37. Mystery of the Missing Bubble Straws

He was out of bubble straws.

After putting it off for as long as humanly possible, Isaac had finally decided to suck it up and start decorating the hideous cake order he’d first gotten a few weeks ago, which incidentally had been placed well in advance. Somehow the knowledge that someone had clearly pre planned such a god awful design made it a thousand times worse.

Isaac finished covering the bottom tier of the cake in buttercream as fast as he could. Once he was done, he reached into the bag of straws he always kept on the counter on instinct, only for his fingers to find nothing but the glossy texture of the bag. He frowned and actually turned to look inside. It was, indeed, empty.

Let it be known that Isaac was very meticulous about keeping inventory. He hated having to pause in the middle of decorating (it always resulted in worse results), and one of the easiest ways to make sure that never happened was to keep his supplies stocked at all times. That way he wouldn’t have to pause because of shit like this.

So how the fuck had he messed up here? The bubble straws were important; it wasn’t like they were some minor tool he rarely used. They were quite literally the pillars he used to stack cakes, and without them the bottom tier would get crushed under the weight of the top layers.

Not willing to admit that he’d somehow messed this up, he took a few minutes to rummage through the kitchen drawers just in case he’d somehow misplaced a bunch of bubble straws. Nothing.

Isaac scowled and glared at the empty bag like it had personally wronged him. He begrudgingly moved the covered bottom tier into the fridge, though he didn’t bother cleaning up the rest of his decorating tools since he’d be using them again soon anyway. Grumbling to himself, Isaac grabbed his jacket from where it was hanging limply by the door. He did put his irritation on hold for a few seconds to double check that he had his keys. Once they were secure, Isaac proceeded to slam the door to his apartment as he exited and practically ran down the rickety stairs.

The moment he stepped outside, he was greeted with familiar beeping of cars and Chrowall City’s signature stench. The 108th street apartment was located near various small restaurants and food trucks, so the area constantly smelled like an unholy combination of assorted foods, gas, trash, and smoke.

Thankfully, growing up in the city had thoroughly dulled Isaac’s senses, and he was able to ignore the stench without issue. He shoved his hands into his pockets, ducked his head slightly forward as was probably bad for his neck, and hurriedly made his way down the sidewalk in long strides.

It had been one of those mornings. The moment Isaac had peeled his eyes open feeling thoroughly unrested was the first sign that it was going to be a shitty day.

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And, granted, he usually didn’t sleep all that much anyway, but that was because of his terrible sleep schedule. When he actually went to bed, it was pretty easy for him to let the collective weight of way too many lost hours of sleep knock him out in a couple of minutes tops.

But that night, it had taken ages for him to fall asleep. He’d rolled around, had tried flipping over his limp pillow, but nothing had helped. He remembered how the sheets had felt itchy even though Isaac was normally unbothered by his rough, low thread count sheets. If anything, he actually kind of preferred them to the more silky and expensive stuff available on the market. He liked being able to actually get a grip on the fabric, plus in his mind cheap things often felt better anyway.

After Isaac had dragged himself out of bed and gone to the kitchen to boil water for his morning tea, the string of his tea bag had ripped off and the bag fell into the cup. He’d had to fish the bag out with a fork, which realistically wasn’t a big deal, not too much time was wasted, but it was another little inconvenience to be added to that morning’s growing pile of grievances.

Next the light bulb in his narrow bathroom had fizzled out while he’d been brushing his teeth, and he’d had to waste time changing it. He’d had to waste even more time in order to figure out how to balance on the tiny sink counter before actually switching the bulb out. Thankfully, he hadn’t fallen even if he’d come dangerously close to it.

After that, he’d misplaced one of his piping tips, the one he used to make rosettes. Isaac had gone through and opened and shut every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, only to find that it had been left on the counter and rolled behind the clock. And now there was the bubble straws.

Isaac was buzzing with nervous energy as he told the cashier that no, he didn’t need a bag. He grabbed the fresh pack of straws, which crinkled in his hands, and hurriedly exited the store, half-running back to his apartment while keeping his purchase held close to his chest as though it were some precious treasure. The store was only a few blocks away from his home, but of course, because the world was out to get him that day, he had to pause at every single block and actually wait for one or several cars to pass by before he could jaywalk like a proper Chrowall City citizen.

Once the familiar old building came into view, Isaac ran back up to the fourth floor and fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them in the process. He kept the straws firmly pressed against his jacket, determined not to drop them.

It took a few tries to get the key inside the keyhole, and even more tries to pull it out once he’d unlocked the door, but finally he heard the lock’s signature click. Isaac sighed in relief and breathed deeply, forcing himself to relax. He couldn’t decorate cakes this antsy. Sure it had been an annoying morning, and he couldn’t fully shake the buzzing energy clinging to him since he’d woken up, but things could be much, much worse. He was going to walk into his apartment, set down the straws, take off his coat, and resume decorating like a professional.

Mind set, Isaac swung the apartment door open only to immediately freeze as all his previous attempts at relaxation shattered into pieces. It took every ounce of self control he had to resist the urge to immediately slam the door shut again.

There, sitting at the table where half of his decorating supplies were still strewn about, was an unfortunately familiar figure. The intruder had chin length, messily cropped blonde hair and was wearing a bright red scarf, gloves that matched the scarf’s shade, and giant sunglasses. Indoors.

Fable turned to face him and grinned that terrible smile of theirs that somehow managed to always look condescending. They shot him a mocking salute.

“Yo,” greeted the other Traveler of the Underside.