Nothing ever starts where we think it does.

Nothing ever starts where we think it does. So of course this doesn't begin with the vicious and cowardly murder of an FBI agent and good friend named Susy Cute. What happened was

a simple business engagement gone bad; Captain Bank had his wares piled up and ready for trade, though his official-looking clients seemed not to be happy with the quality

of the fake scabs. The clients kept picking at them and complaining that they didn’t pick like real ones. Although Capt. Bank was rather pleased with the ones that oozed pus

because pus really aroused him. That is a little weird, but I can't say anything, because cupcakes arouse me.

His getting off on infected wounds and my cupcake fetish seemed like a non-starter until we were trapped in that abandoned bakery. I cut myself on a festive display and it festered

like a corpse in Hawaii. He grabbed a ten-foot rack of Hostess cupcakes. He slammed it into my shins. Chocolate aroma captured my senses as cream filling stung my wounds, I felt

like a right donut, but that wouldn't ease the pain. He needed to get his revenge and had to bake,bake,bake. Off he fled to buy some

hundreds and thousands, because no cup cake is complete without those, and some of those mini glazed cherries that he loved so much.

His mother had once bought a box of 50 glazed cherries and whilst her back was turned he ate the lot, then spent hours being very sick. Mind you, that was nothing compared to when