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"Edge Walking"

By: Cauldron O Boyfur

Notes and Warnings: As was the case in the previous chapter of "Edge Walking", bulimia is mentioned. However, it is not as in depth during this chapter as it was before.

The "Cha-Ching" Gentleman's Club and Cocktail Lounge is not based on any business establishment in real life. There is a mentioning of the comic character, "Garfield". He was created by Jim Davis, copyright 1978.

Chapter 9: Pancake Flower

Characters:

Jamie: 16 year old white bunny. Male.

Sheila: 21 year old calico cat. Female.

Carwyn: 22 year old orange fox. Male.

Sheila and Carwyn were awake and in the kitchen by the time Jamie had dismounted the bed. At least, unlike the previous day, he was active before noon.

Roll up cigarette, take the morning lead, light up, descend staircase. In the living room, even through pungent tobacco smoke, his flypaper nose could pick up a delectable smell. Emanation source was the kitchen, where Sheila and Carwyn were making chit-chat, as the fox cooked up breakfast.

Still in his oversized Garfield aqua nightshirt, a semi-sandman intoxicated Jamie, shuffled from living room, through dining room, into kitchen. Doing so prompted Sheila to announce, "Cute stuff is here," teasing the shy bunny.

"Yo now!," Carwyn exclaimed. "If it isn't the kid of the hour. Take a seat, rookie. Big day, gotta eat."

Commandeering the stovetop, the amateur fox chef poured a second glop of white goop onto the buttered skillet. Once properly heated, the pale liquid would congeal to materialize into a golden pancake. Already seated at the semi-circular kitchen table, Sheila had a fresh triple tiered stack on the plate in front of her.

"Ya want two pancakes, or three?," Carwyn questioned.

Jamie's hollow tummy yearned for three, but that would make him gluttonous in front of friends, whom he'd rather put on a charade of control in the presence of. "Two. Just two, thanks."

"Three it is!," Carwyn gaily said, dumping embryonic batter for a third circle onto the pan. Jamie smiled in relief as he went to take a seat opposite the calico.

Before his butt touched the seat, Sheila, now in the process of cutting her pancakes, gave dry morning humor with a comment directed at Jamie. "Nice pants, kiddo."

A snippet of silly comedy, when considering that the teenager wasn't wearing any pants. But Jamie threw out the real screwball kicker. Pulling up his nightshirt to reveal playful briefs (florescent orange with red fly, blue leg openings, and white waistband), he sang a little tune, "Look maw, Big-Paws, cuz I'm a big dawg!" Mid-slice, Sheila bobbled and dropped her knife to look at Jamie's multi-colored underwear. Laughter followed. The jingle which Jamie recited was from the Big-Paws underwear ads, which was exactly what the bunny was wearing. The colorful briefs were targeted towards toddler wolves fresh out of training pants, but they could rest comfortably around the midsection of a skinny teenaged bunny boy, granted he had a tiny penis. Jamie could only be so lucky. They fit him perfectly.

Spatula flipping a flapjack, Carwyn smiled and shook his head in amusement. "Jamie," he laughed, "you really are something." The bunny could only blush. Lighthearted humor quickly dissolved when Carwyn changed the subject with a question. "By the way, which one of you left the ice cream out?"

Dummy, moron, idiot, dunce... Words of that genre were now overrunning the brain between Jamie's floppy ears. The mint chocolate chip from the previous night's binge eating episode. He'd omitted putting the remainder back in the freezer, so concerned about puking up his lack of discipline. It wasn't the first time he'd left food out after a binge. While binging or purging, the evidence of his shame was sometimes forgotten about in the aftermath. There were even times he'd forgotten to flush the toilet after vomiting. The toilet! Was the kelp of his traumatized tummy still idling in the basement's toilet? No, no, he'd flushed. He was certain of it. He distinctly recalled flushing the toilet, in the small, dark room, unable to see the abyss whip up its whirlpool, but knowing that his sin was spiraling into the septic subterranean netherworld. But the ice cream, it sickened him how negligent he'd been.

"Wasn't me," Sheila said, closing a scapegoat option.

Flipping another pancake, Carwyn looked towards Jamie. Jamie couldn't look back, staring at the sterility of the white tabletop when confessing, "I just got alittle hungry last night. Sorry, I didn't mean to leave it out."

Reaching to his left, the fox took hold of a thin, crudely cut piece of blue plastic wrap. It was the sugar cookie packaging. Holding it up, like courtroom evidence, he assumingly said, "I guess you ate the cookie dough too, huh?"

Pig! Now the world was going to know how disgusting the skinny, bulimic bunny was. Stupid pig!

An excuse was quickly whipped up. "I was going to eat it, but it wasn't good anymore."

At the tail end of cutting her pancakes, one of Sheila's eyelids went up in surprise. "I just bought it like three days ago. Check the date on that wrapper," she ordered Carwyn.

"Just let me flip this first," the chef said of the pancakes. It gave Jamie the opportunity to concoct another quick lie.

"I think the date's still good, but there was a slit in the wrapper. Maybe the stockboy at the market cut it by accident or something. It was really stale though. I threw it out."

Like an prosecutor who wouldn't quit, the foxy fox walked a few steps to his left and peered into the trash. No trace of dough. "Where'd it go? It's not in the trash."

"I, um, I put it down the garbage disposal."

"Hmmm," said Sheila. "Guess it's working again."

On the wall, above the sink, a switch was flipped by Carwyn. From the sink came a sound, like puttering mixed with a choking Godzilla. Quickly, Carwyn flipped it off. "Still broke. Jamie, how'd you get it to work last night?"

Carwyn and Sheila were trying to get to the root of the missing cookie dough's whereabouts in order to quell their curiosities. But to Jamie, they were attacking him, essentially trying to get him to admit that he was a glutton. A disgusting glutton. In defense, Jamie took up a verbal sword and cut deep.

"Shut up!," the teenager screamed. "Just shut up! Who gives a fock what happened to a cheap roll of cookies!?" It was the first time he'd expressed anything even close to rage since arriving. The two adults in the room were in too much shock to speak, bamboozled at what caused such an outburst from someone whom they didn't realize was capable of yelling. All Carwyn could do was plate the trio of patties.

"Here," was the only thing the chef said, handing plate of pancakes and glass of skim milk to Jamie, who was now embarrassed and ashamed of the verbal blast he'd lain upon two friends who meant him no disrespect. Carwyn went back to the stove, to make his own breakfast. Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Sheila had finally finished the meticulous cutting of her own meal. Edible confetti would be an accurate description of what lay on Sheila's plate, with pancakes into very small squares. Once that was done, she grabbed the plastic bottle of Log Chalet syrup, and flipped it head over heels.

There was a sense of relief as Jamie saw what was predetermined to be spread upon his pancakes. Not butter, but Country Churn vegetable oil spread. It's what the bunny preferred, not only because of it's being easier to spread than refrigerated butter, but also the slightly lower fat content. Even still, only a small slathering of spread was knife-applied to each of the three layers. Though it's fat content was still less than butter, that was like saying that eating bacon was healthier than drinking bacon grease. Be it butter or vegetable oil, both were laden with enough fat to inebriate the long-eared with shame, should either be consumed in "normal" amounts.

Once the Country Churn had melted, getting sponged up by pores of the flat flapjacks, Jamie began cutting. As if he was making a dart board, a circle was cut through the center of all three pancakes like a bull's-eye. From the circle's edge, he made cuts that extended to the pancake's edge, like spokes on a hubcap. Sheila, in the middle of eating, lowered her fork and raised an eyebrow while observing the odd cutting tactic Jamie was subjecting his breakfast to. She couldn't bring herself to eat another bite until she got answers.

"What are you doing?"

Both Carwyn and Jamie looked to her, neither one sure whom the calico was addressing. "You talking to me?," Carwyn spoke up.

"No, I'm talking to silly stuff," Sheila responded, referring to Jamie. "You sure got an odd way of cutting pancakes."

Carwyn took a look for himself. Like Sheila, he cocked in eyebrow, body language saying "WTF?"

"Why do you cut it like that?," Sheila again asked.

Jamie smiled as he went back to making the slits, from inner circle edge to pancake's edge. "It's a flower. See? You got the middle part, with the pollen and all, and then the petals on the outside."

Another look was taken by Sheila. She now saw it. A flower. Everything that the bunny boy did gushed with adorability. Well, everything except for his mysterious cookie dough outburst, but that was in the past now, as Sheila exclaimed, "Awwwww! Look Carwyn, it's a pretty little flower. Jamie, you're so cute. I swear, you get cuter by the minute."

Blushing. Jamie may as well have went and dye his fur red, considering the amount of blushing he'd done in the last day and a half, especially with Sheila present. He loved her gentle nature, her unabashed squeals of approval for the effeminate qualities Jamie showed; qualities and mannerisms which most males ridiculed him for throughout most of his life. Carwyn was a great house mate as well (in addition to being an attractive fox in the bunny's brown eyes), but Jamie somehow felt more attached to Sheila, despite his attraction towards boys, and her being a girl. In fact, it was probably her being a girl which comforted Jamie. Unlike his four inch penis, the gay bunny boy was much more partial towards girls in terms of simple friendship. With minds always open to accept, and arms always open to give hugs, girls were the sex which Jamie had an easier time getting along with. It had been that way ever since he was a kid, like in kindergarten, when Jamie would play house with the girl classmates, as the other boys were smashing cars together. Before he'd dropped out of school at fifteen, female classmates would invite him to slumber parties, where he'd be the only boy (as the girls realized that Jamie's dick posed no threat them). He loved getting his nails done, and flipping through girly teen magazines, in which he and the girls would ogle over the newest male heartthrobs in the entertainment world. With girls, the gay boy could expose his true self without fear of getting beat up, or having his face shoved in a toilet (both of which other boys in school cruelly subjugated Jamie to in the netherworld of jr. high and high school).

Done making his flowered pancakes, Jamie now began cocooning them in syrup. Sheila kept on commenting on the presentation, "Man, I wish I had flowers for breakfast. That's really creative of you, Jamie."

"My mommy always made it like this for me," Jamie confessed. It took him a second before he realized he used the word "mommy" instead of "mom". "Mommy". Like a little kid. Jamie was at a loss as to why he'd used such a juvenile pronunciation. It was like he was striving to make his speech match his underwear. A big kid indeed. Even the way he held his fork was very immature; all four appendages of his paw wrapped around the stainless steel shaft, as if trying to shovel the pancakes into his mouth. This, however, was not unorthodox for Jamie. He'd always gripped a spoon or fork in that fashion. And with that grip, he took in the first mouthful of pancakes he'd had in months.

Angels were breakdancing on Jamie's tongue, boring their heads into the taste buds as they spun. So delectable was the meal, that Jamie almost wanted to puke it back up, not for reasons linked to bulimia, but because the taste seemed too close to heaven to allow him to keep on living. Nothing, absolutely nothing could compare to these syrup saturated flowers of flour. Truly, the nectar of God.

"Easy there, little guy," Carwyn said to Jamie, who was eating like it was his life's only mission (in many respects, that was actually the case). "Save room for dessert."

"Dirssurt?," Jamie questioned through cheeks bulging with mush.

"Yep, dessert. On the house. You'll love it. It's nice and buttery."

With a gulp, aided by skim milk, the bunny spoke, "Something buttery? What is it?"

"Oh, I know what you're talking about," Sheila said.

"What, what are we gonna eat?," Jamie cried out, feeling left out, slow, and stupid.

Jostling his pancakes with plastic spatula, a smile crept over Carwyn's face. "Eating? No. No. We'll be inhaling our dessert right off the foil."

"Holy shit!," Jamie bellowed. "Crack?" A nod from Carwyn affirmed the bunny's hopes. Crack cocaine. And if it was as pure as Carwyn led the boy to believe the previous night, Jamie knew that his heart better put on it's motorcycle helmet. He'd be making his job debut at the "Cha-Ching" driving in the fastlane.