Golgo 13 and reincarnation
Companion article to: Les Animaux Confeiture
I argue that cake is made from the flesh of forest creatures, as evidenced by the totally true companion story. My real name is Sam Dorper and I have been turned into cake and eaten many times over in my past lives as a possum. I don't know why I turned human this time, but that is beside the fact that all of your pets and every non-human animal that has ever died is reincarnated as cake which is eaten by humans. The secret government conspiracy known as "Golgo 13" Is responsible for the disappearance of all roadkill, buried family pets and general sewer debris.
Having worked for "Golgo 13" for upwards of 40 years I rose through the ranks and was told by my boss, Ann Hathaway, that I would be required to start tanning leather for use in future cake-related experiments. Having seen first hand the de-genitalization of my co-worker Jerry Steinfeld I decided to not ask questions about this practice and quickly went to the nearest cattle ranch and started stealing cows. For some reason, I was very good at this job and brought in a record amount of cow hides, so many in fact that I was again promoted, this time to the SEC. (Sagging Erectile Center.) I bring up my experiences in this agency to make clear the fact that I am an insider on the secrets of this conspiracy.
It occured to me many times over the course of my time there that I had ample time to expose this truth before it was too late, had I ever paid attention to one simple thing - the company-sponsered birthday parties. No tanning company on the planet makes cake this good, if any even make it at all. Strawberry, merengue, country vanilla. They had dark chocolate cake so black they called it Wesley Snipes. We would even get special cupcake baskets at home from the company on a bi-weekly basis, something that any layman would find suspicious. It was, however, what went on inside the company lab doors that would change the realm of North-western Earth for many millenia to come.
Ann had come into my office while I was filing some torts, and said "Its time you learned the secret. The secret of 'Golgo 13'" And to my surprise. she peeled off her top and underneath were layers upon layers of spongy, porous, dyed cake. Ann Hathaway is made of cake. Point being, A top-ranking government member is actually a confection and no measure is too extreme to stop this from being kept a secret. She said "Sam, your inhumane treatement of all those cows really turns me on, I want you to frost me, Sam." In amazement, she begins peeling her top layers off (literally) and starts arranging them on my desk. Then her bottoms come off (literally) and I am left staring, mouth agape, at a selection of sponge cake on my desk where my boss used to be. Calmly, I got up and said, "Ms. Hathaway, you should know that Kramer and I have been together for many years now and what you're asking me to do is wrong!" Silence. Then, from the collective cakes a voice speaks to me. "Sam, you have done well in not eating me! Now, it is dangerous out there, take this sword!" (We called security clearance cards swords due to a humorous story involving a stick and a guard named Jim.) I thanked her and took the keycard, leaving the gaping mass of sponge cake behind me.
Many years afterwards, I was sent an email from one "Mr. Blue Waffle" at an address I knew was a subsidiary from "Golgo 13" and I, unthinkingly, opened it. Such horrors, such horrors I knew not could exist in this world. Yet, it intrigued me, a simple e-mail, harmless in theory but until the day I die I shall never regret knowing what I do now. In essence, the e-mail contained various pictures of taking the various bodies of animals and putting them into this machine which somehow restored conciousness to the animal in the form of a cake body formed exactly like the animal's origional. In some particularly gruesome cases, the pictures showed me animals that were too mangled or decomposed to see what it looked like and so the end result took the forms of balls of dough and sugar. What mind could be so sick as to force so many minds of differing creatures into such a small, amalgamous ball? This "Mr. Blue Waffle" was evidently fine with it, so in my disgust I found at the bottom of the e-mail an address for me to go to in order to "receive further confectionary instructions lest such horrors befall you or your loved ones."
Now, having no loved ones, and having seen too many Bruce Willis films, I knew it was time I got to the bottom (metaphorically) of this mystery. "Why," I would ask myself during so many sleepless nights "would such crimes against the world be affected by our government?" I went to the address specified unarmed, prepared to get answers from whatever lay in wait for me, feeling no need to bring backup. This would be a mistake. It was a short, squat little house, one that is driven past, unthinkingly, hundreds of times a day. That special little kind of house that clicks so well with the neighborhood that I truthfully had a little difficulty in finding it amidst the other houses. An ominous illusion, was the front walkway to the small, white door and the, somehow, smaller yellow frame. It seemed as if this was the house that all unassuming evil is born from, a womb of terror and fear in the guise of normality. The only identification was on the mailbox outside. "3215 Amy Winehouse" My idiocy in not recognizing this omen was perhaps the last straw that whatever god had protected me thus far would take.
I entered, it was empty. I looked around, it was cold. I sat outside in the back, it was hot. All was wrong, I felt ill at ease and I had not felt such restlessness since my time in high school. I checked my watch and it told me I had made it in ample time, but my gut told me that I should have left the second I entered that house. It was then I heard the gunshot, it was not scary to me, just loud. I looked around and saw nothing, I got up and heard another shot, I ran. I ran through that cold house like something took a hot iron to my nerves and rattled me like a slapped child. I found myself at a bar when I came to my senses. "Want something or not?" The petulance of this twenty-something brought me from my reverie and I looked at him. Featureless and in a suit, he looked at me like I had wronged him, like I had single-handedly put every obstacle in his life that he had had to deal with. "Yeah, a classy brandy." He frowns and turns away to look for something, most likely to worst sludge he could find and lo when he poured it I could see the amber in my drink slither down into the ice in the cup he threw at me. I gave him a five dollar bill and a look that said if he asked me for more he'd get it. I hate alcohol. It ruined the life of my family and I vowed to never let that happen to me. Luckily, I was too tired to remember this pledge, and found myself missing more than one five in the morning.
It was morning again, silent but for the ceiling fan. I wondered what was next. Fortune teller, that was what was next. I walked downtown, that day, too frazzled to drive and I felt unsure of my driving abilities. Mistress Kathy, what a wonderful name. It was smoky, more than anything. I could barely see the couches, red velvet as they were. I was greeted by a woman in pink threads, like floss for a toothless mouth. She said "We have not been waiting for you, but someone like you. We need a man with passion, and with color in his eyes. Are you that man?" I nod, confusedly. Another, raspier female voice, "Come into the room on your right." I look for the other woman for confirmation but she had disappeared into the smoke. The door is wooden, much like my smile as I walk in and sit down on the floor across from where she lay. This woman had the clothes of a man who found himself wishing for lust and found it in black leather. There was no reason to speak to her, and I felt like there was no reason for her to speak to me, so I waited until she relaxedly pointed at a cup of tea and told me to drink it.
I knew that what I would find out was important, but to think that a past life found in a cup of tea was what awaited me was simply laughable. I remember feeling alert, ready for anything, but unable to move, I sat there, and let the visions of a summer forest take over my senses. I still cannot recall what my body had done that day. In my last moments of headiness, I wondered what would happen if a future me, another reincarnation would ever drink that tea, and recall these events and the dream I had that day, or even if I would believe myself I did remember. I did, and I do.