Riding with the windows down, in his Chevy Silverado, Máni’s face starts disintegrating. Cursing himself, he quickly rolls up the windows, clutching his cheeks to avoid fragments falling on the console. From the Silverado’s stereo, Rabit’s album, THE VAULT VOL 1, blasts its introduction: a mashup of flutes and washed-out synths behind a carefree beat, grounding the track’s otherwise airborne, sparkling production. Crisis averted, Máni imagines himself confidently sliding backwards, flicking his wrist like a gangsta and moving his hips like a sex icon. He performs for an imaginary crowd of elated fans; caught up in the moment, Máni begins walking on the moon, that is until he hits the curb while turning into the pharmacy parking lot. He checks his phone’s reminder about a date later. In the sun visor, he assesses his complexion, inserting a frosting dispenser and pumping sweet sugary paste to fill each new depression.
A building crowd distracts Máni. They’re watching two women fight with each other. One pushes the other’s face down hard, smearing butter crème frosting on the concrete. The other sputters and gasps for air while her attacker pins her face on the ground; the trapped fighter screams, her face splitting open as she’s squeezed through her attacker’s arms, forcing herself out of her attacker’s grip, exposing birthday cake and sprinkles underneath. Their positions reversed, the split-faced attacker begins pulling the fondant sculptures off the other’s face while they wail in anguish. Meanwhile, the rapid rhythms on Rabit’s Windowlicker Fuckboy pound away, echoing the chaos from the fight. Máni realizes he’s running late for work and exits his pickup.
A coworker leans against the wall, breathing fumes from the dirty candle stuck on his forehead, enjoying a smoke break while Rabit’s edit of Cardi B’s Bodak Yellow crackles from his cell phone. Without stopping, Máni greets him and subtly smushes headphones on his ears, hiding them under folds of icing. He listens to Rabit’s drum edit of the Smashing Pumpkins’ Disarm: the crunchy drum loops and Billy Corgan’s warped vocals providing the perfect backdrop for him to imagine touching every butterfinger piece on his date’s delectable face that evening.
He assists customers with purchasing cake batter, ganache, and frosting, but before long, the day winds down and it’s time to head out. As he leaves for his date, Máni notices a teenager steal a box of extra small plastic wrap, no doubt fiending for the other cakes in the window.
The two share an intimate moment at the diner, locking lips and enjoying the tease of combining black forest cherry with vanilla bean. The song Somebody Loves You plays in the background, evoking a nostalgic 90s romantic vibe, but with Rabit’s woozy, distorted production adding grit that fits the charming, rundown aesthetics of the diner. An old man slouches in the corner, grumbling to himself while he stares at the couple. His flavor is unrecognizable, with a mix of edible (and non-edible) toppings scattered across his face. Old, crusted frosting from several cakes has blended into a grotesque swirl of colors, not chosen for aesthetics, but out of sheer necessity. Máni and his date leave, feeling discomforted by the man’s deadpan stare.
The two find a remote location on a service road, just off the town’s electric grid. It’s nearly midnight. The only sounds are Rabit’s final edit: Kodak Black Koppi Mizrahi, and the gasps from Máni and his date. The two pull each other close as the windows fog up, blurring their moonlit surroundings. The ecstasy of the new combination of flavors is unmatched: his vanilla enhanced by her cherry chunks and syrup, their mixed icing a faint pink as the two mash into each other. She moans as he munches on her Butterfinger crumbles; he groans as she begins chewing on his face. Searching for the climax, they munch. Searching, they chew. Soon, there is only one sitting and panting behind the wheel. After sitting in silence, they begin to cry, realizing what they’ve done: you can’t have your cake and eat it too.