The Passage Of The Bakery

At last Pinko could bear it no longer. “What’s all this, Snag?” he said in a whisper. “These cookies? They’re floating all around us now. Have we been pooped on? Are they the muffin ghosts of chunder past?”

Snag looked up. A dark mixing bowl was before him, and he was crawling on the ground, nodding his antlers this way and that, doubtful of the way. “Yes, they are all around us,” he whispered. “The tricksy cookies. Cookies of corpses, yes, yes. Don’t heed them! Don’t smell! Don’t follow them! Where’s the mistress?”

Pinko looked back and found that Kathleen had lagged again. He could not see her. He went some paces back into the darkness, not daring to move far, or to call in more than a hoarse whisper. Suddenly he stumbled against Kathleen, who was standing lost in thought, looking at the pale cookies. Her hands hung stiff at her sides; butter and frosting were dripping from them.

“Come, Ms. Kathleen!” said Pinko. “Don’t look at them! Snag says we mustn’t. Let’s keep up with him and get out of this chumpomat as quick as we can — if we can!”

“All right,” said Kathleen, as if recovering from a tequila bender. “I’m coming. Go on.”

Hurrying forward again, Pinko tripped, catching his foot on some old sack of sugar or flour. He fell into a mixing bowl, his hands sinking deep into the sticky ooze, so that his face was brought close to the surface of the dark batter. There was a faint hiss, a noisome smell went up — “Hey, that wasn’t me!” — the cookies flickered and danced and swirled. For a moment the batter below him seemed like a murky, pecan studded window, through which he was peering. Wrenching his hands out of the batter, he sprang back with a cry. “There are dead cobags, dead cobwagons in the bowls,” he said with horror. “Dead chumploafs!”

Snag laughed. “The Dead Bakery, yes, yes: that is its name,” he cackled. “You should not look when the cookies are floating.”

“Who are they? What are they?” asked Pinko shuddering, turning to Kathleen, who was now behind him.

“How should I know?” said Kathleen in a tipsy voice. “But I have seen them too. In the bowls when the cookies were prancing. They lie in all the bowls, phophorescent faces, deep deep under the dark batter. I saw them: faces grim and cobaggy and sad, with sprinkles in their silver hair. But all foul, all rotting, all dead. A fell butter is in them.” Kathleen hid her eyes in her hands. “I know not who they are; but I thought I saw there pundits and journalists, and bloggers beside them.”

“Yes, yes,” said Snag. “All dead, all rotten. All the scribblers. The Dead Bakery. There was a great bake-off long ago, yes, so they told him when Snágol was young, when I was young before the Precious came. It was a great battle. Pundits with large food processors, and flour-covered journalists, and bloggerses sprinkling cinnamon. They baked for months at the Black Ovens. And when they fell, their mixing bowls were brought back to the bakery to be their graves.”

“But that is an (internet) age and more ago,” said Pinko. “The Dead can’t really be there! Is this some chumpery hatched at the Republic of Dogs?”

“Who knows? Snágol doesn’t know,” answered Snag.

18 Responses to “The Passage Of The Bakery”

  • Allright then. I suppose this should be expected. A confection battle that involves corpses & tequila.

  • Kathleen took a drink from her bottle and scowled. “You two deserve whatever harsh fate awaits you,” she said.

    “No, mistress,” protested Snag, as Pinko nodded his agreement with frightening vigor. “Not when we’re close. Dead, yes, dead they are, but I smell peat and moss. The Judging is near.”

    Kathleen sneered. “It’s judging you want? I’ll give you judging.”

    A crash, smoke, and above them rose the visage of Jennifer.

  • “No, no, we must hide from the Spiderless Eye”, shrieked Snag. “She wants us to mail her the Precious! With nassty stampses and wrappingses!”

  • There is another way, another passage. Yes. It is difficult. Polly pocketses everywhere. We will take them to her! Yes! Neebles!

  • Therefore Pínko was brought before Chuckloth, for Chuckloth knew that he had the friendship of the Queen of Cookies; but Pínko defied him, and mocked him. Then Chuckloth cursed Pínko and Snag and their cookies, and set a doom upon them of staleness and flavourlessness; and taking Pínko from the kitchen he set him in a chair of stone upon a high place of Tuckercarlsonistan. There he was bound by the power of Chuckloth, and Chuckloth standing beside him cursed him again; and he said: ‘Sit now there; and look out upon the kitchen where boringness and overcooking shall come upon those cookies that thou lovest. Thous hast dared to mock me, and to question the power of Smellkor, Master of the fates of Cookies. Therefore with my eyes thou shalt see, and with my ears thou shalt hear, and with my mouth thou shalt taste; and never shalt thou move from this place until the contest is fulfilled unto its bitter end.
    And even so it came to pass; but it is not said that Pínko asked ever of Chuckloth either mercy or death, for himself or for any of his confections.

  • Kathlen droppped her bottl and rosed quickly (swaying onlee slgihtly) in defence of PPinko. Beehold my kareful typing and the power of Tres Generations! I is flawlesssesss. I kast a mighty webb is confuzion and desstroy the Chuckloth. Mie rath is totall. Margerita, Kween of the scary local korner bar, protects us all againsts unfare AG judgings and LOLkookiejudgessess disdains. I is triumfant. Look on ye mightee and despairs. I is tyred. Maybe I needs too, um, what was I saying?

    Whoops, srry I spelled teh wrong…

  • Snag looked back on the mixing bowl of horrific, Cyclopean mixing bowl of non-Euclidean construction, seeing the inscription carved into the black, leathery beater poised over it.

    Cthulhu fhtagn macaroons!


  • Points are deducted for making the LOLkookiejudgessess pee.

  • Holy Tom Bombaddil!

    I go away from the computer for one day….

  • Sleeping it off, Kathleen??

  • Points are deducted for making the LOLkookiejudgessess pee.

    Alas is there a solution to my problem?


  • Brando, stay out of my kitchen. My recipe is a secret and merely reading the list of ingredients would drive most people insane. It was a lucky accident of fate that my mixing bowl no longer subscribes to such prosaic forms of geometry as you mortals know-A p’sPIOSDOI’odsfig ugasrg’ ghlauvawec-

    Ahem. As I was saying, on that fateful day I did not know that my bowl was unsafe for use in a microwave oven, nor did I know why. I was performing experiments and filming them for YouTube. I had made a solution of corn starch and water in my ]Gladware mixing bowl and placed it in the microwave. After checking the focus on my digital handicam, I started the microwave. The solution began to flutter and bubble. The bowl began to quiver and sag. I glanced into the view finder and saw not the frothing, bubbling, gloopy contents of my melting mixing bowl, but another dimension of rips and tears in the fabric of space, time and, indeed, mortal sanity. I dare not speak of the rough beasts I saw within this dimension, but can only say this: I was changed, as was my mixing bowl. -GARHG’uhUHFjlk vjnlicuyn’ aoc fatgnh aoorc’msfhvymi’im-

    Pardon me. The bowl is an odd thing now, it twists and quivers in the corner of my mind, even as it wobbles in the corner of my vision. I have secured a spoon, smelted from the dust of a thousand comets, with which I stir the ingredients imparted to me by those myriad, cyclopean beings of the void and nether. The sheet, if so pedestrian a word can describe it, by which I bake these carnal confections was forged from the raw steel smelted in the blood of orphaned second sons of second sons. The oven burns with the heat of gigawatts, all for the glory

    Dare you eat my cookies?

  • Is it just me, or is anyone else getting the sense that Chuckles’ favorite movie as a child was Time Bandits?

  • Chuckles’ recipe sounds like a rip-off of the Keebler Eldritch’s Cookies Out of Space.

  • Chuckles cookies are totally going to suck.

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