“Who are you?” Chef Torte demanded.
“My name is Booster,” the Tower Keeper replied, “And I’m here for my divorce cake.”
“You again?!” the chef recognized. “You have ruined one too many of my fabulous pastries; I have waited to even the score. Wait outside until I am finished with my work.”
“I’m tired of being ordered around by people who think they’re smarter than me,” Booster declared, appropriately positioning his dukes.
“That’s ‘smarter than I,’ sir” Snifit 2 stated. Luckily for him, the irate Booster was too consumed with pent-up rage to hear his poorly timed correction.
“I’ve been waiting for years for an opportunity to whomp on somebody with one of those puffy chef hats,” the bearded man declared, grinning widely and creepily.
“Bring it on, you stupid, filthy, stupid mongrel,” the turtle cook invited.
And with that, the fight scene began.
Chef Torte and his beleaguered assistant took a defensive stance in front of their cake, brandishing their puny fists in irritation towards this unfortunate delay. Booster stood at the other end of the room, sagely placing his top two lackeys in front of himself. If time had permitted, Snifits 1 and 2 would have regarded their position with well-placed eye rolls, but Torte’s assistant broke the uncomfortable tranquility with a jab to Snifit 1’s eye.
Number 2 counterattacked with a bullet from his snoot aimed straight at the assistant’s midsection. This being a tame story, the reader may grant that a Koopa shell is bullet-proof and that Torte’s assistant escaped a potentially fatal situation with only a bruised stomach. Nonetheless, the pain and trauma from the attack was enough to send the assistant cowering into a corner to contemplate the merits versus the drawbacks of unionizing.
Chef Torte, angry at his subordinate’s regrettable elimination from the battleground, hurled a barrage of punches at Snifit 2, and would have floored the goon if the Snifit’s face had not been protected by a thick Snifit mask.
Snifit 1 took advantage of the opportunity to cast a spell. Notorious for their ethereal powers-- and ability to julienne fries like nobody’s business, although that is another story altogether-- Snifits like to confuse their opponents by hurling magical attacks from unlikely locations. The crony in question waved his arms back and forth and summoned a trio of crystals from thin air right behind the attacking Torte, then threw them, via a telepathic command, into the back of the chef’s head. Squawking in alarm, the reptilian pastry-master found himself being cast dizzily to the floor from the impact of the assault.
Blithering mindlessly, the dazed chef was too battered to retaliate. Booster congratulated his goons on a job well done.
“Job well done!” he congratulated.
Before the two Snifits could revel in their victory, however, a strange rumbling sound began emanating from somewhere within the room. Booster scanned the environs for whatever could be moving. The chef’s table seemed fairly calm. Snifit 3 looked as comatose as he had five minutes earlier. The cake was moving. The sacks of grain in the corner--
“Booster, sir,” Snifit 1 called, “The cake is alive! Again!”
“Why do they always do that?” Snifit 2 queried.
It turned out that, as it had been with the whole “Mario Incident,” this was a very sympathetic cake, and could not bear to see its creator getting pounded on by a couple of cloaked yes-men. Swirls of frosting twisted and contorted into primitive facial features, and the giant pastry grimaced in anger at the mostly-conscious group of intruders. The few candles that had been placed on it prior to Booster’s interruption flared wrathfully, causing Snifits 1 and 2 to reconsider their proximity to it.
“Is that my divorce cake?” the Tower Keeper asked, smiling expectantly.
“I don’t think that that cake has any intention of letting you eat it,” Snifit 1 explained.
Catching the petrified Snifits off guard, the cake took a quick breath and blew an enormous ball of fire out of its mouth. The conflagration struck the pair and engulfed them, toasting both evenly and thoroughly.
Hooting and hollering in agony, the pair shuffled back and forth, hysterically trying to smother the flames consuming them, before skillfully running into each other and passing out.
Booster, being the last man standing, reconsidered whether attempting to eat the cake was as good an idea as his stomach advised. The enormous pastry loomed over him, and the Tower Keeper was forced to quickly devise a plan.
Dashing over to the door of the kitchen, he slapped the palm of Snifit 3. “Tag!” he called, waking the goon up as much as was possible.
Furrowing its sugary brow, the cake turned and regarded the poisoned lackey. It cocked a frosting eyebrow as Snifit 3 loyally and diligently attempted to sit up. Determined not to let his boss down, the barely-conscious Snifit turned a defiant glare to the cake and, mustering up as much intimidating speech as his brain could handle, said:
“Gaaack!”
As the lackey blacked out once more, the evil cake launched into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The sorry display of terrorization from the heavily weakened Snifit was too much to bear. Leaning back in its mirth, the pastry chortled as loudly as an anthropomorphic food item could.
Watching this blatant show of amusement, Booster was thoroughly tempted to join in, but a feeble call from Snifit 2 suggested otherwise.
“Booster… sir,” he wheezed as his combustion subsided, “Attack it… now… while it’s… dis… trac… t…”
“Yes?”
“… ed.”
“Okay.” The Tower Keeper rummaged through his back pocket and pulled out six or seven small bombs. As the cake continued to guffaw at Snifit 3, he lit the fuses on all of the explosives and, stomping his foot on the ground menacingly, hurled them over onto the top of his adversary.
Planting themselves firmly in the frosting on top of the cake, the bombs allowed a tense split-second before detonating loudly and expansively. Chunks of cake flew in all directions, splattering every inch of the kitchen with Chef Torte’s delicious creation. As it was, a particularly large piece of pastry managed to expeditiously find it way to a nice resting place between Booster’s eyes. The rotund man fell backwards and clumsily landed on the floor.
Once the reverberations from the explosion died down, the five occupants of the room pulled themselves to their feet (except, of course, for the sickly Snifit 3).
Lamenting over the loss of his cake in whatever language was native to him, Chef Torte trudged through the mess to the fallen body of the intruder. Disdainfully shaking a fist at the bearded man, he swore:
“How could you ruin everything? That cake took hours to build, you idiotic non-Wario!”
Scraping cake matter off of his face, Booster confessed: “I just wanted to get my divorce cake.”
Snorting derisively, the chelonian declared, “You don’t have a cake when you get a divorce, you fool.”
“… Oh. Okay.”