Master Jabber was driving his one-horse gig through Gabeton, an outer township that had taken him an hour of riding along city streets and then rural-esque, tree-lined lanes to get to. The township itself was filled with houses and shops surrounding a central square with a fountain of a bronze lion peeing through an angelic halo.

  Jabber was looking for Number Twelve Grimgelic Row when he came to a ramshackle, thatch-roofed cottage with wheels and mechanical junk piled all around its yard. The number twelve was painted in yellowish white next to the door. The magician stopped his gig and walked up the gravel path. He knocked several times but there was no answer.

  Jabber looked into the dim windows but, seeing no one, decided to go around to the backyard. Here the mess was even greater with two full carriages rusting among yellow grass and weeds, a broken-down grandfather clock with all its innards spilled out and tarnished, and heaps of gears, boxes, axles, wheels, winches, and frames placed helter skelter among the wild grasses and untrimmed bushes.

  An older gentleman with a brown wool blanket wrapped over his cardigan and a jackrabbit hat on his head sat on a rusted swinging chair, a cane laying across his lap as he gazed over his yard.

  Sescreetch eetch came the sound of the chair every time the man swung it back with his legs . . . sescreetch eetch.

  “Mr. Fulsome?” Jabber asked, approaching with hesitation.

  The man stopped swinging. “Yes. And you are?”

  “Oh thank God,” the magician replied. “My name is Jabber Sasquatchsen. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Indeed?” the man asked. “Well, come and sit then. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Jabber grabbed a stool from one of the piles of junk and sat across from the man.

  “The reason I’ve been looking for you is that I believe you were the head patissier at the Segoy in New Limbo, were you not?”

  A smile crossed the man’s face at the mention of such pleasant memories. “Oh, indeed I was my good man, but that was a lifetime ago.”

  “You know, as a hotel I wouldn’t say that it was my absolute favorite. The radiators made devilish noises in the middle of the night and sometimes overheated the rooms, and the toilets always seemed a little too low so when you sat down, for just a second it always felt like you were about to fall on your buttocks.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Mr. Fulsome gave a genteel laugh. “Ah yes, the toilets!”

  “But you know what kept bringing me back to that hotel? Your angel food cakes! I loved those. I don’t know how you did it but the cake wasn’t just delicious but always filled me with heavenly light and joy. Almost as good as angel wings.”

  “Oh indeed, my angel food cakes were the talk of the town in my day. Made them with one hundred percent heavenly ingredients.”

  “You know, every evening I would order the best steak in the house along with a slice of your cake. Then I’d sit by the rooftop pool and enjoy my heavenly meal. I never forgot those cakes of yours.”

  “Well, thank you, it’s always nice to hear my work left a positive impression on my clients.”

  “And that’s why I wanted to speak with you. I’m opening up my own wings shop, and, well, I need your cakes for my customers.”

  Mr. Fulsome’s swinging chair made a soft screeetch as he sat up, straightened his back and shoulders, and rested his hands on his cane. “Unfortunately, Mr. Sasquatchsen–”

  “Please, call me Jabber.”

  “Well, Mr. Jabber, I’m retired now . . . haven’t made a cake in twenty years.”

  Jabber looked around the yard and then leaned towards Mr. Fulsome conspiratorially. “Can I be honest with you? There’s this angel who owns a wing shop in town. He’s been very rude to me, insulting me and kicking me out of his shop because I told him the wings he gave me were too weak. Anyways, I’ve shunned him and sworn to get revenge so I’ve opened my own shop next door to put him out of business. But I need better food, better decor, and better wings–all at a lower price point–to steal his customers. I believe your cakes might just give me the edge to destroy him.”

  “Ahh, so you’ve opened a shun shop.”

  “Exactly! A shun shop!”

  “Well, what’s the name of this angelic nemesis of yours?”

  Master Jabber narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice as he declared, “He goes by the name of Joseph Tabernarius .”

  “Did you say Joseph? Not the one with the shop near St. Michaels?”

  “Yes, that’s the one exactly! Do you know him?”

  “Our paths have crossed,” Mr. Fulsome said standing all at once so that his blanket slipped from his shoulders to reveal a pair of beautiful white angelic wings. Removing his jackrabbit hat, a halo shone out in full glory just above his head. Without the long brown ears interfering with the celestial manifestation of divine light, Mr. Fulsome’s golden halo shone so fiercely in divine anger that Jabber had to shield his eyes for a moment.

  “You’re an angel!” Jabber exclaimed, overawed.

  “Indeed! And I know this Joseph. He’s a vile son of a bitch,” Mr. Fulsome replied. “I’ll make you those cakes Mr. Jabber. And I promise you this–Joseph will choke on them!”

  ?? COMMENT to share your thoughts, favorite lines, or petty grievances— my fiction thrives on feedback (and maybe a touch of spite).

  ?? ADD TO FAVORITES if Master Jabber's petty mischief, angels and demons running amok, and a God on vacation make you smile.

  ?? JOIN MY PATREON for more behind-the-scenes chaos. Stay up to date with advanced chapters, exclusive character images, and story updates.