Iron Man and Captain America were standing outside of Nicoletta’s Cake Boutique.

And they had a gun pointed at me.


I’ve never seen a gun shop in Wellington, so I wondered if the masked men intended to squirt me with water as a joke.  Since my claim to fame was making choripanes, instead of stopping bullets with my bare hands, I didn’t take the risk of finding out.

Apparently, they were assholes instead of clowns.  I wasn’t laughing either when they took my bag, my crow bar, my half-eaten cream cheese bagel… everything, goddammit!  Even the pack of Carefree sanitary pads that I found that morning.  Why the fuck would they need those?  Far as I know, men didn’t get monthly periods.

Good thing they didn’t bother to check my pockets, because I would have hated to lose my house key.


I still can’t decide which was more annoying though — the fact that they took all my stuff, or that they named themselves The scAvengers.


And what was the point of a disguise, if the guy who aimed a weapon at me, blatantly displayed an elaborate Beleive tattoo running down his left forearm anyway.  I guess spelling correctly wasn’t in Captain America’s arsenal of super powers.

What a dick.  I’ve always liked Tony Stark better.  But not the dollar-store-masked one who ruined my day.  There’s nothing I would like more than to crush his balls with a sledge hammer.


Looking back, the fault was mine.  Usually  more in tune with my surroundings,  I was distracted by the urge to reminisce when I walked by the cake shop.

I couldn’t help it.  While I made fairly decent bread and pastries — I’m the the daughter of a baker, after all — my skills where nowhere near Nicoletta caliber.  I mean, come on.  I’m talking custard croissants so decadent that they could launch a thousand ships.  Chocolate ganache, so rich and creamy that it could inspire men to invade countries.  Helen of Troy would lose to vanilla buttercream, if Paris went on a quest for cupcakes at 12/B Park Road.


As The scAvengers roared away on their Vespas, leaving me to fume on the sidewalk, even the wonderful memories of tegolinos long gone, failed to lift my spirits.


So I went home and sulked.  Because, hey, what else could I have done?  It wasn’t like I could go Mike Tyson on their asses.  I didn’t have the muscle power, only the rage.   Believe me, I had all the rage.

But I didn’t sulk for long.  Because as much as I relished the plotting of a huge revenge scenario in my head, I have a plan to stick to.  And it doesn’t involve settling petty scores with the dredges of society.   Sure, I want my items back.  But they were replaceable, and definitely not worth a bullet in the face.

Gotta stay the course, gotta stick to the plan.


Right now, it’s all I have worth fighting for.























12/B Park Road,


phone: 04 388 5301







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    Today we have to go look for food. I’m so afraid, but I’ll try to conquer the fear like you said. Thank you for the encouragement. One of the perks of living in Sydney CBD is there’s a cafe in every street corner, so maybe we don’t need to go far. The downside? There’s a cluster of infected in every street corner.