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You were a farmer. Which meant, you spent a lot of time alone, tilling the fields and planting seeds. So, you didn't have many friends...yet. You could count on one hand the number of friends you had, but soon you would need two hands, and that was an exciting prospect. Even more exciting, however, was the letter in your letterbox. You got a letter! From Shane, your pal! Granted, you had spoken to Shane on only a few occasions, but he was a friend indeed.
"Farmer,
I found this recipe in a magazine and I thought it sounded interesting. Feel free to give me a taste if you make it, hehe.
- Shane"
You upturned the opened envelope, blinking as a folded up recipe fluttered out, into the air. You caught it in your open hand, studying it.
"D̶̖̹̻̫͕̤̳͚̰͚͙̝̗̣͓̲̆ͣ̈́ͤ̂̋E̓ͩ͗̽̓͂̾͌̃̍ͣ̔̽ͬͣͫͫ̒̚҉̦͖̰̩̪̰̺̞̙͙̯̭̠͎̤͎̘̯͝L̷̷̨͇̼̫͈̺̟̰̫͓͍͔̗̗͒͂̈́̓͆͛̑́̓̃ͭ̆̾ͦĬ̢̧̼̳͈͇̺͍͚̘ͬ͗̔ͬ͑ͯͦ̿ͮ̄̽ͧͫͨ̾̕͝C̤̤̩͇͙̼̪̺͈̞̘͎̬̹̥̰̦̬̜ͩͬͯ̅̓́̀͢I̡̩̜̮̪̺̳͖͓̗̭̜͌̿ͧ͗͛̇́͟ͅŐ̴̢̰̠͍͎̻̜̭̺̯͎͎̝̤͔̞͉̩̿̀̈́͗̀́̚͞U͎̖̟̦̻̙̣̯͕̠̝͈̿ͮ̇̿ͥ͛̇̎͆̔ͪ͐ͦ̄́ͩ͟͝ͅS̸̽ͤ̂̾̽̈́ͦͮ͂̊̇͒̃̑҉̡̛͏͈̘͇̮̙̪̭͔͎̳͕̮͚͖ͅ ̅̓̏̄́͋ͫͦͤ͑ͪͤ̾ͫͮ͌ͧ̈́̄͠͞͏̹̳̣̦̙
̛̹̞̖͙͙̞̼̰̼̙͇̘̏ͤ̐̃ͯ͒̂ͬ͡B̫͕̜͓͕͉̞͉͎̬̙͎̥̼̰͓ͪ͋͗͜͟U̸̡͈̬̻̪̬͛̒̈́ͥ̐̒̔ͩ̈ͨͣ̎͒ͩ̔͑̉̅́N͚̺̞͙͈̰̹̭̜͇̻͔͈ͨ̈́͐̽̑ͨ̀̿͊̔̉ͬ̕͟͟͠"
You blinked. The recipe looked less like it was from a magazine, and more like it was from an ancient tome. What kind of magazines was Shane reading?
"What a Strange Bun," You murmured, walking back into your house and entering the kitchen. You dropped the letter onto the counter, but kept the recipe on hand. After all, you had finished all your chores for the morning, so you might as well try your hand at making this strange bun.
"Let's see...flour, periwinkle- isn't that a color? And, uhm, void mayonnaise,"
You blinked. You really weren't sure what kind of magazines Shane was reading.
"Well," You shrugged, digging around in your fridge, "I think I have some void mayo around here somewhere..."
Shane was working his usual shift at Joja-Mart. Which was perfect for you, because you had finally finished your batch of weird buns. They were like little chocolate cornets, except evil and filled with sin. You weren't sure why Shane would have wanted one, but you didn't mind. He was your pal, your buddy, your occasionally grumpy companion. You just hoped you did a good job with the recipe.
"Shane!" You called out, earning a glare from the only actual customer in the Joja-Mart. You wandered the many, many aisles, until you found the man himself. Shane ignored you in favor of stacking cans, again.
"Shane! I made that recipe you gave me," You smiled, fiddling with the string on the container, where the Satan croissant resided safely inside. This gave Shane pause.
"What?" He finally managed. He had no memory of giving you any recipes. At all.
"Here, try it," You encouraged, nudging the box close to him. He scrunched up his face, the smell wafting over and burning away all of his happiness.
"No," He stated, turning away and continuing to stack cans. You frowned, your shoulders dropping as tried your best to not be sad. He was your pal. Why didn't he want to eat these weird hell bagels?
Shane, not being a complete social cucumber, realized your distress. He panicked, before hurrying to say something.
"Uhm. How about later?" He attempted. Instantly, you smiled, and all of your previous gloom was gone.
"Of course! You can't eat on shift. I'll be at the pub later!" You nodded, before waving and disappearing from the store.
"Yoba help me," Shane muttered, "What have I gotten myself into?"
Shane entered the saloon like a man at his own funeral. Which is to say, incredibly awkwardly, nervously glancing around as he hoped he wasn't recognized. He slid into his usual spot near the fireplace, grabbing a beer and trying his best to relax. He waited. And waited. But, you didn't appear. Shane began to relax, convincing himself that you must have forgotten. Then, you jumped out of a plant.
"Shane!" You greeted. Shane only replied by vaguely screaming, as you dislodged yourself from the plant and half the wall, acting as though nothing had happened. Shane chalked it up to the beer.
"Here, try it now," You smiled, handing him the pristine box. Shane took a deep breath- which turned into a shallow breath when the stench hit him yet again. Then, he slammed the rest of his beer in a truly amazing recreation of an 1800's soldier preparing to have an amputation. Finally, Shane braced himself, and opened the box.
The first thing to hit him was the smell. It was like rotten eggs, curdled milk, and...the color periwinkle. It smelled like periwinkle. Then, Shane shouldered past the disgusting smell and looked at the object proper. It looked like a weird sea shell, all upward spirals, filled with a purple cream filling. It didn't look bad, but it smelled horrible, so it was 1-1 there. He looked back up, to your eager face, and to the intrigued faces of the nearby patrons. Then, Shane lifted up the mistake pastry, held it up to his face, and took a bite.
Oh Yoba, it was like eating a billion pickles. Disgusting, slimy pickles, dunked in rotten egg milk, with carp thrown in there too. Shane managed to swallow the tiniest amount, before rushing over and vomiting in a plant.
"Why are you giving me your garbage?" Was all Shane managed, green in the face. You stared at him blankly.
"Why did you mail me this recipe," You whispered, fiercely. You didn't understand. You had hoped, maybe the strange bun didn't taste all that bad. Maybe it was a preference thing. You had hoped that Shane was some sort of secret bun expert, but you had hoped wrong. And now you were kinda miffed. And a little upset, "I don't understand!" You wailed.
In the background, Pierre could be heard complaining. You didn't care, as you rushed out the door of the saloon and ran to your farm. Shane was supposed to be your pal. What had happened?
The next day, Shane sent you a letter. You contemplated ripping it up, but that was silly. Inside was a recipe for Pepper Poppers. It promised increased speed for half a day, when consumed. You grumbled, but decided that Shane was still your pal. Not the smartest pal, but he was still your pal. Your weird, weird pal. And that was pretty okay.