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The Cake Mistake

Some background on Bob: Bob is invisible, and he is my twin. He came out of a rather silly conversation between myself, my brother, and my grandma. My brother mentioned Bob, my twin, and I just kind of ran with it. Invisible Bob is a spy, so he is rarely home, but this adventure occurs in one of his rare visits.

—This report is confidential. Please do not reveal these details to the public.—

Invisible Bob and the Cake Mistake

It was a chilly Monday morning in January when Bob came home for a brief visit with his family. He had, in an unfortunate turn of events in rural Venezuela that involved twelve professional dancers, a very secret message, and a displeased chicken farmer, missed Christmas. He felt rather bad about it – and worse, he was due to fly back to Venezuela (there was some cleaning up to do) early in the morning on the thirteenth: mother’s birthday. So it was that he slipped in on the eleventh and announced his presence to me, his loving and visible sister, in the cruellest of ways; namely, by tapping me on the shoulder and cackling maniacally. This is his favourite way of letting me know he is home.

Of course, we exchanged pleasantries. I was very excited to see that he was home safely, or course, and I let him know how disappointed we had been not to have him at Christmas. Once we had been happily reunited, he told me his plan. “I figured I would be able to tell Mum ‘Happy Birthday’ and all that, even if it is a day or two early. And I could make the cake, if that’s alright?” Now, I am not a particularly good cake-maker, so I caved easily. The Incident happened while I was away.

In the afternoon, while Bob was making the chocolate cake, I decided to go for a walk. I would have stayed to converse with my beloved and often-absent twin, but Bob immerses himself fully in whatever task is before him. He would not so much as speak when he is trying to make the perfect birthday cake. I decided a walk would be more productive. When I got back, Bob had one layer left to attach to the cake, and the cake was a disaster.

“Bob!” I exclaimed, “What happened to the cake? I thought you could manage this!”

He laughed at me, but it was a nervous, preoccupied laugh. “Well, it’s actually kind of a funny story…” he began. “So, look, a few months ago, I blew up a cake shop in… well, I had better not say where – but I blew up a cake shop.” I must have looked disappointed because when he next spoke it was defensive. “It was a mafia front, okay? I made sure there was nobody inside first. Even the mafia members who were there escaped via secret tunnel. I had to chase them down to arrest them. But that isn’t the point. The point is the cake shop – there was one, and now there isn’t. You can see how people would be upset. Well, that may or may not have something to do with today.” I waited patiently for him to get to the point.

“So, I was just setting the second layer on top of the first, right? Yes. You left the door unlocked, which I mean is fine because I was here and all, but turned out worse than we really expected. The enemy just waltzed right in while I was looking at the cake. I was only slightly concerned for my own safety, in fact, I was going to go right along with them, only I wanted to finish the cake. I told her that, I said ‘look, I’m not sure why you’re here, but can you just let me finish this cake for my mother? Then I’ll come right along.’ Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, they weren’t here for me. My comment about the cake seemed to infuriate them.

‘Cake!’ they exclaimed, ‘what makes you think you deserve cake, after all you’ve done!’

I said ‘look, I won’t even get to eat this cake. Why don’t you just hold on and we can talk about this.’ That attempt was unsuccessful. They pulled a nano-bomb from their belt and started the detonation countdown, which fortunately was at four minutes and fifty-five seconds. Then, they threw the bomb into the cake.” Here, Bob paused, probably to breathe. I waited. “As I said, the countdown started at about 4:55, which was plenty of time. The enemy agent left immediately, probably because, should that bomb have gone off, the entire house would be flattened. Rather importantly, I would be dead, and there is a matter of national importance that absolutely requires my presence in Tibet in two weeks. There is no getting out of it. Imagine, a bomb in a cake causing Canada to be at war! Of course I immediately fished the bomb out of the cake – hence the mess on this side here – and took the appropriate measures to disarm and dispose of it.”

“That is a rather elaborate tale,” said I. Bob said nothing for a moment, and I had no cues as to what he was thinking. He continued to spread icing on the side of the cake. “Not that I don’t believe you,” I went on after a while. “It just all seems rather far-fetched.”

“That cake,” Bob said with certainty, “Is a national hero. Imagine what would have happened if the cake hadn’t been there to distract my enemy: it would have been a shootout instead of an averted explosion. I would have died.”

I nodded very seriously in response. “A hero indeed. But is it still edible?”

“Absolutely,” Bob confirmed. “Perfectly safe. My hands were clean and everything. The only thing wrong with it is that is a bit misshapen.” he sighed. “I only hope Mum likes it.”

I felt around a bit, then patted his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m sure she will like it just fine when I tell her what happened.” I assured him.

“Yes,” he sighed. “That’s my neck,” he said next.

“Right,” said I, removing my hand, realizing that he must be bent over to finish the icing, “Sorry.”

“Anyhow, the cake is about done now. It’s, um… it’s as good as it’s going to get, I think.” We both contemplated the cake for a moment. Then, Bob sighed. “Just put my name on the card, alright?”

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Posted by on January 14, 2016 in From My Pen, Short Stories

 

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