Enjoy your cupcakes, sticky-fingered swine.

Tria 9th, 81381.
Evening; East Coast.


OoC; This ended up getting kind of long, as it's the first time I've ever rp'ed Ayres' shop & I had to arrange the setting.


BiC;

Dyma's.

An understatement. The sign's lettering was simple, dark, squat -- crouched above the tall doorway, it was barely even noticeable. The whole building was like that: not flashy, not in-your-face, almost secretive. Private. It was only one story tall, but it towered above nearby shops and restaurants, mainly because of its pointed slate-grey roof and its exceptionally high ceiling: twenty-four feet up, and if one was inside, one might look up through the dim lighting and notice the rafters were completely hidden in gloom.

But back to the outside -- dark, almost grimy brick facade, no view in despite rows of seven-foot-tall windows (somehow, they had a strange iridescence that blocked the view in and partially blurred the view out), only two doors: one in front, one in back, both nine feet tall, solid metal, and studded with silvery nails. Altogether, it was a tad on the foreboding side, ominous and intimidating. It didn't do its insides justice.

The clamor of utensils on plates, voices thronging in a hundred different competing conversations, all the noises and bustle crowding each other out and elbowing for some room. Chairs scraped floors, children whined, lethargic 'dragons shouted to spouses darling! wait, while you're up, could you buy me another slice? Everything was warm and moving and full of life -- a fireplace on each wall adjacent to the front entrance (that's two); overstuffed maroon chairs fairly collapsing with overstuffed people; tall, tall tables surrounded by towering bar stools. The walls were blank, greyish-white, and completely bare, jumping in the flickering light of the fireplaces and the candles spread liberally about the room. Hardwood floors, very well-worn and losing their polished-varnish sheen, were dotted here and there by braided rugs of greying, pale shades of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple...

And everywhere there was the warm scent of pastry, a whirlwind of appetite-inducing sweetness that made even the fullest customer yearn for one more danish, one more cupcake, one more slice of that delicious berry pie. The gigantic ovens in the back room were constantly ablaze, golden-browning the flaky crusts and oozy fillings, constantly preparing more more more for hungry patrons and grubby frosting-mouthed children. There were tarts and custards cooling on wire racks and industrial-sized freezers loaded with ice cream, sorbet, frozen fruit for smoothies, on and on and on: refrigerators of milk and cream and eggs; cupboards of flour, sugar, salt; counters all around, covered in rack upon rack of spices; huge Fronima-run mixers with shiny chrome bowls like bulging bellies; some jumbo dishwashers for cleaning up, more ladles and spatulas and whisks than you could shake a fist at.

So many cooking supplies and utensils, so many pastries and platters and pies -- but the most striking part of this whole assembly was the size. Everything was huge, overexaggerated, matching the excessively tall chairs and tables in the main room, matching the towering doorways and distant roofs. And that's because everything was meant for the seven foot, eight-and-three-quarters inches tall master of the business: the irate chef, Ayres Dyma himself.

His long limbs flew like spiders' legs as he deftly picked up a cupcake in one hand, used the knife in his other to capture a dollop of buttercream frosting, and, in one swift motion, spread it across the top in a most appealing pattern. He set the finished cupcake on a tray next to the others, and once the tray was full of vanilla cupcakes with cheery pink icing, he picked up a large shaker full of rainbow sprinkles and showered the entire tray with bits of sweetened color. There. Another masterpiece of flavors. He gingerly, almost lovingly picked up the tray and backed through the swinging door into the main room.

There, he carefully set the tray down in its allotted space in the gleaming, illuminated glass counter-slash-display case that ran the length of the back and wall, and, upon his entrance, there was an immediate rush of customers to catch him and order their next indulgence before he disappeared back into his floury lair. Grudgingly, he stepped up to the register (while thinking for the umpteenth time, I need to hire a partner) and tallied orders, doling out doughnuts wrapped in napkins, cupcakes in their papers, slices of pies on thin white plates, tall glasses of milk or mugs of coffee; he served it all to them, and they greedily seethed for more.

Finally, he shouted above the din: "Enough! I am going back to bake more for you sticky-pawed simpletons and your sugar-crazed brats." And he stormed back into his sweltering kitchen, leaving a trail of mild obscenities in his wake. The regular customers who awaited his service just shrugged, glanced back and forth between themselves, and returned to their seats, unfazed. That little outburst was the mildest all day. And they all knew, quite simply: that was just how Ayres worked.

 

Ayres finished another steamy, heaven-scented batch of cupcakes and brought them out front, sliding them into their place in the glass counter fluidly. People began flocking around the counters again to have the first shot at getting an order filled, but Ayres sidestepped them on his stilt legs and ambled from table to table, taking down orders on a coffee-stained pad of paper with a floury ballpoint pen. Order, order, order -- he couldn't help but roll his eyes as he wrote, in waiter shorthand and for the umpteenth time, cupcake, danish, razzlerajji pie... Same deal today, same deal yesterday, same deal tomorrow. He should've just stayed behind the counter like he usually did, and let them flock to him as they convulsed for more sugar.

"...You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Jonathan. I'm not coming."

He caught the end of a snippy phone conversation as he approached the pale yellow arden on a barstool. A derisive snort slipped through Ayres' nose, and he grumbled in his usual manner, "What could you possibly feel like stuffing into your greedy mouth today?" Pen poised, he glowered down at the seated arden, and added, "I've got plenty of other customers to get to yet, and plenty of poisons to bake for you sheep before the day is out." Kind of snarly, accusatory. Typical Ayres. He meant nothing by it.

 

Ayres raised his left eyebrow a fraction of an inch, his eyes hard like glittering shards of jewel, and he scrawled the order down on his pad of paper exactly as he had done at so many other tables. He moved maddeningly slowly, almost as if he hadn't heard that frantic last statement from the creamy-colored arden, and he seemed not the least bit perturbed at the thought of a customer being raped in the middle of his bustling shop.

He almost turned to go -- almost, and then his conscience got the better of him. The mental image of his mother, which existed still intact while her earthly form was busy rotting away to nothing underground, seemed to say to him, "Have a heart, Ayres. This arden is obviously in dire straits." Or perhaps just, "Cleaning up after a rape might not be the most pleasant of jobs, and then there's the local law enforcement to consider." One or the other, it didn't matter much; Ayres gestured absently for the arden to follow, and without another word he began ambling back to the kitchen.

Without checking to see if the stranger was following or not, Ayres slipped around the glass counter and through the swinging doors in the back, list of unfilled orders flung precisely onto a patch of empty counterspace. The oven pinged in readiness, and Ayres dipped his huge, rainbow'd hands into a pair of oven mitts in preparation for removing the pastries.