The Sunshine Empire

We get letters all the time for Biggus Rickus and we decided we would share one with you and the response from Rickus. Rhonda from Sioux City Iowa writes,

“Hey Rickus,

Do you cook? If so have you ever baked a killer soufflé?

Thanks,
Rhonda”

Rickus Responds:

The tale of my killer soufflé is a ghastly one. I combined all of my ingredients perfectly, preheated the oven to its necessary temperature and slid the dish into the oven. I imagined my friends’ delight as they bit into my fluffy concoction, their faces aglow with unabated ecstasy, the compliments that they would dole out like Halloween candy. But then my reverie was disturbed by a strange green glow coming from my oven. To this day I can’t tell you what it was, but if filled my soul with a horror that squashed my prior elation. The glow faded, and I was left wondering if I had imagined it, my remembered fear the only evidence that anything untoward had happened. It looked like a normal, nay, a perfect soufflé when I removed it from the oven. Putting my trepidation aside I covered it in siran wrap and placed it in the fridge to be served on the morrow.

The next day dawned bright and clear, but I had an eerie feeling from troubling yet unremembered dreams. I dismissed it as my ID playing games with me and set about preparing for my dinner party. I prepared one Cornish game hen for each guest with a glaze of honey, potatoes and carrots surrounding them to roast alongside. I made biscuits from scratch and prepared a caramel, apple, pecan pie. Lastly I removed the soufflé from the refrigerator and put it in the oven to reheat it. I briefly remembered the green light, but as there was no repeat of such activity I put it from my mind. The table was set and the food laid out as 6:30 rolled around.

Ronnie and Beatrice were the first to arrive. Ronnie and I had been friends since grade school and it had been some time since I’d seen him. Beatrice was the reason for this. Since their marriage a year and a half earlier Ronnie had distanced himself further and further from his old friends. Honestly, I was surprised he had accepted the invitation, or rather that she had let him. We exchanged our pleasantries and made some idle conversation as I poured each a glass of wine. I gave them a tour of my apartment as it was the first time I’d seen them since the move, ending in my large bedroom overlooking the skyline, when there came a knock at the door. John and Tony had come together and made a rather crude joke about a horse’s ejaculation that brought a laugh from Ronnie and I, though Ronnie’s quickly turned to a cough as he caught the glare on Beatrice’s face as she looked at him. As everyone was present, I suggested we start on dinner before the food cooled too much.

There were oohs and it-all-looks-goods uttered by my guests as they loaded their plates. The soufflé sat in the middle of the table and John eyed it hungrily as he raised the knife to cut his piece out of it. Then it started. The green glow emanated from the soufflé bathing the table in its eerie incandescence, and we watched in muted horror as it contorted and grabbed the knife from John’s hand. It then proceeded to hurl the knife with such force that it’s dull edge pierced John’s skin at the neck, opening his jugular vein. Frozen by fear we watched as his life pulsed onto the table. The soufflé then began to rise and coalesce into a gross mockery of a gingerbread man with green eyes and the eerie glow surrounding it. The image of the gingerbread man was so vivid that a mad cackle escaped my lips. I questioned my sanity. I suspect everyone did in that moment. I wondered if this was all some dream that I would wake from with the uneasy feeling I’d felt that morning. I then wondered if this was what I’d dreamed. I watched in horrid fascination as the soufflé man walked to the kitchen knife lying on the table. At this point, Ronnie woke from his daze and screamed, a terrorized ear-splitting scream that drew the attention of the knife-wielding dish. It dashed quickly across the table and lunged at Ronnie, stabbing him in the chest, withdrawing the knife and stabbing again. Beatrice reached for the thing’s arm trying to save her husband. She received a deep gash in her hand for her effort, the soufflé turning and slashing her as she reached out. She drew back her hand and propelled herself from the table seeking some distance between herself and the creature. It moved faster as it leaped and slashed at her throat. Her eyes widened in shock. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come, and she collapsed in a heap against the wall. I looked at Ronnie and saw his eyes had glazed over and blood stained his lips. Tony and I swiftly rose from the table as the thing was turning its attention to us. I made a break for the fireplace and the poker as it scrambled across the table. Tony dashed into the kitchen, where the soufflé followed. Having the grabbed the poker I rushed into the kitchen in time to see the creature plunge its knife into Tony’s back. As it raised the knife I raised the poker. Time moved at a crawl. The knife inched down as I swung the poker with every ounce of strength I possessed. When the knife made the plunge that ended Tony’s life I hit the soufflé full force, and the soufflé spattered across the floor, the green light gone.

I stood shaking for a moment, until the rush of adrenaline subsided and I slumped down. I slowly rose and numbly walked to each of my friends to see if any still lived. None did. I went to the phone to call 911 as I had been taught you’re supposed to do in such an event. The police arrived some ten minutes later, and I relayed the story. Of course, they didn’t believe it. I can’t blame them. Who would? There was no evidence of a murderous soufflé man, beyond a splattered soufflé on my floor. Soufflés don’t have fingerprints and so only mine were on the knife. I was arrested, charged and tried for the murder of my four friends. You probably read about it. Four people butchered at the apartment of a middle class white guy makes for great copy. You would even have seen my story mocked. I was the Soufflé Slicer. Clever huh? Eventually I was found innocent by reason of insanity, much to the chagrin of my prosecutor who thought I was faking it to avoid a death sentence. The truth is that after witnessing the murder of my friends death would have been preferable. Alas, I was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, and I have received the very best care available at this lovely little loony bin. Life isn’t so bad most of the time. I have a typewriter to do this and correspond with those family members who will still have anything to do with me, and the drugs I’m on most of the time keep me from dwelling on the memory. But I have a recurring dream from which I awaken in a cold sweat. It is of myself standing in a kitchen chopping a squash. The kitchen is lit by that old, eerie green light and in the distance I hear a whispering voice say, “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”

So keep the questions coming people and we’ll get you a response.