Sugar

Anton SavorAnton Savor, Promo

There’s a kind of art that dazzles before it dies.

Sugar sculpting.

You take granulated sweetness, melt it under precise heat, and stretch it into impossible shapes. Delicate wings. Crystal towers. A carousel of fragile wonder—all hollow inside, brittle to the breath. Meant not for tasting, but for display.

That was your circus, Klaus.

Not a show. Not a sanctuary. A centerpiece.

And you? You were the sugar artist. The master of melted masks. You stood in the spotlight with your freaks frozen in time, posed like edible trophies—Ajax and Damien—polished, positioned, and paraded for the crowd. Not because you cherished them.

But because they looked good on the table.

You made pain ornamental.

You spun trauma into taffy, twisted it into shapes that made children cheer and monsters laugh. You weren’t nurturing damaged souls. You were glazing them. Coating over their wounds with just enough gloss that no one would question the hollowness inside.

But sugar doesn’t hold.

Not under pressure.

Not under truth.

A sugar sculpture survives only in stasis—no heat, no touch, no time. And Klaus, you touched too much. You kept the fire on too long. You demanded too many encores, too many dances, too many acts of loyalty while the cracks in your carousel deepened.

And now?

Your showpiece has collapsed.

Ajax shattered your frame. Damien punched holes through your glass menagerie. And you, bleeding and shrieking on the mat, looked up not at enemies—but at your own creations turned back against you. The audience didn’t witness betrayal.

They saw the inevitable.

Because your artistry was a lie.

You didn’t sculpt with love or care. You shaped with fear. With control. With the knowledge that the moment your performers stopped fearing you, they’d crumble the whole display with a single breath.

You stood in the center of your masterpiece thinking it immortal.

And now you’re choking on the shards.

There’s nothing left of your command but sugar dust on the wind. Your freaks have fled. Your spotlight flickers. And the tent you so proudly pitched has melted into a puddle of broken dreams and scorched illusions.

And here I come, Klaus.

To strip away what remains. 

Because I know what sugar becomes when it dies. It doesn’t rot like meat or spoil like cream. It scorches. It blackens. It sticks to the pan in bitter streaks that poison whatever’s cooked next.

That’s what you are now.

Burnt residue.

You see, I plate truth. I craft meals that break facades and force men to taste what they’ve pretended not to feel. But I don’t use sugar, Klaus. Not the kind that blinds. Because I know the cost of sweetness without substance.

You built a sculpture.

I’m going to build a fire.

Not for show.

For cleansing.

You’ll feel it not in performance—but in absence. The silence where applause once echoed. The cold where control used to live. And when you stare into that void, remembering how pretty your masterpiece once looked, you’ll understand that it was never built to last.

It was only built to break.

And I?

I just arrived to sweep it into the bin.