The Donuts of Doom

By M.E. Brines

In a world where pastry is a controlled substance and a layer cake is considered a weapon of mass destruction, one lone figure stands ready, rolling pin in hand, to strike a blow for frosting and freedom.

Prin is an orphaned dwarf raised by humans. He flees a HealthWatch raid on his parent’s bakery that leaves his stepfather dead and his stepmother sentenced to the treadmill.
Accompanied by a disreputable “wizard” with dubious powers, a gnome with an anger management problem and the village idiot and his loyal and incontinent dog, Prin begins a whimsical journey through a steampunk world of airship pirates, steam cannon, traction trains, clockwork horses, amorous windup robots, vast herds of porcuswine, cannibalistic munchkins, dwarf armies, stoned elves, people who hate clowns, and a fat man on a bicycle.

Through battles, plots and counter-plots, a hint of sorcery, and numerous pastries, can a young baker with a shadowy past discover the recipe to overturn mad Doctor Travaculus and give people back their just desserts? Find out in The Donuts of Doom!

The Donuts of Doom is in the same category as much of the writing of Terry Pratchett and James P. Blaylock. It deals with serious issues in a humorous and whimsical manner. And did I mention recipes? Recipes for all the cookies, biscuits, hotcakes, pies and donuts mentioned in the book are provided in an appendix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.E. Brines
• Release date: Oct 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466186903

M.E. Brines

M.E. Brines spent the Cold War assembling atomic artillery shells and preparing to unleash the Apocalypse (and has a medal to prove it.) But when peace broke out, he turned his fevered, paranoid imagination to other pursuits. He spends his spare time scribbling another steampunk romance occult adventure novel, which despite certain rumors absolutely DOES NOT involve time-traveling Nazi vampires! A former member of the British Society for Psychical Research, he is the author of three dozen books, e-books, chapbooks and pamphlets on esoteric subjects such as alien abduction, alien hybrids, astrology, the Bible, biblical prophecy, Christian discipleship, conspiracies, esoteric Nazism, the Falun Gong, Knights Templar, magick, and UFOs, his work has also appeared in Challenge magazine, Weird Tales, The Outer Darkness, Tales of the Talisman, and Empirical magazine.

Book preview

The Donuts of Doom

By M.E. Brines

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by M.E. Brines

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Contents

The Donuts of Doom

Appendix – The recipes from the story

Porcuswine Biscuits

Elfin Waybread

Dwarf Bread

Cookie’s All Purpose Fry Batter

Cookie’s Fried Pies

Cookie’s Gnomish Hotcakes

Donuts of Doom

Almond Crescent Cookies of Peace

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Chapter One - A pink weapon of mass destruction

It was midnight, what some call the Witching Hour, but as far as Prin was concerned it was just time to make the donuts. He was putting the finishing touches to a three-layer birthday cake while his father, a big man in a tall white poofy hat, watched as a clockwork mixing machine kneaded a lump of khaki-colored dough weighing almost as much as Prin. The big hook spun, CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

How many tonight, Dad?

Two hundred dozen at least. We’ve got a big order. Some kind of guild convention or something.

Prin’s Dad threw a handful of flour onto the big table. Then turned and switched off the mixer. Throwing a lever, he lowered the big bowl. After a moment of struggle he removed the mixing hook and wrestled the lump of dough onto the table. His biceps bulged like those of a weightlifter.

Without warning the outside door rebounded off the stone wall with a dull BOOM and a squad of HealthWatch inquisitors swarmed inside. They took up a formation in a semi-circle on both sides of the door. Their formerly white uniform coats had become a mottled gray but their well-oiled crossbows, cudgels and blunderbusses gleamed.

Prin’s parents froze, his mother in the act of spooning meringue onto a lemon custard pie, one of a dozen on a table covered with similar pies. Eyeing the intruders’ weapons, his father carefully raised his sticky hands over his head.

A short, nasty-looking inquisitor with three days stubble and a jagged scar across his face stepped over to a large wooden bin, lifted the lid and glanced inside. It was heaped with a crystalline white powder. He moistened a finger, stirred it around the contents of the bin and then touched it to his tongue. Then he nodded to his companions with a satisfied smirk.

Prin’s father shook his head in wonderment. Of course it’s sugar, you idiot. What did you expect?

The inquisitor ignored him, waving instead to a comrade standing by the door.

Tell Doctor T, the place is secure and we’ve found contraband.

Yes, sir! He threw him a rudimentary salute and rushed outside.

Prin faced them, pastry bag in hand. A tendril of pink icing dangled from the tip.

A pimply-faced inquisitor chewing a wad of gum aimed a crossbow at him and shouted, You! Kid! Drop the weapon!

Prin sneered. Don’t call me kid, boy. At least I’m old enough to shave.

A crossbow bolt snatched the pastry bag from his hand. Pink icing splattered the tall shelves behind.

Those shelves lined the rear wall from flagstone floor to the casement windows high above, covered in dark curtains to keep light from the bakery cellars from revealing nocturnal activities. The sturdy shelves were stacked with boxes of spices from faraway lands and smelled like Grandma’s kitchen at Christmas. Ranked bottles of food coloring reflected a rainbow of hues across untidy heaps of cookie cutters in every possible shape. Many were dusty and used only once a year for particular holidays. A large ceramic jug of molasses nested atop a black halo of stickiness.

The scarred inquisitor put a hand on the kid’s shoulder as he struggled to reload his crossbow. Hey now, he said. Enough of that. We’re not authorized to be killin’ without provocation.

But he had a weapon!

Prin looked up from counting to make sure all of his fingers were still attached.

A pastry bag? How is that a weapon? Am I supposed to squirt icing down your throat and choke you with it?

Get down off that stool and keep your hands in the air, demanded the older inquisitor.

Kinda difficult to do both of those at the same time, muttered Prin, climbing down from his tall stool. As he did the face of a sugar clown leered back up at him from the birthday cake.

Shut yer yap and put yer hands in the air, Shorty, the young inquisitor said, nocking a replacement bolt into his crossbow.

Prin looked up at him. You ought to be more respectful, kid.

Why? You gonna punch me in the nose or something? Now that you’re off that high stool of yours, you can’t even reach my chin, Shorty.

You could always bend down and let me take a swing at it.

Shut up! He jabbed the crossbow at Prin’s face. Prin took a step back against the worktable and raised his hands over his head.

A moment later, an ominous figure strode through the open door. As he entered the cellar, the other inquisitors straightened themselves, standing a little taller.

The newcomer was painfully thin. The only hair on his head, other than a solitary corkscrew-shaped straggler poking from one ear, was a hint of moustache. A pair of pince-nez glasses perched upon a huge beak of a nose. Unlike the others, his pristine white lab coat gleamed in the light. Prin thought he looked like something out a children’s storybook: an enormous white snow hawk with glasses.

His frosty stare took in the whole room, lingering on the icing-splattered shelving before coming to rest on the stocky baker and his flour-dusted apron.

Ah, he said, with a voice like broken glass. We meet at last. For far too long you have eluded my grasp.

You’ve no right to break in here and threaten us so, the baker said. We have all sixteen proper licenses. And we’ve passed inspection any number of times. But his attempt to relax his hands held high over his head only resulted in a loud CLICK as an inquisitor cocked a blunderbuss.

The thin man simply held up an index finger garbed in a slick black rubber glove. He turned to the scarred inquisitor.

Chief Inquisitor Bailey.

Yes, Doctor Travaculus.

Tell me what you’ve discovered.

The Chief Inquisitor smiled. Well, half smiled, anyway. A lot of his teeth were missing.

What we have here, sir, are violations of the Pure Food Act including several hundredweight of pure crystal sugar, a cake, multiple pies and, if I am not mistaken, that dough there is intended for the illicit production of donuts. He gestured at the dough and then to a cauldron of oil bubbling quietly in a corner over a fire.

Donuts! Exclaimed Doctor Travaculus. Corruption! Filth! He jabbed an accusing finger at the baker. Do you realize the poisons you purvey? Why, donuts contain four of the Five Deadly Food Groups. He listed them on his fingers. Grease, sugar, salt, and white flour. If you could figure some way to work alcohol into the mix you’d have the very Devil’s food itself!

The baker grinned. Then you should try our tiramisu donuts. They’ve got rum and coffee in the cream filling. Yum.

Roy! His wife exclaimed.

He shook his head. Dear, what’s the point of denying anything? They’ve caught us red-handed. He faced his accuser. Well, what’s it going to be Doctor T? Confiscation of all my ingredients -- again? You can’t stop us. People want more than those government-approved bricks of sawdust you call bread. They crave taste and a little sweetness to liven up their lives.

Doctor Travaculus sneered, Like that travesty of the pure food laws you invented, the carrot cake? You lard up a perfectly healthy vegetable with sugar and spices and cream cheese….

And raisins, added an inquisitor with a wistful grin.

The doctor snapped, Chief Inquisitor, put that man on report.

Yes, sir!

The doctor turned back to his primary victim. You should have stuck with the broccoli tarts or bean curd Danish on the approved pastry list.

My word, the baker laughed. I don’t think I’ve ever sold a single one of either. They all went stale and straight into the trash. Who’d want to eat that muck?

That… muck, as you so elegantly put it, is good for you. It contains all the essential nutriments and fiberal essences necessary for good health.

I wouldn’t feed ‘em to a dog.

No matter. But this time you’ve gone too far. You’re going to be made an example of. Yes, all your ingredients will be seized.

A pair of inquisitors shared a grin. One licked his lips anticipating the disposal of the cake. But Doctor Travaculus continued.

But that isn’t all. The Princess has toughened the penalties for violations of the law. As a repeat offender, and a flagrant one at that, ALL your property is now forfeit to the crown and you and your family will be arrested and put through a course of intensive dieting and exercise carefully designed to cleanse both body and soul!

No! The baker cried. Not the oatmeal enemas!

Yes, Doctor Travaculus grinned, his hairless head like a leering skull. Although it’s NOT an enema. It’s a colonic, pronounced co-lon-ic, because it’s like a tonic for your colon. It’s good for you. You won’t believe how much nasty crap you’ve got trapped up inside there until it all comes pouring out at once.

The baker clutched at his chest and moaned as the doctor continued.

Oh, it won’t be all that bad. You’ll also get a lot of time on my patented self-propelling treadmill, just miles and miles a day. We’ll have you slimmed down in no time. His gleeful leer switched to a snarl. Or none of you will never see a ray of sunlight again!

The baker’s eyes rolled back in his head. He went boneless and crashed to the floor.

His wife dropped her spoon and made a move toward him, but a nearby inquisitor grabbed her arm and jerked her back.

Hey you! None of that.

The baker lay motionless, a line of spittle oozing slowly from a corner of his mouth.

Prin screamed at the doctor. You monster! You’ve given him a heart attack!

The doctor grinned again. Twasn’t me that stuffed those puffy cheeks full of cream and grease. ‘Tis the karma of his own crimes against the public that brought him low. That and arteries clogged with tiramisu, he sneered. But at least this’ll save me running him to death on that treadmill. Then he laughed.

His laugh started out low, somewhere far deeper in his bony chest than it seemed to have room for, as if from beneath some hidden musty crypt. And then it echoed around the catacombs a bit before bursting out past his thin, bloodless lips like the battle cry of the ancient dead, with just a hint of sadistic amusement. He laughed long and loud.

You bastard! Prin cried.

Without thinking, he snatched up the clown cake with both hands and threw it.

His aim was true, but the doctor sidestepped and the cake hit an inquisitor standing behind him, exploding on his face in a burst of pink frosting.

For a moment there was silence. Then, like a whale breaching the surface of a pink-frosted sea, the inquisitor coughed, blowing chunks of cake from his mouth, then smacked his lips.

Mmmm. Strawberry cream.

All amusement gone from his voice, Doctor Travaculus jabbed at Prin with a single rubber-gloved finger.

You are a dead man.

A pair of inquisitors brought their blunderbusses to their shoulders, aiming. But the voice of the Chief Inquisitor halted the final twitch of their trigger fingers.

Now wait just a minute, boss. We can’t get away with killin’ people in cold blood like this. Not yet anyway.

Doctor T waved away his protest. He’s resisting arrest, and assaulted an officer of the law. That’s attempted murder.

Prin scowling, with balled up fists demanded, With a cake?

The doctor grinned again, leering like a death’s head. Yes, a cake. And how many would that cake normally serve?

Prin blinked at him a moment before answering. Uh, I dunno, it’s pretty big. With standard-sized slices, probably sixteen.

Sixteen, said the doctor. Did you hear that, Chief Inquisitor Bailey? Wouldn’t you say that many potential victims makes it a weapon of mass destruction?

The chief inspector nodded. That’s a hangin’ offense, innit?

Indeed. He smiled like the Grim Reaper himself.

Prin’s mother shouted, Run, Prin, run! Then snatched up a pie from the table. The inquisitor gripping her other arm took it straight in the face and staggered back waving his arms like a drunken windmill.

The second struck the doctor in the chest, spattering raw meringue and lemon custard. Flailing his arms and rushing about like someone set him on fire, the doctor began to scream.

GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!

In the confusion Prin confronted the young inquisitor. His crossbow was aimed at Prin’s head but flying custard distracted his attention. Prin lashed out with his fists at the closest targets, treating the kid’s family jewels like a boxing bag. The kid doubled over with a groan, dropping his weapon, which went off when it hit the floor. The crossbow bolt caromed off the cauldron of hot oil and hit Chief Inquisitor Bailey in the buttock.

Yeii! He yowled, grabbing his wound with both hands, disproving a deeply held belief shared by many of his subordinates.

With his nose now in range, Prin gave the kid another punch for good measure, then turned and ran for the shelves, scrambling up them like a monkey. In no time he was at the top and unlatching the casement window. A quick glance below showed the doctor had fled outside where he threw himself into a nearby horse trough. Meanwhile three inquisitors cornered his mother. With a pie in each hand she challenged them.

All right boys, who’s next?

Meanwhile, two others followed Prin up the shelves.

He kicked over a box of ground cinnamon into their faces. They screamed, clutched at their burning eyes and fell backward off the shelves. Then with one last, forlorn look at his father lying motionless on the floor, Prin wiggled out through the casement window.

As he scrambled to his feet, a voice demanded, Hey you!

He turned to see three inquisitors in gray coats standing by the backdoor to the bakery. Each carried a club the length of his arm. And they were all staring at him.

Prin took off in the opposite direction with them in pursuit. With a bit of a lead, he turned from the gaslight illuminated streets and led them through the back alleys. Dodging around heaps of refuse stinking in the muggy air, he jumped a stack of bricks laid out behind a building under repair.

A moment later he heard a muffled cry from behind as one of his pursuers failed to clear the hurdle.

With a grin he dashed across a boulevard lined with elegant townhouses. Outside one were parked two horse-drawn carriages and a steam carriage gleaming with chrome. A saddled horse was tied to a lamppost nearby.

Prin ducked underneath a parked carriage. A servant in noble livery and a tricorn hat dozing in the driver’s seat jerked awake as the horses neighed and pawed the cobblestones.

Hey! What! the servant said, glancing around wildly, startled by a pair of club-wielding inquisitors who ran around his carriage before disappearing down a nearby alley in pursuit of a shadowy figure.

Damn inquisitors, he muttered. You’d think if they were so interested in a body’s welfare they’d not disturb my rest. A moment later he was asleep again.

Sturdy stone and brick buildings soon gave way to timber and worse as they pursued Prin into the more densely populated part of town. In the distance he could hear the chiming of bells from ships in the harbor.

The sounds of police whistles and shouts of stop in the name of the law had subsided as his pursuers became winded. But behind he could hear the clatter of their hobnails on the cobbles growing nearer as his short legs couldn’t maintain his lead.

Rounding a corner, he slid to a halt. A dollop of cold sweat ran down his spine. The alley ended only yards ahead in a brick wall. A small dog of indeterminate breed stood nearby, eyeing the blank wall with the kind of stare most dogs reserve for prowlers. His floppy ears were longer than his stumpy legs. Against the wall stood a pair of trash barrels. One lay empty on its side. A beggar about Prin’s age picked through the other assembling a meal. He looked up.

Hiya, Prin! Got any old donuts?

Prin ignored him, eying a wall that was much too high for his short legs to jump.

And from behind the sound of clattering hobnails and labored breathing came ever closer….

Chapter Two - Treason!

French doors framed in gauzy curtains stood open to the moonlight. The sound of surf breaking in the distance drifted up from the gardens along with the scent of lilac. In the distance the towers of the Royal Castle could be seen watching over the mouth of the harbor, the progress of a solitary guard traceable by observing the slow course of his lantern along the walls. The waterfront was dark, the dockside taverns shuttered and empty. Only city watchmen and those up to no good walked the city streets this time of night.

Two candles and the light of a fire illuminated the room. Four people sat around a carved oak table.

Seated closest to the fire was a thin man with white hair and thick spectacles, he wore a heavy robe despite the muggy air coming through the open doors.

Across the table from the oldster was a woman in a dressing gown, her hair nevertheless carefully arranged, her cheeks rouged.

To her left, a portly gentleman dressed in a blue velvet townsuit wore the golden chain of the office of Lord Mayor.

The fourth individual was a man in a plain white cassock edged in gold. The top of his head was bare as if the hair couldn’t stand the altitude, the tree line as sharp as the barber’s razor could make it.

A fifth person in denim trousers and a plaid shirt standing by the fire tossed another piece of wood onto it. A large ember bounced out of the fireplace toward the lush carpet. He stuck out a foot shod in a well-worn boot of tanned alleygobbler hide, kicking the ember back where it belonged. As he reached for a poker, the quavery voice of the oldster complained, Why couldn’t we at least have brought a servant or two to handle chores like that?

The other poked at the fire. The whole point of meeting here and now was to keep it secret. Not much chance of that once you get servants involved.

The countess scowled and put a hand to her brow. Servants? If you don’t want them talking, just tell them to keep their mouths shut or they’ll be whipped. A good whipping or two would have saved us simply HOURS of sleep. And I need my beauty rest.

You certainly do, Milady, said the Lord Mayor.

She glared back. And just WHAT do you mean by that?

He shrugged and smiled at her. Why, exactly what YOU meant by it, of course.

She gave him the dirty look she usually reserved for the first level of servant discipline, which he ignored. He knew his position was safe as long as the guild masters kept voting for him in every election. And that would never change as long as he kept sending lavish gifts their way, paid for by the taxpayers, of course.

The man with the poker left it leaning against the edge of the fireplace and headed back to the table, taking a seat at the head of the table.

The bald-headed man looked toward his companions and inquired, My lords and Lady, now that we’re all assembled and comfortable, I’d like to know the reason for being summoned at such an ungodly hour.

The Lord Mayor gestured at the man in flannel silently eyeing the fire. Ask the duke there. He’s the one called us out in the middle of the night.

Aye! The old man by the fire said. Then glanced around the room taking in the décor: frilly curtains, doily-protected chairs and portraits of seascapes done slightly out of focus. With no sideboard in sight he squinted through his spectacles at the countess. Where can a man get a spot of port on a cold night like this?

Wine just makes you fat, she replied.

He eyed her well-padded robe. It certainly seems to have worked for you. What’s the matter? Drank it all?

She opened her mouth for a counterblast when the duke in the flannel shirt raised both hands, like a city watchman directing traffic on market day.

Enough! He said. I called you all here because it’s the only time the Royal Council can meet without Doctor Travaculus shoving in that big nose of his. I have it on good authority he’s right now leading a raid on a local cakehouse. With him and his HealthWatch busy elsewhere, we can talk freely.

About what? Asked the Lord Mayor.

About the way he has beguiled our fair Princess and infringed the ancient freedoms of this great kingdom.

Freedom? The oldster roused himself in his chair. Nobody’s lost any freedom. You’re talking rubbish, and way past my bedtime, too.

Nay, Milords, the duke countered. But this Pure Food Act is creeping tyranny pure and simple. Anything tasty is rationed and what food is allowed in the markets is terrible. Why, that non-alcoholic beer is hardly better than warm horse…. Here he glanced at the countess and finished, lemonade.

She snorted. Hah! Freedom is a good enough idea, but only for the right sort of people. Commoners just won’t do what’s good for them. Somebody’s got to take care of them, and that task falls to us. We’re the only ones who know what’s good for them.

The oldster nodded. Aye. blood will out, they say.

The duke glared at him. My family line may not go back as far as your distinguished forbearers… he began.

The Lord Mayor held up a ring-bedecked hand. "Gentlemen. Nobody is calling into question anyone’s right to be represented on this council. Our society permits those with talent to rise to the top regardless of the shortness of their