphie.”

“That’s what I always wanted.” He said with a tone that was more defensive than intended.

The other side of the line died with an unnatural vacuuming of the voice. In their quantum years spent together in a Virtuoa, Zori had never hung up. Maybe a hiccup in the network? They were rare but they could happen. Considering the alternative had Ralph freaked, he rationalized it as being a random broken connection. That meant he could call and Zoristro would pick up, but what if the phone had been hung up? Then that might mean that Zori was ready to terminate their partnership. Their Virtuoa had never indicated that they would ever break up, that was what Normahets did after nudging each other till they wanted to nudge out with others. Ralphie had always been so thankful for his mom-father taking the strenuous route of single parenthood. Ugly, old laws governed Normihet unions which made divorce messy and any tiny humans that happened to be produced were scarred forever.

Zori and him had been, no they were still considering adopting one of those gross, tiny humans that were somehow enchanting. Divorce in the legal sense sounded like a drag to Ralph, even without a tiny human to care for, but it was not terrifying.

He walked faster. He’d reach the house before anymore insane thoughts distracted him from what was important- keeping his wifando to himself. Not that he didn’t mind in theory the idea of sharing his wifando with others, but that meant Zori might nudge it out with one or more of a feminine persuasion. The idea made him retch and the taste of stomach acidized chocolate touched his tongue.

He ran down the steps to the Tubee terminal. He punched in his address into the mushy keypad which sprayed and sanitized itself as soon as his fingers completed the sequence. A helmet popped out of a nearby cylinder, and he placed it over his head. He swore people were required to wear these helmets for the ads, not for flaunted theoretical “safety” concerns. He stepped into the larger of the two cylinders and felt the anti-gravity gel lift his body and then propel him through the city of Midwestar.

Advertisements for cinnamon rolls cluttered his ad feeds, and he zoned out even as the ads shouted louder and the colors brightened upon the helmet sensing his inattention. The color palette on the screen abruptly changed to dull grays, popping blues, and warm browns. Two similarly beautiful Andropans, attractive to all and unattainable to most, talked behind a desk painted with pastries, cakes, and most prominently, cinnamon rolls. This news had to be politically important for it to interfere with potential ad revenue. He had to turn up the volume manually in order to better hear the reporter's excited chatter.

“-This is an unprecedented move in the international baking competition by the judges to invalidate the winner of the last Baking Contest. We're still being told exactly what happened but there is something of a pandering and/or mind control clause that might have been broken.”

The anchors laughed.

“It’s been a while since we’ve heard of people trying to use mind control to win the contest, but I’m guessing it's something to give the conspiracy theorists some fodder to chew on. One of the elected Decanators was found drugged in a bathroom stall after the results had been announced. The Pastry Pastor herself has come under suspicion for allowing cakes to compete in the Alternative Pastry category. Oh, I'm getting some news- this is nearly unbelievable but apparently the new winner has been announced…” Both anchors' demeanor became subdued and then confused.

“I can’t be reading this right.”

“Against all odds it's chocolate cake by newcomer Ralph Baker. Well that’s a lucky last name even if it is common! Congratulations to Ralph Baker, our nations’ newest celebrity chef.”

Ralph felt his spine tingle and the hair on his arms standup. The anchors said his name. His body slowed down, he’d be home in seconds. As he saw the brushed steel door of his house he felt a nagging doubt. Something red was on the door. Zori wouldn’t leave him just as things were turning around, would he?

The Tubee adjusted its end spout and placed him four feet from the door. Why had he been so callous to his partner? They’d loved one another hadn’t they?

Then the red thing became apparent. A hand, gripping the door handle and covered in blood, was still attached to the majority of Zori’s right arm.

A note was attached to the arm-

‘If you want the rest of him you’ll give me back the prize that is rightfully mine- Sincerely the actual Best Baker in Midwestar.’

Ralph couldn’t believe what he was reading, nor could he believe that his Zori had been taken. He knew exactly what he had to do though, and it wasn’t to go running off after Zori, who was likely fine―everyone lost an arm or two in their lifetime. It was to bake the best fucking cake and shove it down that self-righteous prick’s throat. The death certificate would read death by asphyxiation on chocolate cake.

The throat would be absolutely coated in thick brown frosting that swirled around and clogged in the idiot’s throat because the deliciousness that was the moist and almost-but-not-quite sponge quality of the cake imploded in the throat.

Then a floating box wrapped in paper popped into existence next to his head and spoke.

“Looks like you’re making the wrong choice.”

A dread of reality being unreal returned and the metal beneath his feet rippled. His Futureality counselor had administered a sedative and plugged him into a Virtuoa- Simufuture 5000; Professional Edition. Zori had encouraged such sessions before major baking competitions.

He felt fuzzy as the memories from the simulation began fading and he fell through the metal floors and continued to fall through several layers of a simulated Midwestar city. First the people disappeared, then the vehicles, then the network of tubes. The last thing left in an irreality of black was the brown paper wrapped box. Ralph remembered- that box would only open when he made the right choice. If he made the right choice in the simulation that meant he had the ability to change his upcoming actions. Only then would that box open up and let him out of this loop.

“We can't have you murdering anyone with chocolate cake. Try to remember that this time.”