The masked balls of Count Alucard were as infamous as they were exclusive. For you see, the Count had a hunger, a ravenousness he could barely control. He thirsted for toothsome treats, craved cakes and was fixated on pies and pastries. For months on end he would lock himself away in his castle, high in the Transylvanian mountains, away from temptation. However once a year he yielded to his desires, transforming his estate into a macabre cathedral to indulgence, where the sinfully saccharine were celebrated in a bacchanalian circus of the fantastical and the decadent. The guests, their anonymity preserved by their masks were as shrouded in mystery as the Count himself, but all were united in their fanaticism.
I was delivered to the Count one tempestuous evening, with instructions only to impress. As I approached he said only one thing, but the message was clear.
“Unexceptional is unacceptable”.
I was bold in my retort. “Sir, that will not be an issue”. My audacity raised the merest hint of smile. “Your confidence is intriguing Benedict, but the proof of the pudding.” He gestured to the trolley I had wheeled in. “Count Alucard” I declared as I raised the first cloche, “I call these The Irresistibles...