The Point Picnic Museum of History had only recently been considered a landmark. Originally beginning life as a wing of old City Hall, the small gallery had been the only reason to visit the abandoned stone structure after the mayoral council had hiked up and moved to a less expensive address. Eventually, patronage and interest had caused the faltering curiosity to spread in popularity, suddenly possessing the means to grow in influence and size. Within a few years, the entire building had been dedicated to the showing of local history, public educational materials and even visiting exhibits from out of town.
Tonight, the town was abuzz at the news that a brand new wing was opening, focused on the town’s own pre-revolutionary history and its founding, along with tales from the surrounding woods of Angelcap Glade.

The wing could wait, however, when there was still the matter of the opening gala to attend to. The entire curator’s board was expected to attend, along with a substantial bulk of the donors community and anyone else who could afford a ticket. It was promised to be a night of society, history and fine cuisine.

Warren Hague hustled up the simple metal steps and heavy door that made up the back entrance to the museum, eager to check up on the state of the looming party. His position on the board granted him access to the building’s cargo door and the means to quietly slip inside and check on the status of the party preparations. Hague had been looking forward to this event for months, and while his work had kept him from overseeing too much of the renovations and arrangements, he was eager to check in on things before the party swung thoroughly underway. While he was mostly motivated through simple enthusiasm, a smaller, skeptical side of himself wanted to ensure that things hadn’t gotten out of hand. He had only met the event coordinator once, but he had instinctively been rankled by him, despite Warren’s attempts to avoid such snap judgements.

Point Picnic needed this gala. A celebration of how far they had come, of the town’s foundations and the settlers who had carved a piece of land for themselves out of the mysterious woods that surrounded it. Nobody spoke about it, but there was something in the air these days that had the town on edge. People on the margins of town were prone to locking their shutters at night, and trips through the Glade were becoming less and less popular. Animals in town were growing more and more belligerent. Birds were getting mouthy, rodents seemed to be moving in larger and larger packs and these days, the knowledge that a noise was just caused by a raccoon wasn’t as much of a relief as it was a year ago.

Warren had no desire to see the town descend into superstition again. It was the 21st century for heaven’s sake, and modern society had a place for arcane paranoia. A museum was the perfect place to examine such old-world thinking, through the filter of context, and laminated glass.

The expansive atrium had been cleared to allow for foot traffic, mingling and the elbow-rubbing of the museum’s supporters. Beyond a few simple standing tables and the beginnings of a well-stocked bar set up near the entrance to the Civil War wing, the room was devoted primarily to space. Dining was reserved for the connected showroom, where numerous tables had been set up to face the large central stage.

Warren had considered a menu to be the appropriate service for dinner, with perhaps a few options for the seafood and vegetarian crowd, but word had it that the event coordinator had insisted upon a buffet.
“A cross section of the culinary world” they had called it. “The centerpiece of the evening’s events.”
Warren believed that to be a very generous description of something usually reserved for cafeterias and food courts, but his uncertainty had been soothed by the impressive set up of the rest of the party space. He reached over, stopping a server that was setting up one of the many chafing dishes that would hold the evening’s repast.

“Excuse me, have any of the other board members shown up?” He inquired. “We were supposed to come in early. I was eager to go over the plans for tonight.”

The server shook his head as he put down the bulky, metal serving dish. “I wouldn’t know them if I saw them. Maybe talk to…” He paused and looked over his shoulder at the door that led towards the kitchens. “Um…maybe just wait around for someone to show up?”

Warren shook his head and sighed, walking along the length of the buffet table. It was only half assembled, but already looking admittedly impressive. Large silver platters were piled high with elaborate fruit-constructs, centered around a frankly enormous watermelon that was still beaded with condensation. Plastic was being removed from hors-d'oeuvres assemblies that resembled floral bouquets, and along the further end of the table near the dessert section, a large swan made entirely of chocolate spread its wings, gazing up at the ceiling. Warren surreptitiously reached towards an appetizer tray and popped one of the devilled eggs into his mouth.

“Enjoying the setup so far?” Someone inquired behind him.

Warren nearly gagged on his snack before swallowing and turning around, only to be greeted with empty space. There was the sound of scuttling on the lacquered floor, and Warren glanced down, apprehension curling in his gut once more.

A very large, glistening black scorpion lay on the showroom floor in front of him. The low, gilded lighting provided by the hanging chandeliers glimmered anew across the angles of the arachnid’s exoskeleton. Its claws snapped slightly at the air and the long, segmented tail capped with a hooked stinger twitched slightly. It may have been looking up at Warren, or at nothing at all. He couldn’t read its almost non-existent face.

“It’s ah…it’s very nice.” he managed to respond.

“Just nice?” The gala’s director tapped a few of its legs on the floor. “Hopefully the donors will be satisfied with ‘nice’. It’s good to see that you could attend tonight, Warren.”

“Right.” Warren nodded, reasserting himself. “Did you…happen to see the rest of the board?”

“Oh, most of them are around.” The scorpion responded as he turned to trot past the buffet table. “But while I’ve got you, have you seen the new wing?”

“Ah, no.” Warren began to follow. “But I have heard a lot about it.”

“Oh, I have to show you around the place.” The scorpion led Warren back into the atrium and towards the area under discussion. The thick wooden doors had been pulled open since the last time Warren had passed by them, permitting entrance.
“This ambitious project has been on my mind for quite some time.” The scorpion continued. “I’d love to give you a little tour before things open up, give you a little context for the evening’s festivities.”

“That sounds…educational.” Warren nodded, finding himself falling in step alongside the scrabbling bug. Something snagged at him though. “Wait, this project? Did you play a role in putting this together?”

“More than a role.” The scorpion responded. “It was my idea in the first place! What, did no one tell you?”

Warren had indeed speculated who exactly the mysterious benefactor of the latest addition had been, but had considered it a harmless curiosity to be resolved on the night of the gala. Now that he knew it was the Scorpion all along, he understood its devotion to making tonight special, as much as he understood why tho other board members had been uneager to share their new partner’s identity.

“How ah…Sorry. You must have made a compelling petition to the board.” Warren noted.

“I’ve always been difficult to refuse.” The scorpion clattered. “A bit of flattery, a lot of generous donations and…forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but I think the board was trying to be accepting when they first heard me out. Ah well, anything to get a few feet in the door, you know?”

“Right…” Warren chuckled hesitantly as he followed the scorpion into the new wing.

The gallery made impressive use of the space available, with the exhibits on display dominating their share of the area. Warren passed by a large, very old book that had been laid open and preserved under glass. The yellowed pages were scrawled with countless names in spidery, blotched handwriting. He leaned in for a closer look.
“Is that….the town census? The *original* town census?”

“It took a while to track down, but would you believe that it was nestled deep in the archives?” The scorpion responded. “Remarkable what people can remain unaware of. An interesting tidbit: Point Picnic’s census was updated on a monthly basis, not yearly. I suppose they felt a need to maintain a running tally of their population…”

Warren frowned at the ramifications of what the scorpion had just suggested, but continued to follow him. He passed by a large totem pole, carved and painted by a band of native americans that Warren had never heard of, but obviously were no longer the owners of the land they now walked on. From his experience, most of these decorative structures were capped with some sort of bird, usually an eagle or a raven. Instead, the top spot was reserved for the snarling face of some toothy, carnivorous beast. It took him a second to realize it was a wolf. Its fang-filled mouth seemed to glare at him more intensely than its hungry yellow eyes.

“Too few people seem to know the true history of Point Picnic and Angelcap Glade. It extends far back before either place had a name, or there were even people to name them…”

“Not much history to be told if no one is around to tell it.” Warren commented.

“Hmm.” The scorpion responded. “Come have a look at this.”

He traveled across the breadth of the room, using his stinger to point at a large tableau of old, illustrated book pages pressed under glass. They were a selection of woodcuts that seemed torn from a Germanic children's storybook or a collection of Greek fables. Almost all of them were familiar in some way, depicting talkative ravens, sly foxes, stubborn donkeys or large, voracious apex predators closing in on hapless travelers.
“Stories for little kids...” the human searched for the arachnid’s meaning among the spread.

“Lessons.” The scorpion corrected.  “Cautionary tales meant to be drilled into the mind at an early age. It’s a shame that so many have been confused for metaphors over the years. The search for a clinical understanding has robbed you of meaning.”

Warren found himself staring at one picture of a young girl traveling from her hometown into the dark, foreboding woods. It seemed the perfect introduction to a grim little fairy tale about lost innocence and predatory wildlife. What caught his eye was the town in the subject’s background. It was a spitting image of Point Picnic in its colonial days, down to the belltower and the old windmill that used to sit up in the hills.
“Confused for…metaphor?” Hague mumbled as he tried to piece together what he was looking at.

“Sometimes a wolf is just a wolf.” The scorpion replied, with an ounce of relish in his voice. The hairs on Warren's legs prickled slightly as he realized the shiny, black creature was right next to his shoe. He swiftly resumed his walk down the length of the wing, eager to continue. He passed by a small glass case holding several small knick-knacks. Some were carved from wood or bone, others cast in tin or lead. He almost expected them to be more pre-colonial trinkets, until he saw the text dating them to the mid 1800s.

"Good luck charms?" Warren posited.

"Protection, mostly." The scorpion responded. "Sometimes they would accompany little gifts or offerings. Downright pagan, I know, but necessary at the time. People used to be smart enough to be afraid. There was a healthy respect for what lay beyond their understanding. For the Glade.”

“It’s not the dark ages anymore.” Warren retorted, speaking more softly than he wanted to.

“Of course not!” The scorpion made an excited, clicking noise that Warren barely comprehended as a laugh. He glanced at a large mural that they were walking past. It was very, very old, depicting the silhouettes of hunters sheltered around the fires built a long way away from the vast, dense forest that covered most of the depicted area. It may have been a matter of seeing faces in wood grain, but Warren could have sworn that the dense foliage of the trees resembled a mass of hungry eyes and gnashing teeth.

“It’s an age of science, of comfort and security.” The Scorpion clacked its claws in the air. “Even the time of conquest is over and done with. Now all there is to do is stew in your own victory. Marinate in it, if you must. You’ve more than earned the right.”

Warren pursed his lips. “If I’ve…offended you, I-”

“Of course not. How could you?” The scorpion was back by his foot again. “It all happened a long, long time ago. March of progress and all that. Superstition is replaced by rational understanding and everyone gets to grow and mature.” There was a snag on the back of Warren’s pants, and the unpleasant feeling of someone with long, hard nails tickling their way up his calf and across his thigh. He didn’t need to look to know that the scorpion was climbing up his body. After what felt like an eternity, the great heap of glistening black exoskeleton was perched on his shoulder.
“Have a look at that.” He gestured to a long, illustrated timeline at the far end of the room with one claw, directing Warren onwards.

The illustrated exhibit depicted representations of Point Picnic since its founding, through the colonial years and past the industrial revolution, until photographs could take the place of artistic depiction. Warren noticed that the size of the town seemed to stagnate through the entirety of the 1800s and the first few decades of the 20th century. It was developing, but only incrementally expanding, no house daring to get within under a mile of the treeline. It was only until the 40's that the map of the town began to resemble what it looked like today. Warren was starkly reminded of the hunter's mural.

"Just look how far you've come." The scorpion whispered in Warren's ear.

“Is….is that the entire exhibit?” Warren muttered weakly, eager to be done with this.

“Just about.” The Scorpion shifted its weight on the human’s shoulder. "I have one last little detour for us. A treat.”

Warren would have nodded, if the action wouldn’t have brought his eyes and ears any closer to the great, glistening arachnid digging into his shoulder. Stiffly and awkwardly, he swiveled to the right at the prodding of the creature clinging to him. Pushing through the large double doors near the end of the hall, he expected to be led into another service corridor, instead of the bustling kitchen.

“You um, moved the catering space.” Warren noted, only familiar with the previously small prep kitchen utilized during the occasional function.

“I had it extended.” The Scorpion chittered. “It’s only appropriate for the work it’ll be seeing soon.”

Warren kept his eyes forward as he slowly shuffled through the lengthy kitchen space, as cooks and other denizens worked diligently on all sides. Some latent, instinctual urge was pushing him to make as few sudden movements as possible. He tried to tell himself that this little sojourn was at its end. He could shed himself of his passenger after one last leg…
The Scorpion’s pointed appendages manipulated his shoulder and back like the hand of an intrusive masseuse.

“Point Picnic has spent so long in its little bubble of safety. Long enough to forget what it should rightly fear. Long enough to abandon the practices that kept them safe. Too much understanding. Those of us who remember have a duty. The duty of a teacher to unruly students.”

Hague found his steps faltering. He glanced to one side, then the other. What he initially took for the blurry shapes of kitchen workers came into sharp focus. They were smaller, and hairier than he expected.

“Imagine what it must have been like, for the denizens of Angelcap.” The Scorpion mused. “The secret keepers, the predators, the enchanted and enchanting alike. The beasts you insulated yourself from….”

The kitchen was populated entirely by animals. Warren watched a possum shuffle by with a tray full of freshly compiled canapes, passing by a raccoon that was furiously mixing a sweet-smelling concoction. He became keenly aware of the beady, hungry eyes that were upon him. A squirrel scampered past his foot with a single stick of butter mounted on its back.

“Watching you caramelize, growing sweet in your own indolence. It must have been like staring at a lavish banquet, glistening with fat and sugar. All they could do was stare, never touch.” The scorpion graced Warren’s ear with the flat of his stinger. His entire body prickled at the sensation of that smooth, cold chitin against his flesh. It would be so simple to smack the loathsome creature off of him, to run. But how fast could he possibly be? Faster than the living weapon perched by his head?

“Now the doors are open again.” The scorpion whispered. “Can you blame them? Blame us, for making this feast into what it’s always been?”

The human felt the world expand around him. He felt small.

“Lesson’s over.” The scorpion trilled. “We have a lot of time to make up for.”

Warren felt the sting just below his ear, right into his neck. One of his hands flew up, but it barely rose past his shoulder before his entire body seized. The floor, ceiling and his body disconnected from one another and swirled around him. There was a blur of shape and color all around him, which then resolved around him into white panels and stark lights. The human realized that he was lying flat on his back, staring at the drop ceiling.

“It’s surprising how much you can get out of a human with a few polite airs and the hint of civility. ” The arachnid droned. He was somewhere near Warren’s head, scuttling away from his prone form. Hague tried to move, to no effect. Something thick and paralyzing had worked its way into his veins leaving him a limp doll. “The reast of your compatriots have already played their part in tonight’s delectations. Now it’s your turn.” It turned to address the kitchen.
“This is the last one. Get it ready.”

A dozen tiny, clawed hands found purchase on his clothing and dragged him across the cold, tiled floor. The animal cooking staff were carrying him en masse, onwards to some grim fate.

“Buuggghhh” Warren tried to talk, but his mouth couldn’t form words just yet. Still, warmth was pushing back into his limbs and with effort, he could barely twitch his fingers. As fast acting as this venom was, it seemed to be wearing off just as quickly.

If he could find the strength to stand up, run, or even crawl if he had to, he could escape. To avoid becoming whatever new, vicious lesson this vindictive bug wanted to turn him to.

He could still barely twitch his limbs when the ground suddenly fell away beneath him and his equilibrium spiraled as he slid down a sharp incline. His back made contact with smooth, cool metal a half second later and he splayed in a graceless heap at the bottom of a three foot-deep recess in the floor. Summoning the energy to loll his head to one side, Warren saw the shiny, grooved sides of his depository rising around him, coated with a pale yellow grease of some kind. It took him a few seconds of frantic breathing through his nose to realize it was butter.

Around the rim above him, he could see other animals skittering to and fro. Every once in a while, a furry face poked over the ridge to look at him. A large raven swooped by overhead, carrying a hefty paper bag of sugar, some errant flecks of it sprinkling out onto his face and clothes.

The incapacitated human spat and tried to move again, shifting his arms and legs by a few degrees and only managing to trace the world’s least ambitious snow angel in the layer of butter beneath him.

“Get it in position, while we still have a window.” Hague heard the Scorpion call out. He locked eyes with it as it stared down at him from the rim of the tin. He could see its mandibles chittering excitedly, far more expressive than its flat, black eyes. He tried to move again, feeling his muscles tense and warmth returning to his extremities. Just a little closer…

A large metallic noise caused Warren’s gaze to fly from his arachnid captor to the other side of the tin. Some kind of massive steel industrial drum had been mounted on a stand that was positioning it over him. A large spout was attached to the underside. A single squirrel with a particularly wild look in its eyes was perched on top of the heavy-looking mechanism, even as it was precariously positioned over the human.

“Wait-” was all Warren managed to get out before the spout at the bottom was cranked open and the deep, rich smell of chocolate filled the room.  A viscous brown liquid poured forth, so thick that it nearly knocked the wind out of Hague when it hit his chest. He gasped and thrashed his head as the downpouring goop flattened him against the bottom of the tin, spreading across his torso and limbs. It was almost scaldingly hot, like sliding into a jacuzzi that had been left on high. He tried to lift his arms again, but the sheer weight of the concoction felt like trying to move in quicksand. He shook his head to dislodge the chocolate mixture that was splattering against his face, but managed only to coat himself more thoroughly. His clothing felt as though it was fizzing and bubbling against his skin, tiny little pockets of air trying to escape from under the fabric as he became totally immersed in the thick, muddy liquid. Enough strength returned for him to crunch his stomach ever so slightly, trying to keep his head above the rising level of molten chocolate all around him. He pushed as hard as he could, raising one arm up out of the sucking depths by a few inches and flexing his fingers as best he could. For a moment, he swore he could see thicker chunks of chocolate sliding off of his forearm, only to realize that his jacket and shirt sleeve had vanished. The sensation of the chocolate pressing directly against his skin began to spread. His clothes were being eaten away at, like they had been dipped in acid.

Warren redoubled his attempts at thrashing, even as it only sapped more strength from his tired limbs.
“Pluh-please!” He shouted up at the scorpion. “Is there something you want?”

The scorpion merely clacked its pincers contentedly, and Warren shivered despite the heat all around him.

Exhausted, Warren could do little as the chocolate finally overtook him, closing around his head and smothering him in sweet-tasting darkness. Just when he thought that his lungs would burst, he felt air against his face again and sucked in a deep lungful of air. He awkwardly waved his arms and legs in a pitiful attempt at a backstroke and clumsily tried to blink chocolate out of his eyes. He was still utterly coated in the stuff, but the level seemed to be dropping. The heat of it clung to his skin, reminding him of the last time he had gone sunning while on vacation. Hague brought an arm free of the batter, like a log bobbing to the surface of a placid lake. He felt thicker, slower, as though the heavy batter he was immersed in had completely saturated him. Looking at his flailing limbs as they resurfaced, he realized that they all seemed flabbier and stubbier than before. Then his great belly broke the surface and he gawked. He must have gained over 200 pounds in a matter of seconds. He was a thick, fattened wad coated in molten chocolate and his body was drinking, no, absorbing the substance. He was bloating with it, like a sponge in water, even as the pool around him shrank and disappeared.

“Whuugh” He mumbled slowly and deeply. Even his face felt heavy. “Whutt’s happening to me…”

“Prep, mostly” The Scorpion replied, then turned back to the kitchen. “Looks like the flavor’s ready. Let’s get started.”

“Start-” Warren barely managed to get out before another waterfall of cold, fresh milk crashed over him, making him flail for breath again. The sudden change in temperature was enough of a shock to make his body seize up, and he sputtered as he grew even softer and wider. Hague could feel his limbs being restricted in movement by the size of his own body, as if they were being devoured by the encroaching girth of his midsection. He attempted to sputter out a curse.

“Hmm, could be sweeter…” The Scorpion chided, and Warren felt the impact against his belly as a wagonload of sugar was dumped on top of him. The milk in the pan around him was reducing, seemingly being siphoned into his bulk much as the chocolate had. As the last of the milk was sucked away beneath him, his body began to tingle all over. He could taste it in his own mouth as his cheeks grew fat and heavy, the sought-after sweetness that had prompted the beastial kitchen staff to pour more additives into him. As his body took in the new ingredient, Warren felt his head slowly leave the buttery floor of his tin, and soft, shifting fat pushing underneath it. He was growing so thick with filling that his own bloated form was cushioning him against the ground.

Even more concerning than all of this was the heat that still permeated his body. It had sunk past his dark brown, glistening skin and was pulling itself together in his core. He could feel it coalescing inside of him like a miniature sun, radiating out in all directions.

“Needs to rise a bit more…” The scorpion clattered, and Warren let out a cough as a curtain of dusty white flour was poured into him. He could feel his swelling accelerate, as the sides of his body met with the perimeter of the tin. The pit he’d found himself in felt less like a prison and more of a reservoir, suited only to contain his massive bulk. He desperately tried to kick or flail a hand, but even the extremities of his limbs felt as though they were drowning in the formless mass of the rest of him. Gradually, his ability to move them faded, and winked out, leaving him only with the ability to twitch tiny parts of his homogenous mass.

The heat within him was growing ever more intense. A liquid fire was blazing inside of him, filling him and making him sweat. The slick, sweet-smelling substance his body was exuding worried him far more than the normal stink of perspiration. It felt more like….glaze.

Warren broke away from the hypnotic, horrific changes that his body was going through and tried to look down at himself. He could barely even move his neck, merely angle his eyes downwards. All he could see was the faint curve of a wide, smooth dome that his belly had become, a uniform dark brown and textured like half-cooked batter. Even now he could see his skin bubbling and shifting slightly, being cooked by the heat inside of him. It should have hurt, but all he could feel was the temperature, and the subtle sensation of his body congealing into a new state.

“You’re…baking me?!” He sputtered between thickened cheeks. His gaze flicked up to the Scorpion that was standing directly over him. His entire body had filled the tin so completely that he was nearly level with the upper rim.

“Technically you’re baking yourself.” The arachnid reminded him. “It’s a pretty impressive new technique I’ve wanted to try.”

“We-we don’t have to do this!” Warren found his voice. “Please don’t...I…I can help you!” He desperately tried to conjure some idea of a service or favor to offer the impenetrable creature.

A possum scuttled up to the scorpion’s side, holding a thick hose tipped with a metal nozzle.

“I think I have enough help for now.” The scorpion responded dryly, then jammed the nozzle forcefully into the rising pastry’s mouth as he opened it in protest. Warren felt the cool metal slide deep into his gooey throat and lodge itself, just before the entire hose stiffened with pressure and he felt a jet of warm syrup flood into him. He closed his eyes in strain, incapable of thrashing his head as his swelling increased yet again. The new liquid was pushing itself into him so fast, he could barely taste the strong chocolatey flavor.

“Hush now.” The scorpion retreated, circling the nearly six-foot wide tin and staring down at his work. “You should consider this a courtesy. Normally when something gets knocked off their spot at the top of a food chain, they aren’t so helpfully…dressed for the part.”

Warren felt his own thick body starting to close around him. His sides were pressing hard against the slick boundaries of his pit, forcing themselves into every tiny groove and imperfection, taking its exact shape and filling it to the brim. His cheeks were larger than his head had been, burying his miniscule facial features. He tried to suck in air through his pinched nose, only to find that he couldn’t even draw breath. He became minutely aware of the steaming heat rising from his body and how much it felt like respiration. His face was sandwiched in a crater of his own cakey flesh, buried under bloating cheeks.

“Mmmrrrrhh! MMMMM!” Was all he could manage. The chocolate syrup continued to pump into him, pressing at him within as it met and muddled with the great core of heat dominating more and more of his center. He couldn’t feel his face anymore, all he could do was taste, and hear the clatter of the scorpion as it picked its way around him.
“It’s a refinement, really. Something we learned from you. Why chase down and hack your food apart in the wild when you can combine it into something deliciously new?”
The hose popped free, and the small blemish it had been buried in almost immediately sealed over.
“You’re a part of the banquet…” The scorpion continued. The giant chocolate pastry could sense the other animals crowding around him. “You’ve been a part for longer than you knew. And now we’re here to enjoy it.” Warren felt a smooth, cool claw press lightly against his yielding, bready exterior. He felt shivers through his warm body.

“This is what you are. This is what you’ve *always* been.”

The cake had neither the capability to argue, or the will to.

Dozens of tiny, clawed hands wrapped in oven mitts gripped one edge of the massive tin lining bottom of the pit that had become the chocolate cake's mold. They flexed and grunted, pushing and slowly lifting one side of the colossal pastry out of the depression, getting further under it to angle and pull it out.

The cake felt his considerable bulk shift, and rise at a steep angle. The huge, molten liquid core inside of him shifted, pulled to one side of his circumference by the draw of gravity.

An unknown voice squeaked something that sounded like a warning. Then the cake felt a cool, soothing pressure against his exposed topside. Then gravity shifted around him as if he were in the middle of a gyroscope, until he felt his entire bulk come back down to the ground with a resounding thud that trembled its way through his entire body.
The pastry felt the tickle of the metal skin surrounding him disengage, sliding off and away and exposing his moist skin to the open air. Instantly he could feel steam escaping from his huge, slightly tapered form. Despite the heat he was venting, it did little to dampen the roiling liquid in his core. His final inversion cemented what he was. It should have been obvious, between the chocolate, the baking and his still-fluid interior. Warren had enjoyed his fair share of lava cakes at functions just like this one before. Now he was the one set to be enjoyed.

"A few finishing touches, I think." The Scorpion said.

The cake would have squirmed in a mixture of anxiety and stimulation as the first ropey drizzle of caramel syrup was laid along his body in long, twirling applications. If he focused, he could envision the lace-like pattern it traced against him by the feeling and flavor against his skin. No longer having a mouth, he supposed he didn't need one to be able to taste.

Then came the teasing dust of icing sugar that settled on him like fresh snow. The lava cake found an unexpected twinge of pride when he thought of how delicious he must look. The aroma of raspberries drifted into his perception as he felt several of them heaped by his sides, the perfect accoutrement for an indulgent, dark desert like himself.

Gradually a hazy visual awareness took shape around him as he felt motion overtake him. He and his plate were on some sort of moving platform, being wheeled out of the kitchen through a different exit.

The doors swung wide, and the cake took in the guests.

The attendance was sparse, and of those present, few were human. They stood in evening finerie, scattered here and there amidst a crowd of mostly animals. Some, Warren recognized from the kitchen, but there were other, larger creatures here too. A statuesque deer was by the buffet, nibbling at the edges of a cherry pie. A wolverine was stalking between the legs of human guests who all looked desperate to remain calm. There was even a cougar by the bar, leering at the uncomfortable bartender. Warren gazed with sympathy across the piled up buffet. The fruit, the chocolate statue, the massive tower of whipped cream and the sizable tub of ice cream next to a sundae bar. How long had they been waiting for him to join them?

Above them all, amidst the crowd, a large, shaggy gray predator stood upright, staring right at the desert with hungry yellow eyes.

"Glad you could all make it!" The Scorpion called out. "I give you, this evening's centerpiece."

The lava cake quivered again, and the gray beast smiled. All of a sudden the plump dessert couldn't see the gala, or the crowd, or the halls of the museum.

All he could see was the forest. And the jaws of the wolf.