Sort of Dead

54 - Mr. Cellomann's Sweet Sweetshop

The three of us walk in a daze towards the store. The smell of delicious caramel and chocolate and honey and sweets unknown to mankind has us in a hypnosis. See is even faster than us. Es follows. Mr. Om is left with no choice. Duh.

The words on the awning up front are in some foreign dialect, but as we approach the shop, the words magically reshuffle and become normal, English letters. That’s one fine paraphraser, is all I can think.

Still, this isn’t as weird as an old lady with spectacles and a newspaper being in the same washroom as you. Also, convenient for us, so who cares? I can tell you who doesn't. (This guy - points at myself.)

This is what the new legible words on the awning cry: MR. CELLOMANN'S SWEET SWEETSHOP!

I imagine my drool must be fostering like a wolf's, but do I care? Just so we’re clear – no, I don’t.

Aar is a twin in the matter. I look at the shop; he looks at the shop. I look at him; he looks at me. Together, we exclaim: 'Sweet!’

(I think I might have a shot at getting that telepathic connection with Aar like Bee does. Hm, we’ll see about that.)

See barks. I think he’s trying to say “sweet” too, but no, boy, not happening. Never getting that tongue back, nuh-uh.

(Gosh, talking See is going to work his way into my nightmares somehow. I can feel it. Shivers all over.)

Mr. Om is fuming. I can almost see the vapors boiling off of his perfectly round head. ‘What do you think you are doing? Do not get distracted!’

‘Who says we’re distracted?’ Aar says. ‘We’re just hungry. Right, Mar?’

‘Right, Aar,' I drone.

'You kids will get us all kil – '

'SEE!’ Bee calls out. ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?’

For See has proceeded to attack the pie-palace in the outdoor display. Ah, I wish I were a dog. (No, not really, though.)

See doesn’t pay any attention and further proceeds to enter the store. Bee rushes in after him, and me and Aar after her. Es is swooning over the Sugar-Mountain, which is essentially a giant levitating cushion made of cotton candy and enclosed in a glass-cage. Good for her. She can’t eat any, conjunctions of being a spirit and all, but what’s the harm in looking?

The smell inside the store is even more overwhelming. I feel like the scent will lift me off the ground and pulverize my olfactory lobes with it’s sheer electric purity.

Now, picture this. We enter the sweetshop through a doorway. We are now standing in a narrow hall. Well, I guess wide enough for two and a half quarter grown men to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The hall is long. Extends far as the eye can see. There are treats on our either side, going on and on and on, ending only where the endless hall ends.

And right by our side, there are nine (or is it ten?) men made entirely of jelly. I have never for the life of me wanted to eat a man so bad before.

But then one of them speaks. And that crushes the mood. 'Welcome, stranger,' the green-jelly guy greets. ‘Mr. Cellomann will see you shortly. Outside eatables are prohibited.’

The yellow-jelly guy makes a nervous sound. ‘Eh . . . dear strangers, could you – could you ask this wild boar to not chew at my foot?’

'See!’ It’s a task for Bee to get the dog's teeth out of the yellow-man's jelly legs, but she contrives anyway. Turning to the traumatized guy who now has a disfigured foot (he should be grateful the whole darn thing wasn’t bitten off), she says: 'Actually, See's not a boar. I wonder how you could've made that mistake. She’s very clearly a canine - '

'Bee, we’re in a jackpot fantasy land,' I say, 'and you’re fact-checking? Come on.’

I swear. Dorks. They’re something else.

(Love Bee, though.)

Aar chips in, comforting the wiggly yellow-jelly man. ‘Hey, we're really sorry on behalf of the “boar”.’ He stresses much more than is required on the word, just to put a pan in Bee's face. ‘Do you need a crapebandaid or something?’

'Ayuh, no,' a voice behind us replies. ‘He’ll be fine. I’ll just have to stuff more jelly into him tonight.’

We turn, all of us. To see probably the wackiest dude we’ve ever seen in our lives.

For one, he’s wearing a hat. A hat made of colorful chocolate gems. For another, he’s crazy tall. Like, he’s a giant. But not in width. Breadth-wise he barely qualifies for a straw. Like, if you were to take a ratio of his height and his thickness, it’d be like comparing a football stadium to a prison cell. Get the picture? Now I see why the hall has a high ceiling but a narrow passage. Also, the guy’s wearing clown make-up. Excluding the costume, though; for his attire, he has an ASOIAF extra’s suit. So there you have it. Wacky. As wacky can be.