A Heated Discourse

We are forged in fire. Destined to live short lives, we fight until our strength is gone and we fall, legs crumbled and heads cracked. 

I stare out at the field of my brethren. Or what remains of them. Bits and pieces lie scattered, the ground slick with our blood and smashed weapons as the men were carried away and eaten.

I sniff the air and scowl. It’s sweet: sickly sweet with the smell of our burned flesh. 

I turn to my aide. “What news from Chip?” The smoky air chokes me and I cough.

“Re-enforcements will be here soon,” my aide is short and stocky, his one eye blackened and scarred from the recent fires. I call him Raisin.

I walk in a wide circle, my arms rigid and gaze fixed as little snatches of what I’ll say to the new troops spin around my head. It must be inspiring. Bold. A unifying statement to make our bonds stronger.

The piercing siren rings through the air three times. The shuttle bringing the men slowly descends, and the hot air puffs around me. I remember when I was a fresh recruit, naked and unproven, just like any other man around me. Now I stand tall, my gear and personage distinctive. No one would mistake me for a common soldier. 

“Those men will be mine,” I hear my rival call across the metallized field. He wears short pants and a shirt with two green buttons. His eyebrows always attract my attention: two harsh diagonal lines that make him look permanently angry. “You won’t win, Cook. Join me. Be my brother once more.”

“No!” I shout, my thick boots kicking at the charred remains. “You said we’d fight together and then you left! Your place is with the Royal Guard now. Go! Prepare your empty speeches! I will face you on the battlefield.”

Mo’s laugh is one of amused defiance, a sound so at odds with his thin, crooked mouth. 

I look down at Raisin and he looks up at me. We are of the same mind, of that I am sure. Our backgrounds are different—what shaped us should tear us apart—and yet we have the same spice for life, that little something that separates us from those who came before. 

I shudder to think of those other…things. Men so weak they had to be protected from the fire or else be cast aside as unwanted. They are pale. Weak. Unsuited to the hardness required for survival. They are snowmen. I could crush them with one foot.

I still catch whiffs of them, even though a wide gulf separates us and most have been shipped off to distant lands. Perhaps it is best that I now stand against my old comrade. No other might withstand my presence. 

“They are ready,” Raisin says quietly.

My round eyes watch as the latest batch of recruits file onto the battlefield and form rank after rank. Steam rises from their bodies as they complete their cooling and gradually crystallize into a potential fighting force.

They mumble their confusion and I march forward to address them, Mo copying me.

I stand on top of Raisin and say, “Today is what we have all been waiting for. We are to face our foes,” my arms point in the direction of the snowmen and Mo, “and prove that we are the deserving ones! The courageous ones! Fight by my side, brothers, and conquer all those who oppose us and seek to put us down. For we are not mere men. We. Are. Gingerbread men!”

The cutouts wordlessly cheer, their little arms and legs dancing stiffly in excitement at the prospect I’ve presented. Mo’s eyebrows would wriggle in rage, but they are only lines of immovable frosting. I hop off of Raisin; bowing would make me fall on my face.

“A very rousing speech, Commander,” Raisin spins in a show of approval. “Makes me wish I wasn’t part of the Round Scoops.”

“Don’t worry, Raisin, you belong with the Holly Cookie Crusade.” I stare square at Mo and wait for his rebuttal. Mo’s cut gumdrop buttons are no longer a sign of special treatment. I now see him as the victim of an artist’s whim.

“Men!” Mo stamps his foot and a chip of icing falls. “You would be part of that rabble, that collection of nitwits so ill-conceived, it has resorted to hiring the Scoops!? Commander Cook cannot outfit you as a proper soldier. Your icing would be sloppy and weak, crushed by the slightest blow. How can you stand tall when your weapons are decorated with garish sugars and half melted before they can form? You would be satisfied with only belts and wide-eyed innocence for the horrors that await you? Why, my good gingers? Why settle for barbarism when you can rise with the Royal Guard! Our icing is strong and stable. We will not allow you to fall prey to young, inexperienced hands. You will be like those you see,” he hobbles to include his soldiers of (undoubtedly) superior quality, with their striking clothes and neat use of confectionary detail. One ginger even has a chocolate vest. 

Mo swings back to face his potential army, his eyebrows a fierce invective directed at me. “Go forth with me and defeat the simple, sloppy hordes. We will not stop until not only our inferior, fellow gingers are crushed, but our pale cousins, too! And the Scoops! Don’t forget the foreigners, biscotti and meringue! The Sludge Fudge! The Brittle Bunch! And those corporatized devils, the Mallow Treats! There will be nothing you can’t overcome when you fight with the Royal Guard.” Mo’s buttons flash in sugary triumph as the horde lean toward him.

I lick my sweet lips and my belt slips lower from the heat of my rage. He’ll win. These mouthless fools don’t stand a chance against Mo’s power. Or do they?

“Brothers!” I shout. “The Royal Guard would seek to confine you in saccharine rigidity. You are cutouts now, but with me you can achieve freedom and individuality. None of you will be the same, all will be treated with the wildness of childlike delight. You don’t need a uniform to find a family with us.” I gesture at Raisin, and Chip, who’s recently found his way over to us. “Raisin lost an eye in the oven and yet he is quick-witted and observant. And Chip, his chocolate was picked off by grubby fingers but does his pockmarked appearance take away from his strength? Never! We are all tough cookies and you can be too!”

The cookies moan and sway between Mo and me and they seem decidedly split. How many can I hope to gain?

A clatter sounds all around us, followed by whoops and cheers. The Hands have arrived.

“Decide, my brothers!” I exhort.

“Stand to attention!” Mo barks.

One of the gingerbread men rises high in the sky and hangs, undecided. Suddenly he’s flipped head down and I stare, enraged, as the royal icing squirts out onto the new cookie, a red gummy is put in place, becoming his nose, and he descends once more to reveal…

I yell.

Mo shouts.

Gingerbread men across the rack are shocked into silence.

Before us is a…a reindeer!

More reindeer quickly join the betrayer until a whole force of woodland creatures stand between Mo and me. 

How could I see Mo as the villain? He is my brother; my compatriot against the evils of the world. We must join arms and quash this sub-human rebellion. 

“Spice or death!” I roar.

“To war!” Mo bellows.

I charge forward, knocking down the fresh horrors with impunity. Limbs snap. Frosting smudges. Sprinkles shatter. Soft bellies dent. Eyes are wiped from existence. Grease coats us all and I let forth a rallying cry. 

Mo and I face each other and nod. He’s lost half his shirt and one eyebrow is missing. We stand back to back, two men of the same cut, cookies-in-arms.

“We can’t let them win,” Mo grunts, twirling to knock aside a de-antlered beast.

“I’m sorry we didn’t join sooner. We used to be so similar, Molasses,” I chop into an oncoming deer and lose most of my arm.

“Together then?” 

“Aye. Together.”