Somewhere between the senses – not in another dimension as such, but hidden deep in the rarely-trodden tunnels between taste and touch – Death By Chocolate cleared his nasal passages. The process sounded like thick, melted chocolate draining through metal pipes, and as he swallowed the congealed mass with a gulp, one of his subordinates oozed towards him. It was sporting a look of wary excitement on its, for want of a better word, face.
“What do you-ouu think?” it bubbled.
DBC looked at the telephone on the table. Was it really that time already? He double-checked the figures, rolled the calculations once more through the sinewy wringers of his mind, and found himself satisfied. It was.
There were a lot of phones in his little part of the Sugarverse, but this was the really important one. It was the one he only got to use once every few thousand years, and he took a few nanoseconds to savour the opportunity. Naturally, he was not a fan of anything savoury at the best of times, so before his distaste could spoil the moment he snatched up the receiver.
He would not miss Obesifer. And although there hadn’t exactly been a cheer when the pale horse had made its move, the mood in the observation room had become noticeably sweeter.
“That one will do,” he said, his voice a decisive, brandy-snap crunch.