There are three things in this universe you should never underestimate:
The resilience of duct tape.
A hamster with vengeance in its heart.
The sheer chaotic potential of an elementary school bake sale.
Today was that day.
Midtown Elementary's annual "Bake Bonanza & Fundraiser for Mysterious School Repairs" was in full swing. Tables lined the gymnasium, each one buckling under the weight of sugary offerings and suspiciously vibrating Jell-O.
Ms. Benson had returned after "resting her soul" for a week in what Jenkins referred to as a "therapeutic silence chamber filled with aromatherapy and denial." She looked rested. And deeply afraid of me.
Can't blame her.
"Remember, class," she said, voice trembling as she handed out safety gloves, "no sorcery. No summoning. No… whatever it is you do, Arthur."
I saluted with a cupcake. "Absolutely. I'm on full mortal behavior today."
Behind me, Sir Chompers adjusted his tactical vest and sniffed the air like a war veteran detecting incoming frosting.
My table—labeled "Arthur's Bakery of Mildly Unsettling Wonders"—was stocked with Jenkins-approved snacks:
Muffins that healed paper cuts.
Cookies that whispered compliments.
A tray of brownies too dense to be explained by physics.
"Oh my god," said Mindy, examining one. "These brownies broke my fork. Are they… weaponized?"
"Only if thrown at high velocity," I replied.
Meanwhile, Travis's mom had shown up with store-bought lemon bars, trying to flex. "Ours are organic," she announced.
My muffin growled at her.
"Okay then," she whispered, backing away.
The first sign of trouble came when the new substitute teacher arrived.
He was tall. He wore glasses that glowed faintly blue and a bowtie that radiated temporal energy. His name tag read:
"Mr. Chronos—Substitute Librarian, Possibly Not From This Timeline."
"I'll be assisting with the bake sale while documenting Earth's pastry rituals," he said.
"Wait," I whispered to Mindy. "Did he say Earth's?"
"Yes," she replied. "And he's writing in Klingon."
Mr. Chronos wandered from table to table, poking muffins with a tricorder and muttering things like, "Fascinating. Carbon-based cinnamon."
All was calm… until Travis, in his eternal quest to outshine me, unveiled his pièce de résistance:
"A muffin… with THREE kinds of chocolate," he declared.
Then he smirked. "And I may have borrowed one of your glowing sugar crystals when you weren't looking."
My eyes widened. "Wait, what sugar crystal?"
Too late.
Travis bit into his muffin. The gym dimmed.
Time… hiccuped.
Everything paused for a second—then sped up.
The muffin opened a small rift in space-time.
It hovered.
It crackled.
And then—BOOM—it exploded into a localized singularity that began swallowing the cupcake table.
"DON'T PANIC!" yelled Mr. Chronos, tossing quantum chalk at the portal.
"I'm not panicking," I said. "I'm just aggressively problem-solving!"
I yanked out my emergency muffin bomb (a blueberry prototype) and threw it into the vortex.
The two baked goods collided mid-air in a glorious, slow-motion pastry ballet.
There was a brilliant flash of light, the sound of a kazoo playing Beethoven, and the entire gymnasium was coated in muffin confetti.
Silence.
A small voice piped up: "That was AWESOME."
Sir Chompers high-fived a second grader.
Ms. Benson looked at me. Her eye twitched. "Arthur… did you just fight a black hole with a muffin?"
"Technically, it was a pastry-based containment device."
She sat down, slowly. "I need to move to a mountain with no children."
Mr. Chronos gave me a thumbs-up. "Impressive stabilizing technique. You ever considered temporal engineering?"
"I'm six," I replied.
"Excellent age to begin your internship."
The bake sale was declared a partial success. Half the gym was still intact. The other half had become a quantum pastry zone and was now being patrolled by Jenkins' emergency clean-up squirrels.
As we cleaned up, Mindy looked at me. "You planned that, didn't you?"
I grinned. "Never. But I did write an algorithm to predict Travis's muffin envy."
Back in the car, Jenkins sipped tea and drove over a stray jellybean that was still vibrating with residual magic.
"How was the bake sale, Master?"
"Delicious," I said. "And only moderately apocalyptic."
"Shall I prepare a statement for the Board of Education?"
"Please do. And add a line about the 'Interdimensional Muffin Truce.' That should buy us time."
He sighed. "Very good, sir."
I stared out the window, already planning tomorrow's adventure.
Spoiler: It involves dodgeball, a substitute gym teacher who was definitely built in a lab, and an alien class pet that may or may not be evolving.