“You know, if you say it enough times, the word ‘Thwomp’ loses all meaning.”
Booster’s three lackeys dismissed the statement as the closest thing to philosophy that they would ever hear from the Tower Keeper. Luckily, it was the only thing he had said in the last hour, which was spent staring at the evil-looking, spiky bluish rock as it rose and slammed repeatedly into the floor of the Pipe Vault under its own power. As enchanting as the display was to Booster, his assistants could not help but begin to lose interest in the monotonous floating and crashing of the giant demonic boulder.
Snifit 2 finally spoke up: “Sir, remember when I said you could, in effect, Conquer the World now that you’re not bound by the marital restraints of a controlling and abusive wife?”
After a moment’s thought, the bearded man admitted, “I do remember the ‘Conquer the World’ part; that sounded nice.”
”Well, now that you’re divorce is complete, how would you like to start working on that world conquest thing?”
“Wait, wait; just a second,” Booster commanded, halting his companions with an outstretched palm as his eyes followed the Thwomp on its ascension. When the massive stone reached its acme, it paused majestically, almost as if to squeeze as much tension from the situation as possible. Suspense filled the musty cavern, settling over the group more thickly than the humid Pipe Vault air. The bearded dwarf gazed at the menacing boulder, mouth agape with fascination, eyes nearly oozing out of their sockets. Suddenly, without warning, and unexpectedly, the Thwomp raced to the floor, propelling itself with some mystic power that moved it earthward faster than gravity could. Booster clenched his teeth in expectation of the impact, which came in less than a second. With a resounding crash, the evil blue rock planted itself mere inches away from the Tower Keeper, who, along with his associates, bounced in the air from the impact tremor. Throwing his head back, Booster let loose a hearty laugh.
“I didn’t think he was going to fall that time!” the man confessed, eyes teary with mirth.
The three-Snifit entourage sighed in unison. Snifit 1 tried to speak: “Booster, sir, about that world con--“
“Hey,” the boss interrupted, “Let’s see what happens when we put a Goomba underneath. Go get one, Three.”
Responding without hesitation, Snifit 3 scuttled down the dim shaft of the Pipe Vault, searching for one of the mushroom-like Goombas. Upon sighting one, he crept up behind it, oblivious to the fact that his own wry snickering was unquestionably giving his position away. The Goomba turned and faced him, and Snifit 3 froze in place, hoping that the heavily-browed creature’s vision was based on movement, like so many notable biologists had said. Or was that dinosaurs?
The Goomba answered that internal query by lunging at the statuesque form and sinking its fangs into Snifit 3’s arm, injecting a generous dose of poison into the lackey’s system. As the beast made its escape, Snifit 3 fell on his back, writhing in pain.
“It would have been more fun if he had caught it,” Booster pouted.
“Gaaack!” Snifit 3 said as he violently convulsed on the hard stone floor, possibly as a result of his severe allergy towards Goomba venom.
“Sir, really,” Snifit 1 insisted. “Watching Thwomps and endangering your cronies’ lives is fun and all, but there may be better ways to spend your time than this.”
“Like what?” the Tower Keeper inquired.
“Gaaack!” Snifit 3 repeated.
“Well, you could go to the casino, start a bar fight, crash a party…”
“A party?” Booster thought aloud. “Hey, that’s right! We could have another party! I’ll get married again! Where’s what’s-her-name?”
Snifit 1 slapped a frustrated hand to the forehead of his mask. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, sir,” he very calmly stated.
“But we could eat another cake,” the chubby man pointed out.
“Gaaack!” Snifit 3 continued.
“Sir, you don’t need to have a party if you want to eat--“
“Wait a second,” Booster realized. “We never had a party for that ‘divorce’ thing.”
“Sir, you don’t usually have a party when you get a--“
“That’s right: I never got my divorce cake!”
The two non-poisoned assistants stood speechless, staring at their boss, who had once again managed to prove to them that they’ll never know just how weird things can get under Booster’s supervision.
“Where’s that cake guy?” Booster demanded, marching towards the Pipe Vault entrance and stepping over his third, hauntingly shuddering lackey, who let out a very helpful “Gaaack!”
“You mean Chef Torte?” Snifit 2 affirmed.
“Yeah, that guy,” the boss answered. “We’ll get a cake out of him or my name’s not Aloysius von Booster!”
The two conscious goons rolled their eyes and sighed to each other as they followed their angered chief while dragging the now silent and probably comatose body of Snifit 3 behind them.
-----
The Marrymore cathedral was well-known for holding ceremonies with all of the flair of the most elegant churches, while at the same time giving the kind of speedy service typical of a Las Vegas wedding drive-thru. Marrymore’s secret was a specially trained team of decorators, ushers, musicians, and clergymen who could perform a ceremony so quickly that most people fail to even recall that there was a staff in the chapel in the first place.
Deep within the bowels of the regal building was the very soul of Marrymore: Chef Torte. The master baker had spent his entire life perfecting his craft, and was world-famous for his splendid wedding cakes and pastries. Few people actually saw him practicing his art, but he could almost always be found baking in the basement kitchen. And, when he was not baking, one could sometimes find the short-tempered turtle ordering around other departments of the Marrymore staff.
On this particular afternoon, Chef Torte found himself sculpting a particularly large cake for an important dignitary from the Mushroom Kingdom; it was a job that required an inordinate amount of yelling towards his assistant. There were times when the cathedral staff thought that the chef would lose his voice after yelling as much as he did, but the chelonian baker never failed to maintain his edge when it came to shouting at employees.
Just as the chef was about to launch into another bout of hollering “You fool!” at the top of his lungs, the back door to the kitchen burst open and four figures stomped in. Or, at least, the first one did; the next two figures appeared to be carrying the fourth into the kitchen with some difficulty. The first figure was a portly, bearded man who had an uncomfortably familiar air about him. The other three were clad in black robes and masks.
“Are you the chef around here?” the clearly angry bearded man bellowed.
“I am Chef Torte,” the turtle answered. “Now let me be so I may berate my assistant some more.”
“I want to know where my divorce cake is,” the man ordered with a toothy snarl.
“What?!”
“I’m not leaving until you give me my divorce cake!” the man, who appeared to be as dumb as that Tower Keeper Booster, declared.
“Are you serious?” the chef queried.
“As serious as a clown with diarrhea,” the man stated in such a way that the terrapin hoped that there was some way that this scene could end quickly, at least so that he could have a short break to compose himself before things picked up again.