Apartment above 33 Apocalypse, Evening
"You didn't need to get me a cake, Max," Sam said, in his very best aw-shucks voice.
"Well, if I didn't get you a cake, then I can't have any," Max said, beaming at Sam proudly.
"Were any animals harmed in the making of this cake?"
With Max, this was a necessary question.
"Possibly an artificial flavoring or two," Max said. "Does MSG come from animals?"
Sam tilted the cake so he could read it. "'Please Let Me Sell Your Organs On E-Bay.' Awww, little buddy, all you had to do was ask. But you have to wait until I'm dead."
"Don't be silly, Sam." Max put his hands on his hips and glared at Sam. "I am not letting you die without me."
"Fair enough," Sam agreed. "Happy birthday to me."
A mariachi with graying hair peered into the doorway. "Did somebody say birthday?"
He leaped into the room and pulled a trumpet out from behind his back. And then he danced on several flat surfaces while playing a festive tune.
When it finished, he shouted, "Ole!"
And like that, he was gone.
Max looked at Sam and shrugged. "Did somebody say 'Did somebody say birthday'?"
"Quiet," Sam cautioned. "That could start some sort of infinite loop that tears the very fabric of the known universe. Or at least make that creepy mariachi guy come back and sing again."
(OOC: This is canon. My canon is crack, laced with crack, high on crack, and shot from a crack-cannon at the moon. Establishy, and OOC is love.)