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Oh Lord It's A Chocolate Cake

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“And schedule an appointment with the exterminator to get rid of these weasels before they--- oh lord it’s a chocolate cake.”

So said Mr. Skink as he rummaged in the weasel-ridden cupboards of his rec room.

“Hey, Crabby!” He yelled up the stairs. “Come see this!”

The cake sat there, round and luscious and only slightly coated in dust.

Crabby came down to see. “My, my that’s a big weasel!” she said.

“Forget the weasels,” said Skink. “Look what I found in the cupboard! Just lying there! Anyone could’ve found it!”

She came nearer and squinted through the gloom. “Well, what do you know? It’s a chocolate cake!”

“I know darling, isn’t it marvelous?” said Skink, twirling a weasel in excitement. “You know, I think our luck has finally changed for the better!”

“It’s a sign!” exclaimed Crabby. “Let’s take it out where we can see it!”

The luscious cake was lifted out of its dank cupboard and placed on a little round table in the middle of the room.

Mr. Skink brushed off the layer of dust with his sleeve, then, grinning in anticipation, opened his weasel knife. He cut two large pieces and handed one to Crabby.

“To our good fortune!” he said, taking a massive bite. Crabby followed suit. When they had finished, Mr. Skink returned the cake to its cupboard, where it continued to gleam darkly and irresistibly. Crabby and Skink gazed at the cake for a moment before Skink steeled himself and slammed the door. “Tomorrow,” he promised. “We shouldn’t eat it all in one day.”

And so, reluctantly, they went back upstairs. Little did they know how much time would pass before they tasted cake again. For, over the course of that same evening, Mr. Skink and his wife would completely and irreversibly lose their minds.



“Til og fra flytoget,” remarked Skink as he sipped his evening coffee on the veranda, his Norwegian accent flawless.

“Yes, yes of course,” replied Crabby, hurrying inside to fix herself another glass of steaming saltwater.

“Are you ready to order?” she shouted from within.

“In a moment, give me more time, give me more time!” whined Mr. Skink.

By now the neighbors had noticed.

“First time I’ve seen him outside in years!” they remarked. “Must be hard, cooped up in there with the weasels and such.”

Crabby came back outside wearing oven mitts and nothing else. Skink, catching sight of his wife, pointed a stern finger at the crowd gathering on the sidewalk. “You must not see this!” he ordered. “You must not see this!”

By now someone had called the police, who, after a brief confrontation (“Kill me!” screamed Skink), requested an ambulance.

The medics had to strap Mr. Skink to a stretcher in order to remove him from the veranda.

“Ha-ha,” said Skink. “Ha-ha. Where did you go to school, eh, where did you go to school?” he inquired quite aggressively.

Crabby started climbing the drainpipe. Mr. Skink thrashed wildly. At this point, both of them were sedated and did not regain consciousness until much later in the Mental Health Clinic.

“Hordasped,” growled Skink.



Naturally, Mr. Skink’s brother was notified. His brother’s name was Albert.

“We’re very sorry,” said the smooth phone voice. “But we’ve run a thorough investigation and we have concluded that the incident was spontaneous, with no obvious cause.

“Don’t you understand?” said Albert, exasperated. “People don’t just lose their minds for no apparent reason!”

“We’re very sorry,” repeated the voice. “If you would like to learn more, please call the Mental Health Clinic for further developments.”

“I’ll give you a mental health clinic!” roared Albert. The line clicked, and he slammed the phone down.

“Sarah!” he yelled downstairs. “Where are the phonebooks?”

“They’re somewhere in the basement, I think,” she replied. “Max was using them to train the turtles.”

Albert rolled his eyes. How long ‘til the kid realized that the phonebook method just didn’t work? He grumbled as he marched downstairs.

After a few minutes, Sarah went to the top of the staircase and called down. “Did you find them?”

“Yes,” came Albert’s muffled voice. “I found them but I can’t get to them. They’re buried behind all these--- oh lord it’s a chocolate cake.”



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KestrelThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Jun. 6, 2012 at 4:56 pm
haha, oh i love this. great concept. you should write a follow up, or write a recipe for the "chocolate cake" with crazy ingredients.
 
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