Diner World

00/ PROLOGUE

In the olden days, there existed a seaside town by the name of Winshire-Portley-On-The-Rocks. It hunkered on a great cliff, over which many a criminal had met their untimely demise. Below this cliff, waves crashed and sharks snapped at syrupy sewage pipes that drained from the town above. You see, Winshire-Portley-On-The-Rocks prided itself on the baking skill of its residents. Bakers of all backgrounds and constitutions flocked to this village in order to improve their craft beyond what they had previously thought possible. Here, the finest breads were baked, the most delectable eclairs filled, the most savory pies crusted, and the greatest soufflés fluffed. However, what the residents of this town prized above all else was something that only the richest among them could afford to bake: cake.

In Winshire-Portley-On-The-Rocks, if one could bake more cake than anyone else, they were granted prestige beyond reckoning. It was a status symbol to be able to afford such a delicacy. The most talented and wealthy chefs in the area proudly displayed small bundt cakes, sheet arrangements, swiss rolls, madeleines, and kransekage towers in their shopfront windows. Such an exhibition of opulence was seen by the poor as a form of oppression, cake being the dividing factor between those who could afford to make it and those who could not. Nonetheless, the aristocracy of the town devised a plan to gain even more prestige, not just in Winshire-Portley-On-The-Rocks but throughout the world. Several members of the town council (a smarmy group of gents nicknamed the Seven of Ate) organized a public meeting in the town square on a particularly blustery day in early Autumn. The entire populace attended.

The Council Head, a Mister Grampfeld Smarley, climbed up to the podium which had been erected in the center of the square. The wind almost knocked him down, but he made sure to brace himself as he once again attempted the ascent. His stature was tall, his girth whip thin, and his attire pure white, wearing the regal vestment of Winshire-Portley chefs. He cleared his throat and spoke with a thin, reedy whine that began to irritate even the ears of house flies who swarmed about in the sweet air. Smarley swallowed and spoke again in a much lower tone. A cheese whistle had lodged itself in his esophagus.

"Salutations, my dear fellow Portley people. I come to you here today on behalf of the Town Council. I'm sure you are all wondering about the nature of our big secret. We have discussed this issue in length and believe that we have something that will bring joy to the hearts of our people and put money in the coffers of our chefs." He turned around and gestured to a large something draped in an cloth knitted from millions of strands of bleached angel hair pasta. Smarley smiled. Other members of the Town Council hopped about, excited. It was all too much. The head of the council resumed his speech. "After pooling the profits of our most prestigious bakeries, we have produced a work of art that will stand as a testament to our town's craftsmanship, dedication, and unbreakable spirit in the face of adversity. Let this monument be forever a symbol of Winshire-Portley-On-The-Rocks."

On this note, Smarley swept his hand across the object and two small serving boys pulled the white sheet from where it lay. The ivory sail billowed in the wind, releasing a gleam of light. Underneath the great pasta quilt, a large piece of gorgeous vanilla cake sat domed in a glass enclosure. The cake was roughly twenty feet high and fifty feet from hub to spoke. A cherry the size of a small boulder topped a sea of chocolate frosting that covered the outer face of the gourmet scrumptiousness. The townspeople gasped at the unveiling, covering their eyes lest they be blinded by its magnificence. Smarley was satisfied with the presentation.