Off camera, you sneer in sadistic glee. "This will really get them", you think (or did you say it aloud?), as you turn to your next instrument of torment: a cake made to look like a copy of Portal. Reaching for your spatula, you recoil. It is not a spatula, it is cake.

Chuckling nervously, you pick up your knife. The knife is also cake. Trembling, you reach for a towel, to mop your brow, but feel only cake. Your hand mops your brow, but it too is cake.

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