Urinal Cakes All the Way Down

The young man balked. “Wow. Thanks Grace.”

“What do you expect? You spend you free time hanging out in a urinal cake factory, pestering our few visitors.” She ushered them toward the closed interior doors. “Let me just shut down the desk—we hardly get visitors anyway—then we’ll start the tour. And if Mr. Lollygagger doesn’t mind, you can come along, Carl.”

The receptionist stared at Captain Rescue, whose ears had forgotten to inform his brain she was addressing him. His face blanked. Then everything caught back up, and Captain Rescue mulled. Clearly, Carl was no fan. But maybe with a good angle and the right words, Captain Rescue could turn him into one. He had the power.

Thirty seconds after she first petitioned him, the hero nodded. “He can come!”

“I’m glad you gave it... enough… thought.” Her face faltered for a moment, but then she beamed and swept her hands towards the interior doors. “Follow me, please.”

Captain Rescue felt a rush of excitement. Past that magical portal, a world beyond his wildest dreams awaited. Nothing was more delicious than cake, and he had high hopes for this foreign urinal variety. He couldn’t believe that nobody wanted to go on the factory’s free tours and enjoy all the free cake.

The receptionist-turned-tour guide opened the doors, revealing to Captain Rescue his wildest dreams: a hallway. He could almost taste the urinal cakes. They had to be around here somewhere. Around this corner, perhaps. Or behind that door.

Then… a painting on the wall. Eyeing it, Captain Rescue recognized one of those small discs used in restroom pee-stalls. Longview, making award-winning urinal cakes since 1873. Urinal. Cake. Cake. Urinal. Urinal cake. Captain Rescue’s mind turned the words over in his head. He gasped. Urinal cake!

“What is it?” the tour guide asked.

He fought back his dismay and tears. “Those… those are urinal cakes? You make those?”

“Of course, silly. What did you think we made, Mr. Lollygagger, chocolate cakes?”

He tried not to cry. “No. Of course not!”

“Now, come along. Our first stop is the place where we press the cakes! It’s fascinating. Carl loves it.”

“Shut up, Grace,” sneered the greasy little man.

Captain Rescue trudged in silence. Why even call them cakes if that’s not what they were? Why not urinal discs? Or urinal patties? He was crushed. Absolutely crushed. Lost was his desire to see this tour through. He should just turn around and go home. Maybe he’d catch a burglary in process.

Then he remembered Carl, the non-believer. The hater. There might not be cake—at least not the edible kind—but there was this greaseball, who desperately needed a good dose of heroic influence. And he was just the person to administer it.

“So, friend,” he questioned the naysayer, “why do you hate Captain Rescue?”

“Simple. He’s an incompetent oaf.”

“What?! He’s a real hero!”

“He’s just some guy dressed up in a costume. He doesn’t even have superpowers. If you put on some tights, would you run around and call yourself a hero?”

Captain Rescue wasn’t sure how to respond, since that’s exactly what he did. “I… uh… of course not.”

“See. That’s just some guy in a costume. He’s not a real hero. Like I said, he’ll be dead before the end of the year.”