The three of us walk in a daze towards the store. The smell of delicious caramel and chocolate and honey and sweets unknown to mankind has us in a hypnosis. See is even faster than us. Es follows. Mr. Om is left with no choice. Duh.

The words on the awning up front are in some foreign dialect, but as we approach the shop, the words magically reshuffle and become normal, English letters. That’s one fine paraphraser, is all I can think.

Still, this isn’t as weird as an old lady with spectacles and a newspaper being in the same washroom as you. Also, convenient for us, so who cares? I can tell you who doesn't. (This guy - points at myself.)

This is what the new legible words on the awning cry: MR. CELLOMANN'S SWEET SWEETSHOP!

I imagine my drool must be fostering like a wolf's, but do I care? Just so we’re clear – no, I don’t.

Aar is a twin in the matter. I look at the shop; he looks at the shop. I look at him; he looks at me. Together, we exclaim: 'Sweet!’

(I think I might have a shot at getting that telepathic connection with Aar like Bee does. Hm, we’ll see about that.)

See barks. I think he’s trying to say “sweet” too, but no, boy, not happening. Never getting that tongue back, nuh-uh.

(Gosh, talking See is going to work his way into my nightmares somehow. I can feel it. Shivers all over.)

Mr. Om is fuming. I can almost see the vapors boiling off of his perfectly round head. ‘What do you think you are doing? Do not get distracted!’

‘Who says we’re distracted?’ Aar says. ‘We’re just hungry. Right, Mar?’

‘Right, Aar,' I drone.

'You kids will get us all kil – '

'SEE!’ Bee calls out. ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?’

For See has proceeded to attack the pie-palace in the outdoor display. Ah, I wish I were a dog. (No, not really, though.)

See doesn’t pay any attention and further proceeds to enter the store. Bee rushes in after him, and me and Aar after her. Es is swooning over the Sugar-Mountain, which is essentially a giant levitating cushion made of cotton candy and enclosed in a glass-cage. Good for her. She can’t eat any, conjunctions of being a spirit and all, but what’s the harm in looking?

The smell inside the store is even more overwhelming. I feel like the scent will lift me off the ground and pulverize my olfactory lobes with it’s sheer electric purity.

Now, picture this. We enter the sweetshop through a doorway. We are now standing in a narrow hall. Well, I guess wide enough for two and a half quarter grown men to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The hall is long. Extends far as the eye can see. There are treats on our either side, going on and on and on, ending only where the endless hall ends.

And right by our side, there are nine (or is it ten?) men made entirely of jelly. I have never for the life of me wanted to eat a man so bad before.

But then one of them speaks. And that crushes the mood. 'Welcome, stranger,' the green-jelly guy greets. ‘Mr. Cellomann will see you shortly. Outside eatables are prohibited.’

The yellow-jelly guy makes a nervous sound. ‘Eh . . . dear strangers, could you – could you ask this wild boar to not chew at my foot?’

'See!’ It’s a task for Bee to get the dog's teeth out of the yellow-man's jelly legs, but she contrives anyway. Turning to the traumatized guy who now has a disfigured foot (he should be grateful the whole darn thing wasn’t bitten off), she says: 'Actually, See's not a boar. I wonder how you could've made that mistake. She’s very clearly a canine - '

'Bee, we’re in a jackpot fantasy land,' I say, 'and you’re fact-checking? Come on.’

I swear. Dorks. They’re something else.

(Love Bee, though.)

Aar chips in, comforting the wiggly yellow-jelly man. ‘Hey, we're really sorry on behalf of the “boar”.’ He stresses much more than is required on the word, just to put a pan in Bee's face. ‘Do you need a crapebandaid or something?’

'Ayuh, no,' a voice behind us replies. ‘He’ll be fine. I’ll just have to stuff more jelly into him tonight.’

We turn, all of us. To see probably the wackiest dude we’ve ever seen in our lives.

For one, he’s wearing a hat. A hat made of colorful chocolate gems. For another, he’s crazy tall. Like, he’s a giant. But not in width. Breadth-wise he barely qualifies for a straw. Like, if you were to take a ratio of his height and his thickness, it’d be like comparing a football stadium to a prison cell. Get the picture? Now I see why the hall has a high ceiling but a narrow passage. Also, the guy’s wearing clown make-up. Excluding the costume, though; for his attire, he has an ASOIAF extra’s suit. So there you have it. Wacky. As wacky can be.

Mr. Om seems a bit stiff. He’s a tall guy himself, but has to crane his neck to find this wacky dude's face. Which, clearly, makes him look like a fool. I enjoy seeing that.

‘And you are - ?’ Mr. Om says. I do not think he likes this new guy.

'Mr. Cellomann, me is called,' the tall, wacky dude says in a cool, wacky voice. ‘Named by the mother, shaped by the father, loved by the world. How may I help you today?’

I swear, the guy who wrote the screenplay to the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie (Bee told me it’s a book by some Roald Dahl guy, too, but do I look like I care?) has never met this guy. Because this Mr. Cellomann is Willy Wonka who bumped his head on his candy-cane.

'Actually, we were just wandering idly,' Mr. Om says. ‘Just curious, you know. We'll be taking our leave now.’

Mr. Cellomann tilts his head dramatically. His hat falls off, and the adhesive gems are separated. See goes to work.
Meanwhile, the guy stamps his hands against his long cheekbone and practically shouts: 'Nein, noky-nopey, nope, let’s subvert this old silly chocolate trope! No one who has stepped into this sweetshop has gone out empty-bellied, who’re you to defy that tradition, Thatcher?’

‘Thatcher?’ Mr. Om says. ‘Who’s Thatcher?’

'Why, my nephew, of course.’

‘Then why'd you call me Thatcher?’

'Isn't that your name?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then what’s your name?’

'You can call me Om.’

Cellomann seems genuinely confused. ‘So you aren’t my nephew?’

I shake my head. This guy is nuts. But this place is legit.

While Mr. Om is engaged in this highly interesting conversation with Mr. “Wacky” Cellomann, Aar, Bee and I sneak around to explore. Of course, See and Es keep us company.

What? It’s not like I don’t want to find the Coven and get this over with. But how are we supposed to do that on an empty stomach? And it’s not like anyone here in Lakoswa-boggle-gobble-whatchamallik is telling us their address anyway, so where’s the demerit?

Now, the place. Let’s give you an image to look at.

Trust me, it has a lot of stuff even wackier than it’s owner.

There’s a caramel raft (don’t even ask me how that works), a relatively small ride which is somewhere between a rollercoaster and a cocoa-maker, a tree with donuts instead of leaves, a custard pool which somehow stands vertically upright (wow, the physics in this place is astounding), a row of statues made of gum (with the label kindly don't provoke pasted on their sticky faces), a Vacuum-Milkshake-Man Machine (which, don’t even get me started on) and a couple – or let’s say a trillion – other things that make your taste-buds go “I didn’t know I needed this, but now I really do”.

Hungry yet? Me too.

‘Let’s get this party started!’ Aar says.

I move after him, but someone grabs me by the corner of my shirt. (Horror Gaba vibes.)

‘Where do you think you’re off to, Mar?’ Mr. Om croons.

‘Oh, come on,' I mutter.

Good news is, Mr. Cellomann has accompanied Unc – I mean, Mr. Om. And he won’t let us leave till we have had his brand new lipid-free huckleberry-bookshelf. Company policy, he says. I doubt that, but I like the policy if it indeed does exist.

So moments later, we find ourselves sitting on a table, waiting for our dish. Mr. Cellomann orders a red-jelly-man to fetch it for us. There’s an awkward pause at the table, in which I stare at Mr. Cellomann's wacky orange hair, now that his gems-hat is inside See's gut.

'So . . . whatcha foreigners doing here in our humble little city?’ Mr. Cellomann inquires, crossing his long, grasshopper legs in front of him.

Mr. Om snots. 'I'd hardly call it humble.’

‘Don’t mind him,' Aar says. ‘He gets grumpy when he's hungry.’

Mr. Cellomann snickers. I think him and Aar would be good friends. That makes me kind of jealous, to be honest.

'Actually, we're here to find the Coven,' I say, hoping against hope maybe a wacky personality such as Cellomann here knows of them. ‘Have you any idea where we can find them?’

The man goes from wacky to wacky pale all in the course of one wacky blink. ‘Why – why – why – why – why – why would you want anything to do with the – the – the – the witches now?’

So he’s scared. Like everyone else here in Lakoswa-boggle-gobble-whatchamallik. No biggie.

'Nevermind,' I say.

Soon our huckleberry-bookshelf arrives and – as excepted – it’s delicious. Fat-free, not so much. We bid goodbye to Mr. Cellomann, who has looked quieter ever since the mention of the coven, and apologizing once more to the yellow-jelly-man with half his leg bitten off by See at the entry, we leave.

I turn to around to have one last look at the best and most wacky experience I’ve ever had in a sweetshop.

(I think I’m addicted to the word “wacky”. Actually, I’m pretty sure I am. If I use it one more time, you can cordially – and wackily – slap me in my ugly face.)

(Hey, I didn’t say wacky! I said wackily! There’s a difference!)

(. . . wacky forever . . . )

You see, the thing is, I can’t see MR. CELLOMANN’S SWEET SWEETSHOP even after turning around.

Someone is blocking my way. A tall, muscular man someone.

So this chapter was way longer than usual. Would you rather that I split it in half or is it fine the way it is? Also, how'd you like it?

Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me (times infinity).