My Dearest Petunia,

I write to you, my love, in the most horrific of circumstances. Underneath my desk, amongst the Cheez-It crumbs of snack past, I hide. I reminisce of simpler times before the Godless chaos. Our couch. Once I bemoaned it. Now seems like the apex of Swedish engineering. My body perfectly imprinted into the cushions. The cat hair added extra comfort. I dream of this so I can remember who I was. A time before Cake Day.

In the coldest western quarter of our floor I sit huddled up. Insurance polices, my only protection from the insane building management’s thermostats. My mind betrays me. The scent of Pad Thai waltzes into my cubicle. My mouth waters. How did it get here? Lemon Grass doesn’t deliver this far out. Perhaps a demonic trick to lure out the last survivors.

Logic no longer reins.

Linda from Commercial Litigation’s body sprawled feet from my encampment brings me tumbling back to reality. Her harsh pilgrimage from the cold Northern Canadian Tundra did not prepare her for this place. She stood no chance. There are no order in this Floridian law firm. I pray this is just another of her 3:00 pm naps. The crash is real. It takes many victims.

Do great men understand the power of their actions? Did Pat foresee the carnage that laid before his feet? One tiny incident to topple this once great firm. Why Pat? Why? You thought one sheet cake was enough for both floors? Yes, Carrot cake is filling! Is it enough to feed 150 lost souls? No! I scream it loudly. No! Desperate people hungry for a lick of sugar. Now it’s department against department. Cubicle mate against cubicle mate. When will it end? Will it ever end?

Please, Petunia, write back to me of life’s trivialities. It feels so long since I’ve rested my head at our home. How long have I been gone? 6 hours? 8 hours? Time on the battlefield isn’t linear. Hell does not have iCal.

I do not know if you could ever forgive me for the barbary I partook in, my Petunia. My fingers around Fish Stink Dan’s throat as I reach for the last spork of butter cream frosting. I stare at my hands now. I don’t recognize them. I fear I am lost forever.

I must relay the series of events that transpired. Hopefully through your naïve ears I can find a way to cleanse my soul.

An email like the Horn of Gabriel beckoned in my inbox. A celebratory cake from Wright’s Bakery sat in the 36th floor break room. Gail entered her 20th year of service. We knew nothing of our future. All pure lambs in the pasture. It started simply. Not Fat Anymore Clint from IT took a large first piece. He wanted extra frosting and the flower in the corner. He loved those flowers. The room grew tense. Clint filled the room with gasoline. Short-ish Beverly lit the match. She claimed a piece so massive, the spatula bent. As the cake landed on the paper plate, we thought of happier times. Christmas parties. The time Carol brought her newborn in. We held onto those memories to shield us from God’s judgement.

The violence occurred savagely. The details remain blurred. Through the haze of artificially spiked energy, a few images take shape. My hands covered with blood and frosting. Spears thrown. Nun-chucks swung. Shirley, the sweet mormon from accounting swung her battle axe with the experience of a 15 year employee. Her eyes dead. She has eaten many cakes. Battle was not new to her. The woman who quietly watched me leave early was long gone. Only a hungry warrior with low blood sugar remained.

I crawled under a table to avoid Sometimes Beard Gregg’s roundhouse kicks. I found a young boy. No older than 19. An intern from the local community college. He came for experience but learned too much.

Tears slide down his innocent face. His voice barely above a whisper.

“What do I do with this?”

The tiniest piece of cake rested in his palm. So small, it was a choking hazard for the child. Yet, not a single drop of blood tarnished it. A rare pristine slice. His body quaked.

“I’m so scared.”

I ended the boy’s life.

Who is this monster I’ve become? Is this my truest self? You lose yourself on the battlefield. No humans. Only warriors. We all just want cake. So simple, yet so complicated.

Petunia. My sweet Petunia. I will get back to you. Wait for me.

If you hear word of my death I will like you to marry our neighbor, Cliff. He may be older and past his prime but he is an honest man. He will take care of you respectfully.

I love you, Petunia. Please record tonight’s Jimmy Fallon if I am not home in time. Justin Timberlake is the guest. Those two have fantastic chemistry.

Your’s always and truly,

Julien Llerena

Office Services

P.S I ask one last thing of you. Remember me as the man we knew I could become. The loving boyfriend, the brave son, and clever meme creator. Let my afterlife take refuge amongst the internet. Spread the humor to the world my beauty. Let me not be forgotten.

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Julien Llerena

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