Sugar Cookie Collection: Baker's Paradise

By Cory Nungesser

Three Baker's Paradise adventures in a single volume! Follow John the blue-clad baker and his friends as they take on dangerous, exciting missions where John will need to use all of the tools (and pastries) at his disposal!

 

When it comes to being a CIA agent, John isn't the best man for the job, but he is the best in the bakery. Mutant ants, funky cookies, caffeine rushes and property taxes all await John as he attempts to restore order to a chaotic bakery that can hardly stand on its own. He is joined by Dan, a possum-haired young man who smells like an exhausted dumpster, and Hubble, a timid robot who is trying his best to become a human. Determined to prove himself, John will put himself in any danger it takes to complete the mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cory Nungesser
• Release date: Mar 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393173892

Book preview

For my family and closest friends, who have supported me in all of my endeavors and helped my dreams become reality.

—-

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

BOOK 1

Baker’s Paradise

or How Giant Ants Almost Took Over the World

BAKER’S PARADISE - CHAPTER ONE

––––––––

It was the year of 1998.

A chill wind howled across the waterscape of the Bering Sea. The stars were in hiding, leaving the midnight sky black as tar. Not even the moon could be bothered to bring light to the world in the sun’s absence. Murky azure waves pounced and roared in rebellion at the infinite darkness above. It was among such freezing waters that a single island stood tall and steadfast among an outward spiral of other, smaller isles. With its height, it proclaimed dominance over the ocean, yet acknowledged the heavens above as slightly superior. On this island, there was a top-secret, maximum security facility used by the United States government in order to research and develop advanced weapon technologies. The secluded location combined with the natural and artificial defensive measures would protect it from the prying eyes and hands of outsiders.

Or so they thought.

With November’s cold farewell and December’s even colder arrival, terrorists from a Russian private military company were able to successfully organize an infiltration and subsequent takeover of the island facility. The automatic defense systems had been taken offline, leaving the scientists and researchers within the complex helpless against the intruders. Once the Russian mercenaries had established control, they then forced the scientists to continue development on their current project: a weapon that would revolutionize warfare forever, but this time under Russian orders.

Two weeks went by. No reports were made from the facility to the White House. The Secretary of Defense began to suspect that something was amiss, and contacted the United States Central Intelligence Agency. Reports from the outside indicated that the facility had indeed been overtaken by a military corporation affiliated with Russia. The vitals of the scientists came up positive in the most recent bio-scan, but this only made Washington more concerned. Within hours, a plan was devised to send a highly skilled operative on a one-man job to infiltrate the complex and investigate the situation.

Three hours later, the operative known simply as John managed to sneak inside and found himself in a spacious corridor. He silently paced through the cold, callous hallways of the interior with his gloved fingers gripping an M9 handgun. Besides his lightly armored stealth suit, the handgun was his only means of defense. John always kept the firearm pointed forward as he took every step, unsure of when an enemy might jump out and strike.

Can’t be too cautious, John said to himself, hearing only the faintest echo of his voice resonating off of the metal hallways.

John, do you read me? asked a gruff, redneck military voice. John took notice of the earpiece that was on him, as he had forgotten that it was even there after hours of not using it.

Yes, colonel. I’m in, John replied.

Why didn’t you radio in sooner? the colonel asked in a demanding tone.

I thought you said this was less like a radio and more like a walkie-talkie? John said, confused.

I’ll walkie all over your talkie if you don’t watch it, boy. What’s the situation? the colonel barked.

"It’s as we thought. The rojos are holding our scientists captive and forcing them to work on Project Secret Weapon," John explained.

"Rojos?" the colonel asked, bewildered.

You know, reds? Like, it’s Spanish for red? And we’re dealing with Russian guys? John said, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Speak American, boy! Is that all you know? the colonel asked, as though John were missing something.

Yes, I... John began, and then broke off as a sniper bullet whizzed by his face. WAHH! he screamed in panic. The agent then broke into a full, instinct-seized sprint forward.

John, what’s the matter!? the colonel asked.

John did not respond with words, but with more panicked shrieks. Sniper bullets whirled around him. His world began to slow down; he saw hundreds of them fly by like vicious hornets, all ready to go for the lethal sting.

WHERE ARE THEY ALL COMING FROM? John shouted as he trounced the metal floor in a clamor. Several bullets found their way past John’s stealth suit and hit him directly, but he felt no pain.

MAYBE THEY’RE HITTING ME IN PLACES WHERE IT DOESN’T HURT!?, John thought to himself loudly. He was going in the right direction. However, the hallway gradually became less narrow and opened into a single, simple rectangular room. This room had nothing in it except for a solid gold chest at the very center.

The sniper bullets had stopped.

Colonel! I see the treasure! John yelled, this time with positive excitement.

John, hold yer horses... the colonel warned.

IT COULD BE THE NEXT BIG THING! John shouted. He bolted for the treasure chest without thinking. Each excited step resulted in a not-so-stealthy thud against the metal floor. Without thinking, John thrust both of his hands unto the top half of the chest and gave it a shove. Inside the chest, however, was a bomb, and opening the lid of the chest caused it to trigger. John’s senses were assaulted with piercing white light and ear-splitting explosions.

—-

After what seemed like forever, when John had finally regained his senses, he found himself sitting somewhat uncomfortably in an awkwardly shaped metal chair. There were several annoying devices connected to him, and he found these annoying devices annoying.

VR simulation complete, sir, a male voice said.

Of course, the virtual reality stuff... John muttered to himself, half-awake.

John, what in the pure heck was that? the colonel asked angrily.

I don’t know, sir. I was just... following my instincts, John replied.

Well your instincts must be broken son, because right now you’d be better off followin’ directions from a cookbook! You’ll never join the CIA like this, boy! the colonel shouted.

I’m sorry, colonel, John offered.

You are a soggy sack of sorry indeed, private! the colonel yelled.

I’m not even a private yet, John said as respectfully as he could as he detached the virtual reality devices with a silent enmity.

Yet!? the colonel shouted as though in disbelief. You’re not even head chef, son! Now get back in the kitchen! the colonel shouted as he hurled a ball of clothing at John. After sorting out the fact that this was his old uniform, John grimaced. The would-be operative looked over at the colonel as well as the technician who operated the virtual reality machine, which was the only other furniture in the dark, metal room. John took the clothes and walked over to the door until he felt a sudden, contentious aching in his lower body, and he began to hobble.

Cramp!

He couldn’t quite recover in time, and his head met the door with an embarrassing thud.

Are you blind, too!? the colonel yelled. John ignored the comment as he slapped the doorknob before gripping it more firmly. With a turn of the knob and a thoughtless shove, John found himself back to his old life.

Order up on table two!

John hadn’t been in the bakery for what seemed like forever, even though it was just a few hours ago. He closed the door behind him, which was embellished with a golden plaque that read JANITOR’S CLOSET.

What is up, my man? How ya doin’? Haven’t seen ya all mornin’, said a young man with long, unkempt hair that resembled a bleached possum if it had been stretched on a medieval torture device. He put a friendly hand on John’s shoulder and rocked him a bit in a friendly manner. This young man’s real name was unknown to most people; he always went by Dan, and he was John’s closest thing to a friend at the workplace.

Garbage, John muttered.

Dan half-frowned. Man, you’re always such a grump after you come out of the janitor’s pad. What’s the dilly? Does it smell bad? he asked. There was a pause as John began to slide into his uniform. I mean, I would think with it being the place where the cleaning guy hangs out, it wouldn’t smell so bad. In fact, it might actually smell pretty good, never been in there myself though...

John ignored Dan as he fastened the final buttons on his double-breasted jacket that all chefs wore. John’s jacket was unique, however, in that it was colored a deep blue where all the other chefs of the bakery had plain white jackets. He still had the same black pants, though.

Hey, I wonder how YOU smell... Dan said as he leaned his face closer to John’s jacket and sniffed twice in quick succession. John continued to ignore him as he walked past his fellow chefs, who were all stood at their ovens and blast chillers with vigilance.

A weary door had made its home at the far end of the kitchen. It was made of decrepit maple and adorned with a rusted bronze plaque that read CEO. If doors had feelings, this door would have felt nothing but pain and misery. It was quite a contrast from the strong, healthy redwood that the rest of the kitchen interior was made of.

Real talk, bro, why you bummed? Dan asked his closest thing to a friend, John.

Every month, John began, flustered. Every month for the past three years I’ve been trying to prove to the colonel that I’m CIA material. And every month, I always fail the test.

The test? Dan asked, bewildered, as though this was all news to him.

Yeah, they put you in a virtual reality thing and you have to... do stuff, John explained, trying to keep things simple for a simple person.

Stuff? Dan asked curiously.

Stuff, John replied blankly.

I do stuff, Dan commented, nodding his head as though he had done stuff all his life.

John’s response was a halfhearted thumbs-up.

You know, if it’s a test you could just... cheat on it, Dan suggested.

How? John asked. With virtual reality it’s just you and your mind, you can’t physically take anything with you into it.

You take yourself, right? Dan asked.

I guess? John replied confusedly. Where are you going with this?

Just tattoo the answers on the inside of your eyelids! There’s a guy I know; does it for cheap. Did it for my G.E.D. and I can still tell you about quadruple formulas to this day. Was thinking about getting a matching one on my...

DIS-GUS-TING! a man in the dining area yelled loud enough to be heard throughout the entire building. The one-man riot caught the attention of nearly every chef in the kitchen. They turned their heads to the service windows to get a look at the dining area.

What’s his roast? John asked.

"Probably that new ‘noir’ coffee flavor that those weird college kids drink. Every Saturday they come in and drink it, if you can call it that. Tastes like butt to me," Dan remarked.

No, I mean like his roast, what his problem is, John clarified.

Ohh... you mean like beef? Dan asked.

Yeah it’s like... roast... beef, John explained weakly.

I didn’t know we sold beef here, Dan said, raising an eyebrow.

Beef cake, maybe, John joked, mustering a grin.

Yeah, began one of the other chefs, we sell beef, cake, beefy cake and cakey beef.

Mmm... cakey beef! Dan said, licking his lips.

The CEO’s door whined open before becoming unhinged at the top, causing it to wobble in ways that wood never should. A shabbily-dressed Asian man with succinct features stepped out of the doorway and surveyed the disgruntled man at the service window.

Well, no wonder the custard here tastes like liquid cow, there’s a hobo running the show! the man yelled angrily.

Now sir, please understand... the shabbily-dressed man began.

The only thing I understand is good custard. You see, I am the great Baron ZeBonzo the third, the international custard connoisseur! I have traveled across all seven continents, sampling custard from bakeries all around the world! France, my homeland! Russia, my other homeland! And everywhere in between! the man yelled. And this, sir, is not good custard!

Who even orders the custard anyway? Dan whispered to John while suppressing a chuckle.

A connoisseur, John answered, with the last syllable melting into quiet laughter.

We do not have the sugar needed to properly make the custard, sir. Nobody ever orders it, and the substitute works fine in everything but the custard, the shabbily-dressed man explained.

BWAHAHAHA! What kind of bakery doesn’t have sugar!? ZeBonzo yelled as he chortled more rudely than John had ever thought possible.

Wait, if what’s in the pantry isn’t sugar, then what is it? John asked.

Well, since sugar has been very rare and expensive as of late, I decided that it would be more efficient to order the skeletons of diabetics from the morgue and grind up their bones. I remember my father did it when I was young, and he said it tasted rather sweet, the shabbily-dressed man explained. ZeBonzo, John, Dan, and the other chefs all looked at each other, some in disbelief, and others in horror.

Oh relax, bonemeal ain’t that bad, said a red-skinned man with the legs and horns of a goat who was tending to one of the larger ovens in the kitchen. It’s just an acquired taste.

Nobody asked you, Satan! Dan yelled.

Regardless, I am going to need replacement custard, posthaste! the connoisseur yelled as he pointed his index finger skyward.

Replacement custard? John asked, hardly believing the words as they left his mouth.

As per your policy. I, Baron ZeBonzo the third, the great custard connoisseur, demand custard with real, genuine sugar in less than twenty-four hours or I am calling... the police!

Popo don’t scare me, the shabbily-dressed man said.

The health inspector! Baron ZeBonzo yelled.

He dead, the shabbily-dressed man countered.

Your mother! ZeBonzo cried out.

Oh... the shabbily-dressed man’s face was suddenly overcome with dread.

Twenty-four hours! Your clock starts now! ZeBonzo said with a sinister grin.

Alright, listen up! the shabbily-dressed man said as he immediately turned to John, Dan and the other chefs with a sense of urgency that had not been seen in years.

Sir! John said as he nodded intently.

We are at a crisis! If we do not have a pristine plate of custard in twenty-four hours’ time, Baron ZeBonzo will alert my mother! the shabbily-dressed man stated.

What do you want us to do about it? one of the more rotund chefs asked.

If my mother knows that I am not making custard properly, she will evict me from this property, you will all be out of a job, and I will get...

There was a pause.

...the paddle.

A grave silence fell over the entire kitchen. Even Satan adopted a face of concern.

Aw, bro, not the paddle! Dan exclaimed with empathy.

We need a plan, John said.

Indeed. We need to acquire sugar, another chef added.

Does anyone know where we can find sugar? the shabbily-dressed man yelled across the kitchen. The chefs looked at each other with puzzled expressions and shrugged.

Anyone! Anyone at all!? the shabbily-dressed man panicked.

Wait! I think I saw some sugar on the shelf when I was at the All-Mart yesterday, Dan said.

Excellent! We start there. John and Dan, you two drive over there as soon as you can! I’ll hold down the fort here, the shabbily-dressed man said.

You got it, dude! Dan said.

Wait, how are we going to get there? John asked.

Take the company vehicle. It’s out back behind the pantry, the shabbily-dressed man said.

John and Dan made their way to the pantry, which was on the other end of the kitchen. After cutting through the pantry, the two chefs opened the door and found themselves in a dark, somewhat cramped room.

Get the lights, will ya? John asked.

Yeah, sure thing, bro, Dan replied as he pressed a button on the wall.

Nothing happened.

Try a different one? John suggested as though it were common sense.

You got it, my man, Dan said as he pulled a switch that was on the floor. Smooth jazz began to play from speakers that were planted throughout the room.

Aww yeah, this is my jam! Dan exclaimed as he did a little dance. The would-be possum on his head that he called his hair swayed along with him.

Dan! Focus! John said. Now if I were a light, where would I be?

John did a lot of looking with his arms for several seconds. His efforts revealed several buttons, levers and other devices, but none of them appeared to do anything when activated. Dan and his hair, on the other hand, were still enjoying the smooth jazz.

Dan! Chop chop! John shouted, clapping twice in frustration. Suddenly, the room was illuminated and machinery could be heard powering on.

Aw sweet! Check out the digs! Dan said before hopping into one of the seats. John observed his surroundings. He and his closest thing to a friend were not in a room so much as they were in a modified M4 Sherman Tank that had been connected to the bakery’s main building.

Come on, we gotta get to the All-Mart, John said as he clambered over to the driver’s seat, situated his eyes in the periscope and began to operate the controls.

Wait bro! You got a license? Dan asked.

I sure hope so, John replied with haste.

The tank raucously broke off from the main building as it mobilized and tore across the parking lot before heading onto the main road.

Sweeeeeet, Dan droned on for a couple of seconds.

Don’t get too attached to your seat, it won’t take us long, John commented.

I think I see it! Dan said.

How do you know? John asked.

It’s over there, man! In the rear windshield! I think we passed it! Dan exclaimed as he pointed to a building that could be seen behind a transparent screen in the back end of the vehicle. John pulled away from the periscope to look at where his closest thing to a friend was pointing.

Dan, there is no rear windshield. That’s a cake replica of the All-Mart in the refrigerating panel, John explained before returning to the periscope.

We deliver?

Don’t you remember? The CEO introduced it to us a few months ago. Said it would boost our image or something.

Well how long has that been in there?

It’s refrigerated so it doesn’t matter.

I say breakfast of champions!

Dan hopped up from the seat and dashed to the back. He gingerly opened up the refrigerating panel and grabbed a piece off of the All-Mart cake’s front sign, leaving only the letters to spell art. The young man stuffed the cake into his mouth, letting the crumbs fall where they may. After a few seconds of chewing and sampling the substance of the cake, Dan’s face turned from bliss to barf as he coughed up cake crumbs.

What’s the problem? John asked casually.

It’s bad! Dan replied in a tone of disgust.

How could refrigerated cake go bad? It couldn’t be more than a week old, John pondered aloud.

It’s butterscotch flavor so it was bad to begin with, Dan said as he raked the last few crumbs off of his tongue. Tastes like old people.

Butter... scotch? John asked, unfamiliar. As in, scotch of butter?

Yeah bro. My grandma always had butterscotch on every table in every room at her house. It was like, a four story house too. She loved the stuff, like a weirdo. Always made me have at least three every time I visited.

Three? For a kid? Your grandma sounded like she lived dangerously.

Why?

I mean, that’s illegal, at least here in America. Must have been a real thrill-seeker.

You mean I can sue her? Dan asked excitedly.

If she’s still alive, I guess, John said.

Excellent! Dan said. Time to get back at her for all those times she made me eat butterscotch! You know you can’t spell butterscotch without ‘butt’! Not that I know what butt tastes like.

"Sure you do, you tried that ‘noir’ coffee," John commented.

So true, man. So true, Dan said as he made his way back to his seat. He tried to flood his mouth with saliva in an attempt to wash out the awful taste of butterscotch.

We’re coming up on the locale, John stated.

What’s it look like? Dan asked.

Well, it looks like a parking lot.

Are you sure?

The parking lot is mostly vacant, should be easy to park. Some cars, and a semi that looks to be making a delivery, John explained, wiping his brow.

They got tank parking, right?

Yeah, most All-Marts do.

Alright then, let’s rock and roll! Dan shouted.

BAKER’S PARADISE - CHAPTER TWO

––––––––

The aisles of the All-Mart were as numerous as they were pristine, which the many customers didn’t think much of as they went about their shopping. Some were running in for only a few minutes to grab a few items. Others were in the midst of their biweekly stock-up as they loaded their shopping carts until the wheels began to buckle. It was a place of peace, but it was the kind of peace that could be shattered at a moment’s notice. If it could be equated to a sound, it would not be unlike the desperate creaks of impending doom that arise from an antique lawn chair when subject to the pressure of a brownie hound.

John made his way through the sliding double doors at the front, walking with purpose in each quiet step. Dan trailed in behind him with his arms behind his head somewhat lazily, but he was keeping up as his squeaky footsteps matched the pace of those of his closest thing to a friend.

Alright sir, we’re in, John said into a radio earpiece.

Excellent news. Have you determined the location of the sugar? the shabbily-dressed man could be heard on the other side, but only barely over the clamor of the supermarket.

Not yet, sir. I’ll start scouting, John said.

Best of luck, the shabbily-dressed man concluded before ending the transmission.

You take this stuff really seriously, huh bro? Dan grinned.

No time to lose, Dan! We’ve got an objective! John said as he dashed ahead into the first aisle.

We’re objecting what? Dan asked, confused.

There were a total of thirty aisles in the All-Mart, each of them more packed with consumer products and brand names than the last. Upon noticing things like almonds, apples, amplifiers and anvils as he walked down the first aisle, John came to the conclusion that the items in the store were sorted by alphabetical order. Following this notion, the blue-clad baker briskly walked down to the other end of the store where items that began with letters from the second half of the alphabet might be located. When he came to the aisle that was selling zebra pants, zebra food and zebra insurance, he knew he had gone too far.

Cursing his hastiness, John turned himself around and looked carefully down each aisle. He maintained his silent footsteps as he inspected each item-stocked hallway. Most people did not take notice of John and his patrol; those that did gave the chef strange looks, lifted eyebrows and sensible chuckles.

Can I help you, sir? a young woman asked from behind John. She was wearing an All-Mart uniform.

Freeze! John shouted as he turned around and quickly produced a handgun and pointed it at the woman at eye level. She did not flinch at all, however, since the handgun was clearly not the handgun that John wished it was. In reality, it was an icing gun designed to frost the tops of cakes and other pastries. As such, it was mostly plastic and very non-threatening in appearance. Icing could be loaded into plastic bags, which could then be loaded into the gun and dispensed at high intensity by squeezing the trigger. This gun was not even lethal to a diabetic at the moment, since it was loaded with sugar-free icing. Still, the blue-clad baker remained stone-faced with an iron stance and a firm grip as he tracked the woman’s movement with the tip of the gun.

Freezers and fridges are on aisle eight, sir. I recommend the Steel-Got-It series if you’re a professional chef, the woman continued, looking over John’s deep blue chef outfit. John cautiously lowered the gun, seeing that she was not dangerous.

I’m looking for sugar. It’s... something of an emergency, John explained.

Sugar! Right! Should be down there on aisle twenty-two! the woman smiled and pointed to the aisle several feet away.

Thanks, John said before walking off, both hands still firmly grasping the gun. He kept the gun pointed downwards until he approached aisle twenty-two. Sensing people, the baker pressed himself against the wall that separated aisles twenty-two and twenty-three. John peered around the corner to get a good