The Cake

Tom Emery 8100 Paseo Del Ocaso La Jolla, CA 92037 (858) 454-0775
2,785 Words The Cake A Short Story by Tom Emery "Finally, I've done
something good," thought Clint, as he was presented his big chocolate
prize for winning the cake walk at the Edgar Allen Poe Elementary
School Halloween Carnival. "Momma's gonna be proud of me at last."
Clint hadn't given his mother much to be proud of since entering grade
school. After repeating first grade twice, his teachers were pretty
much resigned to simply passing him through. There were no public
school Special Ed classes in a town so small. Momma wouldn't have
allowed it anyway. "There's nothing wrong with the boy. If the teachers
knew how to teach, Clint could learn just fine," she told the principal
on several occasions. Little did Clint realize that winning the cake
walk was the easy part. Getting the cake home was a different matter.
His short, stubby fingers clutched the cake box for the remainder of
the evening as he simply watched the other kids bobbing for apples and
entering the haunted house. He couldn't wait until eight o'clock when
it would be time to leave and walk home with his prize. "Hey Retard,
want me to hold your cake while you go through the haunted house?" It
was Bruce. He knew without looking. Bruce always called him "Retard."
"No," responded Clint abruptly. "Why not?" "Because you'll eat it." "No
I won't, Retard. Go ahead, I'll watch it for you." "No! Get away from
me and keep your hands off my cake." "Okay, okay, said Bruce." But
Clint knew there would be trouble. Clint was out the door of the school
and headed for home at ten minutes before eight o'clock. Momma wouldn't
me home until eight or he would have left sooner. He was happily, yet
anxiously, hurrying down the sidewalk when he heard the dreaded voice.
"Hey, Retard. Where ya going in such a hurry?" "Yeah, Four Eyes (that
was Chris), slow down. We wanna see your cake." "No! Stay away from
me." "Aw c'mon, Fatso," said Billy. "We're not gonna eat all of it."
"Stay away!" But by now the boys had circled him and shoved him off the
sidewalk and into the mud on the dark vacant lot. Clint had a death
grip on the cake box. He was stronger than the other boys. Partly
because he was older, partly because he was over weight, but mostly
because he was subject to violent fits when taunted by the other boys.
None dared tease him one-on-one. Only when they could gang up on him
did they stand a chance against his bull-like strength when the
adrenaline built up. But they loved to see his face turn red; his eyes
bulge out (exaggerated by the extremely thick eye glasses), and the
veins enlarge in his over-sized, practically shaved, head. "Touch my
cake and I'll kill you," he screamed, addressing all four boys but
looking only at his now half-crushed cake box. "Is that a threat,
Retard?" "Yes." As one of the boys jumped on Clint's back, Bruce hit
him in the face, breaking his glasses. Soon they had him on the ground.
But it wasn't as easy as they thought it would be. "God damn! Retard is
biting me. Get him off me!" "He's clawing my eyes! Hold him down."
Finally, in spite of the biting and screaming and scratching, they
managed to keep him down, stomping on him and the cake until he was
defeated and the cake was a mush of mud and chocolate. He lay there
crying in the mud until some other kids passed by and heard him. "Get
away!" he screamed. They did. One of them was his next door neighbor,
Frank. When Frank got home he told his mom that Clint was lying in the
mud crying, but hadn't let them help. "Frank, go next door and tell
Clint's mother where he is and offer to walk her up there." Soon, Clint
was being scolded for being a cry baby and breaking his glasses.
Instead of making her proud, he had made her ashamed of him. Again. The
next day Frank's mother baked a beautiful chocolate cake and had Frank
take it to Clint. But it wasn't the same for Clint. In fact, nothing
was ever the same again. II. Frank was a good boy. He and Clint were
opposites. Clint was like a bull in a china closet. Big. Strong.
Awkward. Confused. No ability to react intelligently to any situation,
especially an adverse one. Frank was small, frail, quiet, and very,
very intelligent. They were in the same sixth grade home room, next
door neighbors, and friends; but they hardly ever communicated because
they had nothing in common. Until now. It was an icy cold November
first morning as they walked to school together. Yet neither boy was
shivering. They were so engaged in intense communication they didn't
even notice the cold. Clint was talking. Frank was listening: hearing a
blow-by-blow description of what had happened to Clint the night
before. On this four block walk to school, the boys became closer than
the closest of friends. They now had a common bond. Clint called it
"revenge." Frank called it "justice." But call it what you like, the
two boys were committed to concentrating all of their efforts on
getting even. Bruce, Chris and Billy were now their enemy. Their
targets. And limited warfare would not be a part of their strategy.
"Clint, I understand. I can feel your hurt. I'm on your side. We will
get even. But listen very carefully. I can help you. I will help you.
But you must let me develop a plan. And you must follow it. That means
that you do everything that I tell you to do, without question. By
that, I mean that you do exactly what I say. It will take time. You
must be patient. You must trust me. There are things that you can't do
without me. There are things I can't do without you. You're job will be
to provide the muscle. I'll provide the brains. Is that clear?" "Yes,
Frank. I'll do whatever you tell me to do." III. Bruce wondered why he
was invited to Clint's birthday party. None of his buddies had received
an invitation. He wasn't planning to go until Frank told him that Sally
had asked Clint to invite him. "Parties are a great place to make out,
and Sally told me she was hot for you," Frank told Bruce. Sally was hot
all right. She already had boobs, and she was just about the most
gorgeous thing Bruce had ever laid eyes on. So it didn't take any arm
twisting to get him to Clint's house for the party on Thursday after
school. Of course he had no way of knowing that Clint's mom worked
until 8:00 o'clock on Thursday nights, and that he was the only one who
received an invitation. Clint greeted Bruce at the door and thanked him
for coming. As he entered the house he saw nobody was there except
Frank. "Where is everyone?" "Shut up, asshole," said Frank. "As I
recall, you wanted some cake last Halloween. Now you get some." Bruce
felt Clint's heavy fist sink into his stomach and he gasped for air as
Clint forced him into a chair at the kitchen table, tied his hands
behind his back, and roped him to the back of the chair. "Retard,
you'll regret this," he blurted out but didn't get a chance to finish
before the back of Clint's hand landed solidly on his jaw. "Frank, will
you please serve Bruce a piece of birthday cake? Or shall we call it
mud pie?" Bruce looked in disbelief as Frank sliced a piece of the
chocolate cake and placed it in front of Bruce. "The icing's wonderful,
Bruce," said Clint. "Don't you think?" as he shoved a bite of the
chocolate covered mud into Bruce's mouth. "Swallow!" Clint's eyes
bulged and he trembled as he made Bruce eat the entire mud cake,
vomiting all over himself several times as he was force-fed. When he
would to spit the mud out of his mouth, Clint would slug him in the
stomach. Gasping for air, almost drowning in his own vomit, Bruce was
now in a state of shock as Frank addressed him. "This little birthday
party could be a little embarrassing for all of us," said Frank. "I
suggest we just keep it to ourselves. Eating humble pie doesn't become
you anyway, Bruce. But before you go, I want you to do something for
me. Get on your knees." He hesitated only slightly when he felt Clint's
big hand lifting him by the neck out of the chair. Once again he felt
the heavy fist bury into his stomach as he sank to his knees. "Clint,
you bend over," Frank said. Bruce, you kiss his ass while I take a
Polaroid. Go ahead, Bruce. Smile now. Wait, let me get one more. Smile
again, Bruce. Act like you're loving it. Now, I don't think any body's
going to be talking about our little party, do you Bruce?" In the
following weeks, Clint heard himself called "Fatso" and "Four Eyes" but
not "Retard." That was an improvement. But the taste of blood only
increased his appetite for more. So he was elated when Frank suggested
that he invite Bruce over for more birthday cake. "No! Are you crazy?
I'm never going over to your house again," Bruce said. "Oh yes you
will. Remember the Polaroids?" This time it was even worse. Because
instead of a mud cake, it was a shit cake. Wisely, Frank had suggested
the party take place in Clint's back yard. There was so much vomit and
shit all over Bruce they had to hose him down. Soaking wet, Clint
ordered him into the garage where he made him completely strip. "Time
for another Polaroid, " Frank said. This time Clint is going to bare
his ass while you bend over and kiss it. Ready?" When Bruce hesitated,
Clint grabbed him by the balls and said, "Next time, instead of shit
cake, you're going to lay down while I shit on your face. Now kiss my
ass! And smile for the camera." The next morning on their walk to
school, Clint said, "Frank, that was the most fun I've ever had in my
whole life. I can't wait to get Chris and Billy! Do we make them a shit
cake too?" "Be patient," replied Frank. "Wait until I tell you what to
do. We have all the time in the world." "Yeah, but I can't wait. I get
excited just thinking about all the things we could do. Do we get Billy
first, or Chris? I don't think we should try to do them both at once,
do you, Frank?" "Be patient, Clint. This is not supposed to be fun.
We're just getting even. Just remember, don't do anything until I tell
you. And don't tell anybody what we did to Bruce. Understand?" "Okay,
Frank. Whatever you say." IV. It was during the Christmas holidays that
Chris went on a trip with his parents to see his grandmother. Frank
quickly moved in on Bruce. "How would you like me to show the Polaroids
to the other kids when the holidays are over?" "You'd better not!"
There was hysteria in Bruce's voice. "Okay, I'll make you a deal. I
won't show the pictures if you and Billy meet Clint and me down at the
river on Saturday morning around ten o'clock. We'll be waiting at the
old shed. You'll see our bikes there. Just come into the shed and start
picking on Clint. Then do as we tell you." "What are you gonna do?"
"Don't worry. It's Billy's turn this time. You just make sure he's
there with you Saturday morning," said Frank. It was icy cold when
Frank and Clint headed for the river on their bicycles at 9:00 Saturday
morning. Frank had planned it this way. Nobody else would be there in
freezing weather. When they got to the river they hurried into the
abandoned shed to seek what little warmth it provided, then waited for
the other two boys. It was a little before ten o'clock when they heard
Bruce say, "I told you he would be here. I heard him talking to Frank."
"Hey, Fatso, what the hell are you doing in there?" As he opened the
door to the shed, Clint hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out
of him. As Billy grasped for air, Clint kicked him in the balls. The
gleam in Clint's eye revealed that he was not just getting revenge. He
was enjoying every minute of it. With Billy disabled, Frank turned to
Bruce and said, "Now it's your turn to have a little fun. Take your
pants off." "What for?" Bruce was now hysterical and crying
uncontrollably. "Do as he says or I'll shit on your face," said Clint,
elated at the thought. Bruce pulled off his jeans, too scared to notice
the cold. "Your underwear, too, asshole," demanded Clint. There was a
thrill in Clint's voice as he grabbed Billy by the throat with both
hands and began choking him, "Now you're gonna suck Bruce's dick or
I'll strangle you and throw you in the river so nobody can find your
body." How quickly two sixth grade boys can turn from bullies into
whimpering babies. It wasn't much of a blow job. They were too scared
for that. But it was close enough for several good Polaroids. And that
was all Frank was after. Showing the pictures to Bruce and Billy, Frank
said, "If either of you says a word about what happened here this
morning, the entire class will see these pictures. Is that understood?"
Clint smiled as he gave Billy one last shot to the stomach, and told
Bruce to put his pants back on. As he and Frank rode home on their
bikes, Clint was jubilant. "Thanks, Frank. This is the most fun I've
ever had." Walking to school on January 3rd, Clint asked Frank, "Chris
is back now. When do we get him? What are we gonna do to him? I can't
wait!" "I don't think we'll have to do much to Chris," Frank answered.
"Bruce and Billy will take care of him when you give him a couple of
those pictures to show to the other kids. They'll do anything to keep
the others from finding out." After school, Frank and Clint walked
slowly toward home. Clint smiled when he heard the previously dreaded
footsteps and a voice call out, "Hey, Four Eyes." His eyes gleamed and
the smile was frozen on his lips as he turned to face the three boys.
"Hello Bruce. Hello Billy." Then he turned to Chris and said, I think
there's something that you and the other kids at school should know
about, as he handed him the pictures. Chris looked in disbelief at the
Polaroids. He began laughing hysterically, pointing at Bruce and Billy,
calling them faggots. Frank said, "Before you show the photos to the
other kids, you need to go with Bruce and Billy and let them show you
where they did the dirty deed. "Bruce, Billy, take Chris down to the
river and show him where you learned to become queers so he can
describe it to the other kids at school. Go with them now, Chris." "No.
You're all perverts. You make me sick. I'm going home." You could feel
the wind come out of Chris when Clint hit him in the stomach. He double
over, gasping for air. "That's enough, Clint," said Frank. "Now go
along down to the river with your gay friends," Frank told Chris. V.
The police suspected foul play when they found Chris' battered body on
the river bank the next day. One thing led to another, and within a
week they had a confession from both Bruce and Billy. The press dwelled
on the brutality of the murder. Both confessions were emphatic that
there was no motive. "What are we going to do for fun now, Frank?"
"That wasn't supposed to be fun, Clint. Justice has been served. Now
cool it. There's not going to be anymore of your so-called 'fun.'
Besides, I think you enjoyed it too much. And I wish you'd get that
silly grin off your face." "Oh? I'm having too much fun to stop now.
How would you like to have some shit cake, Frank? Find me some more fun
or you'll be next." 10 The Cake 10