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Commission for 
philistine! An ambitious and driven businessman, Dirk, takes a drastic step to push his career forward, with dire consequences for his waistline.
Co-written with
lunostophiles!
Dirk had never understood office birthdays. They wasted time, something everyone but Dirk seemed happy to do, but more than that they were forced exercises in mingling. Why the fake family atmosphere? Why the constant small talk? And why, oh why, was this the third one this week? Dirk looked down at the little square of sheet cake that sat on the tiny paper plate foisted upon him by one of the HR women.
“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” said someone as they clapped a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. A soft-bodied, middle-aged donkey stood next to Dirk, grinning with a spectacular set of teeth. Edgar Prest, Dirk’s leftside cubicle neighbor and a man too jovial for his own good.
“Who asks that, Ed?” Dirk said, pushing the hand off his shoulder.
“I asks that! And I asks this, too— you going to be a sourpuss and throw away your slice this time, too?”
Dirk’s eyebrows shot up. He had been sure no one was watching before he threw away Monday and Wednesday’s birthday cakes.
“You’re not that slick, cat. You on a diet or something? You could just say no to Bernice when she offers it next time,” Ed said, taking big forkfuls of his own cake slice.
“Just don’t like cake. I’m not hungry, anyway,” Dirk said. “Office birthdays are a waste anyway.”
“You are a sourpuss. Eat the cake, Dirk, you’re not going to lose anything by it. All your big business moves will still be there in five minutes.”
“First of all, how dare you. Secondly, I want to at least look like I’m participating.”
“Then eat the cake,” Ed said again.
“Why are you so adamant about this? No one cares,” Dirk sneered, walking to the trash can. Edgar followed behind and grabbed the black panther’s forearm. Dirk nearly yanked his arm back but instead just met Edgar’s gaze. Edgar’s hand let go, then became a ‘wait’ sign, fingers splayed and palm forward.
“I know you want a promotion, Dirk. I know you work overtime almost every day. I know you want management to think you’re a good choice for a promotion. Management here, though? They eat that family culture stuff up, so even if you find all this pretty superfluous, they don’t. If you don’t look like a team player they will not consider you a team leader. Do you get what I’m saying, Dirk?”
Dirk’s face tensed from jaw to ear. He fought back several less work-friendly emotions and landed on a huffy kind of acquiescence. “So?” he asked, softening his stance back down.
“So,” Ed said, taking a fresh fork and stabbing it into Dirk’s cake, “eat the cake when it’s here. Take a second slice, chat up the celebrant.”
“But—”
“Just do it,” Edgar said, rolling his eyes. Dirk cut off a wedge of his cake and put it into his mouth. What had Ma Bailey said? Food could still be addictive? Well, he’d been no food addict before his hunger-free life. Dirk slid the cake off the fork with his mouth and gave it a swallow. Dirk then waited, as if he thought he’d explode--but no, he was intact. He also found the taste of the cake surprisingly soothing, the vanilla’s warm dark notes like a soft drone with the sugar atop prickly and sweet. Dirk had had vanilla sheet cake before, but this hit like a ray of sunlight after a week of rain.
“Is this store-bought?” Dirk asked. Edgar laughed like he hadn’t expected that to come out of the panther.
“A fancy store. Some frou-frou bakery Bernice swears by, something with a French name in cursive.”
“It’s good. Always thought it was grocery store cakes at these things,” Dirk said, finishing off another bite and going in for a third quick enough. It wasn’t just the flavor, the sensation of his tongue lighting up with the taste like a new kind of motor-revving. “I’ll have to ask her where it is. You know. In case I need to get a birthday cake for someone else.”
Edgar rolled his eyes. He walked Dirk away from the trash can and meandered around the kitchen with him. Along the way, Dirk slipped over to the remnants of the cake and snagged himself a second piece, taking it with him back to his desk for later. He finished the second wedge quickly and tucked into work, losing himself in the data flow. Dirk lost hours, vaguely waving when Edgar said goodnight to him, and only coming out of his work fugue a few minutes past six o’clock.
Dirk repeated his shut-down from last night and was just about to take the elevator down when he noticed there was still leftover cake in the kitchen. Someone probably had left it for the cleaning staff, but there was a whole third of it left. Dirk’s finger hovered over the call button, ready to go, but the sparkly sensation of the cake’s flavors crept back up over Dirk’s consciousness like a warm wind. One more piece wouldn’t do anything; he’d taken in exactly zero calories in the past four days otherwise.
Slice met plate met fork met mouth. Dirk chuffed happily as the strong taste vibrations rang around his skull again, each bite a strike against a church bell. When the slice was gone, Dirk grabbed himself another and continued the process, riding the arc of lightning he was now on. Another slice had to be eaten, and another, and another. Dirk’s lack of hunger also seemed to come with a lack of satiation, for food now was a purely experiential pleasure and one far more immense than any drug.
Dirk pushed the final slice of cake into his mouth with his fingers, licking his black fur clean of the white icing. He felt like he was hovering on a cloud, bathing in angelsong. When he went for another slice and found none, that cloud dissipated and Dirk felt like he was falling through the sky. “I ate all of it…?” Dirk said, breathlessly. He put a hand down on his stomach and squeezed, feeling the tautness of half a sheet cake but also a softness that he didn’t have that morning. A spike of terror tried to shoot through him but, surprisingly, something stopped it. It was the left-over high from the sugar, tempering Dirk’s knee-jerk efficiency.
philistine! An ambitious and driven businessman, Dirk, takes a drastic step to push his career forward, with dire consequences for his waistline.Co-written with
lunostophiles!Dirk had never understood office birthdays. They wasted time, something everyone but Dirk seemed happy to do, but more than that they were forced exercises in mingling. Why the fake family atmosphere? Why the constant small talk? And why, oh why, was this the third one this week? Dirk looked down at the little square of sheet cake that sat on the tiny paper plate foisted upon him by one of the HR women.
“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” said someone as they clapped a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. A soft-bodied, middle-aged donkey stood next to Dirk, grinning with a spectacular set of teeth. Edgar Prest, Dirk’s leftside cubicle neighbor and a man too jovial for his own good.
“Who asks that, Ed?” Dirk said, pushing the hand off his shoulder.
“I asks that! And I asks this, too— you going to be a sourpuss and throw away your slice this time, too?”
Dirk’s eyebrows shot up. He had been sure no one was watching before he threw away Monday and Wednesday’s birthday cakes.
“You’re not that slick, cat. You on a diet or something? You could just say no to Bernice when she offers it next time,” Ed said, taking big forkfuls of his own cake slice.
“Just don’t like cake. I’m not hungry, anyway,” Dirk said. “Office birthdays are a waste anyway.”
“You are a sourpuss. Eat the cake, Dirk, you’re not going to lose anything by it. All your big business moves will still be there in five minutes.”
“First of all, how dare you. Secondly, I want to at least look like I’m participating.”
“Then eat the cake,” Ed said again.
“Why are you so adamant about this? No one cares,” Dirk sneered, walking to the trash can. Edgar followed behind and grabbed the black panther’s forearm. Dirk nearly yanked his arm back but instead just met Edgar’s gaze. Edgar’s hand let go, then became a ‘wait’ sign, fingers splayed and palm forward.
“I know you want a promotion, Dirk. I know you work overtime almost every day. I know you want management to think you’re a good choice for a promotion. Management here, though? They eat that family culture stuff up, so even if you find all this pretty superfluous, they don’t. If you don’t look like a team player they will not consider you a team leader. Do you get what I’m saying, Dirk?”
Dirk’s face tensed from jaw to ear. He fought back several less work-friendly emotions and landed on a huffy kind of acquiescence. “So?” he asked, softening his stance back down.
“So,” Ed said, taking a fresh fork and stabbing it into Dirk’s cake, “eat the cake when it’s here. Take a second slice, chat up the celebrant.”
“But—”
“Just do it,” Edgar said, rolling his eyes. Dirk cut off a wedge of his cake and put it into his mouth. What had Ma Bailey said? Food could still be addictive? Well, he’d been no food addict before his hunger-free life. Dirk slid the cake off the fork with his mouth and gave it a swallow. Dirk then waited, as if he thought he’d explode--but no, he was intact. He also found the taste of the cake surprisingly soothing, the vanilla’s warm dark notes like a soft drone with the sugar atop prickly and sweet. Dirk had had vanilla sheet cake before, but this hit like a ray of sunlight after a week of rain.
“Is this store-bought?” Dirk asked. Edgar laughed like he hadn’t expected that to come out of the panther.
“A fancy store. Some frou-frou bakery Bernice swears by, something with a French name in cursive.”
“It’s good. Always thought it was grocery store cakes at these things,” Dirk said, finishing off another bite and going in for a third quick enough. It wasn’t just the flavor, the sensation of his tongue lighting up with the taste like a new kind of motor-revving. “I’ll have to ask her where it is. You know. In case I need to get a birthday cake for someone else.”
Edgar rolled his eyes. He walked Dirk away from the trash can and meandered around the kitchen with him. Along the way, Dirk slipped over to the remnants of the cake and snagged himself a second piece, taking it with him back to his desk for later. He finished the second wedge quickly and tucked into work, losing himself in the data flow. Dirk lost hours, vaguely waving when Edgar said goodnight to him, and only coming out of his work fugue a few minutes past six o’clock.
Dirk repeated his shut-down from last night and was just about to take the elevator down when he noticed there was still leftover cake in the kitchen. Someone probably had left it for the cleaning staff, but there was a whole third of it left. Dirk’s finger hovered over the call button, ready to go, but the sparkly sensation of the cake’s flavors crept back up over Dirk’s consciousness like a warm wind. One more piece wouldn’t do anything; he’d taken in exactly zero calories in the past four days otherwise.
Slice met plate met fork met mouth. Dirk chuffed happily as the strong taste vibrations rang around his skull again, each bite a strike against a church bell. When the slice was gone, Dirk grabbed himself another and continued the process, riding the arc of lightning he was now on. Another slice had to be eaten, and another, and another. Dirk’s lack of hunger also seemed to come with a lack of satiation, for food now was a purely experiential pleasure and one far more immense than any drug.
Dirk pushed the final slice of cake into his mouth with his fingers, licking his black fur clean of the white icing. He felt like he was hovering on a cloud, bathing in angelsong. When he went for another slice and found none, that cloud dissipated and Dirk felt like he was falling through the sky. “I ate all of it…?” Dirk said, breathlessly. He put a hand down on his stomach and squeezed, feeling the tautness of half a sheet cake but also a softness that he didn’t have that morning. A spike of terror tried to shoot through him but, surprisingly, something stopped it. It was the left-over high from the sugar, tempering Dirk’s knee-jerk efficiency.
Category Story / Fat Furs
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 176.2 kB
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