The Bake Sale of the Century

The morning of the bake sale dawned overcast and smelling faintly of ozone—a meteorological anomaly that Tommy immediately claimed was a sign from the universe. "The cosmos supports my CEO vision!" he declared, adjusting a tie he'd found in a chest and that was, in fact, a piece of leather bindings from an old book. Tubbo, who had been up all night deciphering Schlatt's new regulations—"The Baked Goods and Confectionary Oversight Act, Section 12, Subsection B: All frosting must be applied at a 45-degree angle relative to the treat's gravitational center"—looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. "If the cosmos supported us, it would have sent a meteor to hit Schlatt's clipboard." Ranboo, standing at a folding table they'd borrowed from a villager, was meticulously piping green frosting onto a tray of cookies. The frosting was, thankfully, made from Niki's recipe and not a spider eye. "I think the angle is right?" he said, tilting his head. "I measured it with my own anxiety." Niki had brought three genuine, edible, legal-batch cakes: a chocolate sponge with strawberry filling, a lemon drizzle that actually drizzled, and a carrot cake that had somehow passed Schlatt's inspection because it was technically a vegetable-based loaf. She arranged them on a cloth that Ranboo had ironed with a rock heated over a campfire. The Prime Path was lined with a few curious villagers and several members of the SMP who smelled the sugar. Dream arrived first, arms crossed. "I'm here to verify compliance." "You're here to buy a cookie," Tommy shot back. "Three diamonds each. Or a feather. We're flexible." "I don't have feathers. I have regulations." Dream produced a scroll that looked suspiciously like the one Schlatt had been waving. "Section 14: All proceeds must be declared to the newly formed SMP Bureau of Baked Good Taxation." Tubbo groaned. "There's no such bureau. You just made that up." "I made it up with a quill and ink, so it's official," Dream said, grinning behind his mask. Before the argument could escalate, Schlatt himself appeared from behind a oak tree, holding a clipboard and a measuring tape. "Alright, let's see the setup. Table height? Must be between 2.5 and 3.0 blocks. Angle of tablecloth drape? Must not exceed 15 degrees from vertical." Ranboo, mid-pipe, accidentally squeezed too hard and a glob of frosting splattered onto the table. He froze. "I'm going to be arrested for frosting terrorism." But Niki stepped forward. "Schlatt, I have a counter-regulation." She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her apron. "Section 19 of the original server constitution, subsection C: 'In times of financial crisis, any commercial activity that directly reduces server debt is exempt from all perishable good ordinances.' I found it in the old spawn library." Schlatt squinted. "That's from before my time. Doesn't count." "It was signed by you," Niki said sweetly. "When you were trying to get funding for your presidential campaign. You wrote it yourself." Silence. Dream lowered his scroll. Schlatt's clipboard drooped. Tommy's grin spread so wide it looked painful. "I did?" Schlatt said. "You did!" Tommy shouted. "And it's in the official records! The bake sale is legally immune! We're unstoppable! We're the SMP Bake Sale Corporation and we have the power of—" "A loophole," Tubbo finished, exhausted but smiling. And so, with the regulations defeated by their own creator, the bake sale began. Villagers traded emeralds for cookies. Niki's cakes sold out in minutes. Ranboo's anxiety-frosted creations were declared "artisanal" by a passing traveling merchant. Tommy tallied the profits on a piece of paper torn from a spellbook: 47 diamonds, 12 emeralds, a golden apple, and a signed photo of Fundy dressed as a bee. By sundown, the server debt was paid off. The Prime Path smelled of burnt sugar no more—only of triumph, lemon zest, and the faint, lingering ozone of cosmic approval. As the three of them sat on the steps of the Community House, counting their earnings for the last time, Tubbo said, "We actually did it. We saved the server with baked goods." "I told you," Tommy said, leaning back. "I am the CEO of success. The CFO of baked. The—" "Please stop," said Ranboo, but he was smiling, frosting still under his fingernails. And somewhere in the distance, Dream and Schlatt argued over who had to clean up the baking permit paperwork. The Great SMP Bake Sale was over. But the legend of the three diamonds and a feather would live on forever.