Flies and wasps are landing on everything. Dorlock Cake, local politician, apologizes: "I'm sorry, we're trying to deal with the flies and wasps." Her mouth, open a second too long, is now filled with flies and wasps, forcing their way up her throat (which, being that she is a cake creature, slopes upward rather than down,) into the hollows of her sinuses and her chocolate, creme-filled teeth. This distraction allows you to plunge your greedy hands into her side and force handfuls of her into your own mouth. Sugar rushes into the blood, rotting your brain. The other cakes and croissants are exiting their crystal-candy chapels now, gliding outraged down the main road, failing to navigate their wide bodies through the narrow fencing that crisscrosses every avenue. They're bumping against the barriers, backing up, trying again, backing up, trying again, giving up, hugging the walls of the bank or the mausoleum as they search for an alternate route, bumping into barriers even less navigable. The dim rays of the artificial sun are obstructed by the approaching cloud of flies and wasps.