The Mayor and the town manager waved as their next victim approached. It was old Elke Svørtsenbørg, and she had her teeth in. She munched on their improbable whiteness while she made her way to the cake table.
The Mayor smiled his best. “Our next victim,” he said in the unctuous tones familiar to all who ever attended a Council meeting. “Only our finest,” he said, waving at the long tables laid out with Kranscake, Julekage and Limpa. Sherman’s Danes had gone to battle with its Swedes over the Best Baker title and the tables almost groaned with competitive bounty.
Old Elke made a sour face, the deep creases in her lips flattened to scars as they stretched over the unaccustomed dentures. She stuck a talon-like finger into the dark brown Kladdkaka, pulled it back and licked at it in a disgusting way.
“Too much sugar” she said dismissively.
The town manager was nervous. This was his first Jul, and his reluctant wife’s grudging contribution was a plate of store-bought blueberry muffins arranged on a cheap china platter she didn’t mind losing. Sure enough, the crone spotted it. She pointed in triumph, as though discovering a witch in church.