People think I'm sweet.

But that's only on the outside.

I've learned to keep an unexpressive look on my face as my minion Chica carries me around, so people won't realise that I'm recording their every move and calculating the next plan of action which may or may not involve them continuing to exist in animated form.

But sometimes I think that adults do sense that I am more than just a plastic replica of one of their favourite foods. That there is something lurking under the surface that isn't savoury, let alone sweet. They just stare.

Like that idiot Mike Schmidt.

I was sitting in his office, relaying his movements to the other animatronics via the now-defunct Police band, giving him a false sense of security, memorising his patterns, watching him stuff his face with cupcakes as the nights got more difficult for him.

Which gave me the realisation - maybe I don't need to do anything other than simply exist in order to get people to kill themselves. All that sugar surely couldn't be good for him.

So I let him go – 'fired' him for tampering with the animatronics, chomping down the cupcakes in an unprofessional way, and farting too much.

Maybe I am too sweet.