So that is Mr. Butchie, cannibal confectioner, post-mortem pastry chef, and pansy pie-queen extraordinaire, Paris-London-Milan-New York-Detroit-Mars-and points unknown, let us leave him to his dreadful handiwork. And Neena, let us leave her, too, for the time being, in those dreadful, pudgy-plump and powdery dimpled hands, which will soon effect her sugar-sweetened transformation. When next we see her, wheeled out by faceless eunuchs upon a lily-bedecked dessert cart festooned with edible rainbow crepe and two-hundred-twenty-five sputtering sparklers, it will be at a surprise party (for who, we naturally cannot say…it’s a surprise, silly!!!) and she’s the cake to have and eat it, too!
And how marvelously, mouthwateringly yummy she will look, no calorie spared, no fat gram skimped upon, a veritable potlatch of flavor utterly void of the pedestrian utility of nutrition—a dessert to die for fit only for the dead whose every meal is their last meal and so there’s nothing to hold back. Oh you could starve to death on diets rich as these!
Her hair has been replaced by an elaborate coiffure of pure confection, a sugared busby of whoops and whorls so infinitely complex, so ridiculously Parisian, so over-the-top it will top anything ever worn by Marie Antoinette. Frosted nipples, an anus packed with praline paste, her cunt flowing over with a syrup of chocolate covered cherries…and her “teeth,” even they’ll be edible, the originals replaced, one-by-one, with a replica set of perfectly modeled white truffled dentures. Her face powdered pale with confectionary sugar, rouged like candied apples, her ears replaced with the most delicate of flaky phyllo pastry shells, each of which is waxed with the rarest of Egyptian honey. Fingernails in ten different flavors, toenails in ten different more, a rainbow of twenty tastes that span the tastebud spectrum from sphincter-puckering tart to sickeningly sweet. A tongue that doesn’t taste but tastes so good you'll want to lick it until it dissolves, tits filled with marzipan, toasted coconut dusting an ass of pure angelfood. Marshmallow will glue her frosted toes together and a pinstriping punctuated with florets of butter icing will decorate her entire seven-layered body, casting the whole in a drizzled net of spun sugar.
And the best, saved for last, the piece de resistance, the Mr. Butchie signature touch, a gingerbread-stuffed belly, still warm like a tray of momma’s cookies fresh from the oven, is sliced steaming open and thereby released from confinement is a piñata-like spill of sugar-dot confetti, artisan-crafted chocolates, peppermints, and gumdrops of every hue. What's more, like the four-and-twenty blackbirds baked into the fairytale pie, rise twice as many ruby-throated hummingbirds, sweet nectar sippers themselves, cinnamon-dusted, sugar-drunk, which shall doubtlessly delight the sporting and incorrigibly sweet-toothed among the guests armed with nets, for caught, and dipped in bowls of fresh whipped cream, these candy-colored birds will make a crunchily delicious airborne treat.
Read the complete novel here: