Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Death Cakes (Mitch; Jerome)

           "Hey, what's going on, doods? My name is Mitch, or BajanCanadian, and today we have for you a very special episode of the Death Cup Challenge. Today we're going to be making Death Cakes for a certain lazy Bacca. Should be... slurpalicious." I pan the camera around at the ingredients laid out on the countertop next to the box of red velvet cupcakes from the store. He is going to be nuclear-level pissed, but he shouldn't have made me go to the grocery store by myself if he didn't want me to get ideas. "We're going to use this recipe I found on my phone," I quickly flash the WikiHow guide in front of the camera before I set the phone down next to the mixing bowl, "to make something truly horrendous. Be sure to smash that like button and subscribe if you want to see more epic prank videos, and click the bell next to the subscribe button to be notified every time I post a new video. Now let's get started, shall we?" I feel just like Jerome, plugging in the over-rehearsed advertisements in every single video, stream, and dream. I hear myself saying those words in my head during the day and I hear him mumbling them at me when he sleeps.

"Step one: Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Let's do that." I check to make sure that nothing has been unexpectedly stuffed in the oven this time before I turn it on, glad to see that there are no $400 Lachy Dachy headphones hidden inside. I empty out the stacks of pans and set them aside on the counter, thankful that he's dead to the world when he stays up late, amped up on caffeine. I would almost feel bad if he didn't constantly do shit like this to me. He doesn't need to think that the vegetable oil in my shampoo bottle was forgotten.

"Step two: put the liners in the cupcake tray." I rip open the package of plain white cupcake liners, not wanting him to get suspicious when he sees them. I double them up, just to make sure that no juices leak out where he can see them. "Perfectamundo." I would say that this is going better than planned, but we haven't actually done anything yet.

"Step three: add everything under the sun. Let me find a bigger measuring cup." I turn away from the clutter on the counter and fish through the cabinets, searching for the one that Ryan used as a shot glass on the Fourth of July. It still has food caked to the outside. Disgusting. "We need... 1 ¾ cups of flour... and 1 ¼ cups of regular flour so we're just doing 3 cups of regular flour because we aren't fancy like that..." I'm improvising and everything is already going downhill, but that's not my problem. I'm not eating this shit. "Two cups of sugar... here we go... and a teaspoon of baking soda." I grab a tablespoon out of the drawer and fill it halfway before dumping it into the bowl of pure white powder. He won't be able to tell a difference. "Let's mix this together before he gets down here and starts snorting it up." I make a face to the camera so that ninety-eight percent of the audience will realize that I'm joking. There is nothing I can do about that last two percent - I've tried.

"Step four: add four sticks of butter. We can do that." The AC isn't set as low as I would like it to be because His Highness freezes his skinny ass off if it's lower than 80 degrees, and this shit has been sitting out for a while. Naturally, the butter is sweating like Lachlan waiting in line for the bathroom at Chipotle. "Mix it until the butter is coated in flour. Hokeyp. Here goes nothing." The butter is much softer than it should be. This is working out splendidly.

"Step five: add four large eggs, one at a time until they're mixed in." I follow the instructions to the letter, but this isn't what we're here for, is it? I don't run a cooking channel.

"And finally, the best part - step six: add one cup of whole milk and a teaspoon of vanilla extract. The problem we have here is that... we aren't going to be using those things." I pull the first ingredient forward and struggle with the poorly-cut aluminum lid before it finally cooperates. "We need one cup of Campbell's Tomato Soup," I say, noticing that my voice has automatically gotten quieter, not wanting him to somehow overhear from the depths of his beauty sleep, "one teaspoon of this," I clean off the tablespoon under the faucet before I dip it into the top of the pickle jar and capture a spoonful of the green water swishing around inside, "and some of this," I pop open the fresh jar of jalapenos and carefully add three spoons of the hot and spicy juice. "And it looks like we might be done here. Doesn't that look appetizing? Mmm-mmm-mmm." I move the camera tripod over closer so that hundreds of thousands of people can watch me mix his salty surprise together. He is going to kick my ass.