Baker waits impatiently in line, anticipating the sloth of slop to be plopped on his warm Luby's plate - it's thick as hell so when children drop the plates, they don't break; too bad adults have to be smited to carry the same ones - but who are adults kidding, you think, there are probably more adults talking on cell phones and dropping plates then little boys and girls.
Now dessert is near; many people shy away from the dessert, thinking that others will say under their breath...
"Like you need that slice of cake."
Baker passes on the cake, you knew he would, but you would have rather he just eat the cake and get it over with; you've been to his apartment and seen the remnants of his sweet rewards in the trabasura. Now you are affront the sweatty Luby's lady; she's had her fair share of cakes, you think as she asks you...
"Would you like a slice of the end of the world?"
You tilt your head slowly; you thought she said that the piece of cake was the end of the world. You didn't want any anyway, so you shake your head.
"You sure, baby? Just a little taste?"
She reaches down the front of her blouse and pulls out a shiny fork. Like a proffessional, she stabs the bottom of the slice, the tip of the "V"; it is now a "U". She raises the fork carefully, but swiftly; and you find yourself leaning on the tempered glass that separates you from the food, you open your mouth as if she's a nurse that's checking your tonsils, but she doesn't do this, no. The cold steel of the fork barrage attacks the ninety eight point six degrees temperate clime of your tongue, but shortly thereafter, the warm cake, which is chocolate by the way, rubs it's imperfect values across the roof of your mouth.
But what is this?
From the side, you find your fellow Baker in a rage; you can see right through him, though; it's all because of the cake. He doesn't understand why she offered you a taste and not him - after all she is just as fat as he was, thought Baker before he jammed the palm of his hand on the top of that fork, forcing it back into your mouth - way back. Too far back.
The fork must have punctured your left tonsil when he did this irrational act, and you feel some fluids drip down from there; you don't know if it's blood or tonsil fluid - you don't know if there is such a thing as tonsil fluid, but if there was, and this was it, it would be warm, and it would taste like mucus and blood, and it would just as any other liquid, be regurgitated by your lungs when and if it passed down that way.
The tonsil fluid might have been the last of your worries, however. The fork, you noticed, was now pretty sturdy in your mouth; the barrage of steel was holding it's weight pretty good back in there, and even with the remnants of that cake floating about. You're coughing like a maniac, and you're making such a nuiscance that black people are going white and white people are going green.
You go to pull the fork out, even though you're aware of the consequences, but that thing is so damn uncomfortable back there that you might as well, however when you start to make the motions to do so, Baker notices this, and pretends to help you...
"Oh my god..."
He is a horrible actor, but nonetheless, you are unable to speak, and so he just reaches his grubby hand down into your mouth, pretending to try to wiggle the thing free, but really worsening the wound - you can now really feel some rush of blood going down to your lungs. Pretty soon, you see that you have coughed up alot onto Baker's white oxford XXL. You see a pen in his pocket, and the first thing that comes to your mind secondly goes into his.
"Oh my god!"
People yell as you stab Baker in the ear canal with his own Uniball; you had to undo the top of the pen before you did it, and the dumb bastard still didn't have time to figure you out. But you were safe from Baker now. But now you were drinking and breathing in your own blood.
"That was some baaaad cake, nigga."
It could have been the last thing you said, but you remembered that you only took a slice - you'd be allright.
