Fazbear Frights #8: Gumdrop Angel

Gumdrop Angel

Repulsed by her spoiled stepsister's lavish birthday party, Angel exacts a hasty and ill-fated revenge

Angel opened her eyes and saw ... nothing. Darkness. Had she gone blind? She tried to blink but found she couldn't. Was she even worse off now than before?

She felt weak and heavy. Her body ached. Angel raised her hands to try and rub her eyes, to clear the guck from them, but her hands whacked against something hard.

Trying not to panic, she groped around to figure out what she'd hit. All she felt was wood, flat, smooth, unrelenting wood, surrounding her.

She was in some kind of box! A very small box.

Angel tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn't work properly. She began writhing her body, flailing her limbs. But it did no good. She just kept banging against the box.

She was trapped. And she felt really strange, woozy, like she was going to pass out.

Why was this happening to her?

Angel really wished she had earplugs. And nose plugs. And blinders.

No, skip all that.

Angel really wished for the ability to teleport. Yeah, that would be good.

If she could teleport, she could just instantly go someplace else.

But first she'd have to be invisible so she could get away with teleporting. Or maybe she could have superpowers so she could just obliterate everything that was here.

No, that might be a little extreme. Teleporting would be good enough.

Where would she go? Pretty much anywhere but here—a landfill, a sewer, the most dangerous part of town. She could think of a million horrible places that would be an improvement on her current situation.

After all, what could possibly be worse than here?

Angel and her family were in Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, and if there was a place on earth that was more like hell than this, Angel didn't know about it.

Freddy's was bad enough on its own: a relentlessly bright and cheery place with decor in strictly primary colors and a headache-inducing black-and-white checkerboard floor. But then you added the children. No, not just children. Amped-up children. Crazed, overexcited, peeing-in-the-ball-pit, puking-in-the-arcade children. Not much was worse than a few dozen little kids having a birthday party. It was obnoxious mixed with miserable topped with Shoot. Me. Now.

Angel looked around, and she had to admit that some of her distaste—all right, maybe all of it?—could have been related to envy and resentment.

Her birthday had been the month before, and no one had thrown her a party of any kind.

Maybe at some point in Angel's life, she could have appreciated a kid's birthday party. Theoretically, she would have liked having her own birthday party here when she was little. She was sure if she'd had a party, she wouldn't have been as loud and insufferable about it as the kids in Freddy's were. She would have been happy, yes, but she would have been graceful about it ... at least, she liked to think so. But then again, she'd never get to test that theory.

Seeing as her dad—not her current pathetic excuse for a stepdad, but her biological father (equally pathetic, apparently)—left when she wasn't even walking yet, her mother had to be both the moneymaker and the full-time parent. During those years, her mom had disappeared into her job, while somehow staying in a constant state of broke. There was just never enough money for things like birthday parties. Now that Angel's mom had married Myron—aka "call me Dad," no, thank you very much—parties like this were in the budget, but, well ... Angel was older and so over ostentatious displays of birthday frivolity.