• Mature • Food Grand Order - Episode 54: A Kitchen's Nightmare's Nightmare

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Oberan
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Food Grand Order - Episode 54: A Kitchen's Nightmare's Nightmare


1 Vhalar 718

Three Neroninburgers, five Mal aux Poivre, a bloody Kas, six sides of the Finn Fingers Basket-case.

The note with the orders was roughly skewered on the pin above the kitchen counter, then the owner of Dishes and Dangers hurried off towards the bar to fetch the requested drinks. He grabbed three different colorful bottles, searched the icebox for some cold cubes, and poured all four drinks at once, switching them all up every few trills. Once all were placed on a platter, he was off again, racing through the cluttered interior, dodging chairs and tables, and somehow avoiding spillage.

“So, four Modbombs, there you go,” he smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow as he quickly planted the longdrinks on the table. The owner was just about to run off again when one of the patrons caught his attention with an incessant ‘excuse me’.

“How long until we finally get our food? Even Finn posts faster than this!” Foster’s local mailboy was renowned for his infamous slowness at delivering the mail and, if they weren’t careful, so too would Dishes and Dangers be if these kind of comments continued to stacked up.

“Shouldn’t be too long, no worries.”

“Didn’t you say that three hours ago as well? We ordered yestertrial! If not for our free meal coupon, we’d have long since left!”

“And our hearts are warmed by your dedicated patronage!”

Free meal coupons? We ordered a tentrial ago, and we only got these dumb buttons that say ‘Famos Gay’. Where’s the ‘u’?!”

“I’m afraid our printmaker is illiterate, but he’s cheap so we can’t complain.”

“Yeah, I’m complainin’ about this damn fuckin’ wait.”

“Please get in line. Last arc’s customers still haven’t gotten to it yet either.”

“Y-yes? Pardon? Hello, I-I ordered three arcs earlier? D-do you- hello?”

But he was off again.

Not two trills later did he burst through the swinging doors to the kitchen, face brimming with excitement. As soon as he smelled the stench of burning hair, a little bit of bile, and what was definitely nail clippings from either a foot or something with a foot-like aroma, his nose almost retracted into his face out of pure and utter horror.

“Mads! Mads! Where are you? Mads! How are the orders coming along? The customers are complaining about the wait. I say you kill the fire and stop cooking right now. Make them wait another six months to show we’re not pushovers.”

He always said that when the customers got a little pushy, and they always were.

“You-?”

As if expecting the response, the owner rolled his eyes even before Mads had finished opening his mouth. “How many more times do I have to repeat myself? Yes! Customers think they’re all that. Think the world revolves around them. Think they’re king! Well, I’m an Immortal, and Immortals stand above kings. If I tell them to wait, they’ll fucking damn well wait.”

Mads’ face didn’t move, his expression was kept blank most of the time, as he was forced to do the job of seven men alone. He didn’t have time to consider what he should be feeling or how he was supposed to express it. As his employer spoke, three of the dangerously bubbling, blackened pots burst into flames for the fifteenth time that evening. “So they shall.”

Without bothering to look toward the stove, Mads hoisted a large, wide rimmed bowl filled with a yellowish, opaque liquid up off of a nearby counter and with, a quiet grunt, let the contents sail through the air in a gentle arc, splashing all over the stove and extinguishing the flames with a sizzling hiss. “That was the chicken stock for the fourteen hundred orders of Chicken Vudaloooodle Soup.” Blinking twice, he added, “Now you can tell them we are out of it.”

“Good lad,” the owner smiled, slapping the chef on the back --or at least trying to. His hand didn’t deliver any satisfying meaty sting at all, instead hitting a near invisible area around Mads’ form. He didn’t provide the chef - or, really, cook - any sort of heat protection at all, so the replicated armor was necessary for handling the hot pans and platters. There were also no spoons, because Oberan “didn’t trust them”, which meant he needed to hand stir everything. The downside - for the owner - was he was robbed of a modicum of camaraderie, something that the man seemed to find annoying, in spite of all the benefits it won him.

Normally, hygiene was high on the list of priorities in any restaurant, tavern, or soup kitchen, but since the owner wasn’t a fan of the alleged soapy taste in any meals that required stirring, the list of priorities had been reworked, and hygiene was no longer on it - along with most of the list itself. Not that it was necessary. One of the many boons of the magic was that the layers of air weren’t inherently filthy like skin tended to be. Probably. Unfortunately, whenever egg whites needed to be fluffed up for desserts, the sickening smell trapped in the kitchen air happened to get caught inside, adding a most peculiar taste to the dish which most people considered ‘disturbingly disgusting’, though there were the very rare few who specially ordered what they called the “Meat-Whip”.

“Anyway, Mads,” Oberan continued, scratching his head, “ I need you in the dining room. I threw most of last arc’s guests into Emea, but they keep breaking out, so I need you to take orders while I go fix that little issue.”

Glancing down at his state of dress - or lack thereof, clad as he was in only an apron at the very uncomfortable, oppressive insistence of his employer - Mads purposefully raised a brow, expression politely but clearly questioning. “Like… this?”

Oberan let his eyes wander up and down for a moment, fingers tapping his chin in thought. For once, Mads thought he’d gotten his boss to see reason.


Last edited by Oberan on Fri Oct 05, 2018 3:44 pm, edited 2 times in total. word count: 1028
Just because I shouldn't doesn't mean I won't.


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Re: Food Grand Order - Episode 54: A Kitchen's Nightmare's Nightmare

“Yes, you’re right. This won’t do. Maybe we should remove the apron as well. I don’t want anyone thinking I just pulled someone out of the kitchen, after all! Besides those stains and scorch marks really don’t convey “exquisitely high class gourmet cuisine”, you get me?”

He considered all the things he could say, but, after about a trill and a half, he settled on, “I… ‘get’ you, yes.” Had he been able to accurately feel relief, he would have been relieved he didn’t feel much of anything and, therefore, did not feel embarrassment, as the apron was unceremoniously removed. He wasn’t unattractive, but, in the words of Finn, the little mailman who was so glacially lugubrious when it came to his deliveries the snails looked upon him in pity, “I’ve got a tiny package here for you!”

With a wink and a thumbs-up, Oberan left Mads to his own devices, while he himself headed for the cloakroom, which was more often than not used not to store cloaks and coats of the visiting customers, but the customers themselves.

It was an odd sensation, moving about in a public area without a shred of clothing. To use the word “freeing” was far too focused upon a singular section of one’s body. It was much more accurate to describe the sensation as “not good”. As he exited the kitchen, his deliberate stride as natural as if he had been fully dressed in a casual but tasteful suit, Mads found that the entire dining area had fallen silent.

At first, he supposed it was a logical, rational response when one was unexpectedly expose to another’s total exposure, but in the next moment he realized that the silence had descended upon the room at least five or ten trills before he’d even pushed past the swinging door. Then, he saw her, and if he could have felt fear, he most certainly would have.

Instead, he simply stopped and stared expressionlessly, eyes bright and body as bare as the day he was born.

That Odd sensation in his gut twisted into something else, something primal, and he was suddenly, intimately aware that this was how the barking dog felt right before the earthquake struck. Only there was no barking, and to compare what was coming to a natural disaster was inverting a mountain into a secondary parallel universe’s oceanic trench.

An unexpected arrival that many chefs, restaurateurs, and food cart artisans considered to be the first sign of the gourmand-oriented apocalypse. Now it had come knocking on Dishes and Dangers’ doors, needing to do no more than step inside to make all complaining and begging and pleasant conversations cease. Somewhere in the back of the room a baby started crying, its parents quickly and hushedly attempting to silence it before it was considered part of the restaurant’s decor. When normal measures proved ineffective, they shoved its head into a bowl of complimentary vanilla and bean pudding to keep any and all focus off of them.

She moved with a panther’s gait, fluid and boneless, high heels stabbing into the ground, eliciting a ‘no stop!” and a ‘please it hurts!’ from what should have been the inanimate, lifeless ground as she roved her way across the length of the restaurant. A guest’s baby - one not shoved into a bowl of pudding - looked to the ceiling, sang a low, deep song that called to the Old ones in the depths of Emea - and fell over dead; its lifeless eyes struck with the wonder of seeing God and terror at the revelation that was neither merciful nor kind. His mother did not pay his passing a single glance, for she was literally incapable of it; her eyes smouldered, smoke leaking out from their sides, before they exploded into a blast of flame and superheated optical fluid.

She was not alone. All save for Mads joined her in a fiery death.

Finally, she stopped right before him; fair face, huge eyebags, a short pixecut, and the kind of clothing one would associate with a particular studious mortician. When she spoke, it was with seven tongues and three heartbeats, and three pigeons, one after another, splattered themselves dead against one of the windows, a streak of blood dashed on the glass as it slid down.

“Weuihukwejbhwlwlkwlwklkjs” she said in a tone that was both guttural torture and oddly polite. She did not seem to notice or care about his attire. “Nwejwklklekjnwljkdhbjswlkskm - Sorry, my people suit wasn’t on. Good day. Mayklnqsknwlwkmwlk - Technical issues, I apologize again. Good day. May I speak to the owner of this establishment?”

Mads nodded, polite but not feeling very verbose in the wake of the unholy destruction he’d just witnessed, and pointed toward a door to his left - her right - the planet’s east - Oberan’s back.

From the cloakroom to their left, a muffled “fuck” could be heard, and the owner emerged with a large sigh. Then, he plastered his smile back on, clasped his hands jovially together and beamed at their now only customer, seemingly unphased by the landfill of dead that now littered his precious restaurant.

“Good evening. It’s an honor to be able to welcome you to Dishes and Dangers, Ms. U’Connor--”

“The trappings of humanity are unnecessary, owner of this establishment. You may refer to me by my best name: The Cereal Killer.”

The Cereal Killer - and like Puffy the Manpire Killer, she did a lot more than slaughter her designated targets. Every chef, restaurant owner, and sommelier knew two truths from the day they could walk: Don’t park your fledgling establishment next to Cally’s lest you lose everything you own, and don’t go so low in the rankings that you attract the deep things that even the night fear: The Food Critic Sovereigns, seven reapers that dominated the opinion polls of the culinary world. Second amongst their number was Fiona U’Connor-

“I can hear you thinking my name.” She didn’t face him. Her attention was for Obe and Obe alone. “Your only warning.”
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Re: Food Grand Order - Episode 54: A Kitchen's Nightmare's Nightmare

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-Better known as the Cereal Killer - and her name was earned messily through a trail of blood and broken establishments. She slew the Robin’s Rest in the rural streets of Foster’s, the crushed the Shifting Mal-tissery and That’s Some Guda Vuda’s just by showing within a mile of either, and Vorund’s Seafood Banquet Deluxe still remained in a financial coma from the critical beatdown received after the scathing opinion piece she inflicted once she’d concluded her brief trip there. Sucking out all the souls of his best chefs also contributed, Mads supposed. She’d never touched any one dish, dissecting it by sight alone, dining on fear and terror and the owners’ tears instead. Or so the legends, eye witness accounts, and carefully documented and archived published critiques suggested.

And now she had descended upon Dishes and Dangers.

The date was symbolic; this was the same day she had scored her first big kill; the ruins of Delroth’s Ivorian Chicken Kingdom still stood forlorn in razed Rynmere (why Rynmere insisted on god-themed organisations was a mystery long after its demise), a cautionary tale to those who thought themselves too proud to be reaped.

“Well, then, Ms. Killer, are you here to make a reservation, or would you like a table?”

“The pessimism is unwarranted, Mister…?”

“Beran. Oberan Beran.”

“Mister Beran. My reputation is an unearned one. I will not need to make this a wildlife reservation for your extinct dishes unless I deem your products and services less than adequate.”

There was not a single hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Right. Table for one then?” He craned his neck to glance past her to see whether or not she’d indeed come alone, then motioned for her to follow. As it happened, her … impactful entrance had left most of the dining room in smoking, sulphury shambles (someone really needed to do something about that dead baby), yet, here and there, some tables had survived.

“Table for us.” she said. She tried to smile. The sound of unsheathed blades ripped through the shambles of the restaurant as she attempted the facial gesture.

“How many us-es did you bring, Ms. Killer? I’m afraid we cannot accomodate groups larger than four at the moment.”

“They will not be here long. You’ll barely notice them.”

Oberan frowned, checked whether or not a table for two was still available, plucked one smoking corpse off a chair, threw all cutlery and unfinished dishes off the tabletop, and snapped his fingers in a signal to Mads, who had already wiped off two plates and a pair of forks - again, no spoons - and found the least dirty tablecloth among the literally burning wreckage.

With a practiced snap, the cloth was secured into place, plates set, and, after removing a baby from the nearest bowl of complimentary vanilla and bean pudding that also doubled as a centerpiece, set the crystal vessel down just slightly off center’s center - which was very chic, so he was told over and over by his employer.

“I will leave you a small window of time to settle your affairs.” She said, eyeing the table with a truly unreadable expression on her face. “I must confer with my emean sponsors; they must bear witness to an establishment most might; or a cleansing fire. I would ask that you would ignore what is to come. They have certain… expectations.”

“I see. That is most unfortunate,” Oberan spoke, somehow managing to actually sound let down. “We will be looking forward to your return then.”

She looked at one of the far walls and breathed in deep. The universe seemed to coalesce around her, and brilliant, violently colorful sparks of energy crackled the air. She closed her eyes as the universe found its grip on her, lifting her by the neck as she choked and gagged, her human disguise barely keeping up with her discomfort. It wrapped around her, suspending her in a cocoon made of starstuff.

And without fuss or fanfare, it spat her out.

What emerged was what the wise sages of Viden would have called a-

Glamorous celebrity hose.

“HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLO, VIEWERS AT HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME.” she hollered, looking once again at the wall. Welcome to another edition of GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND ORDER, where an ordinary order simply is noOoOot enough. Tonight we return to my hometown of Foster’s- Finn, please remember to edit in footage of Robin’s Rest after filming.”

A guttural sound emanated from the ceiling: yes.

“-Where we last encountered the dregs of Rooooooooooooooobin’s Rest. I am saddened - deeply deeply saddened-” She made a face. It was not, by any measure, convincingly sad. “-That I could not help a dreamer from my very own hometown to succeed. I was forced to shut him down for the greater good of all restaurants. FINN, SAD MUSIC.”

The guttural sound that rebounded back at her had a weird whine to it: I know, I know.

“BUT TODAY, FOSTER’S GETS ANOTHER SHOT AT CULINARY SUPREMACY. I’M HERE TODAY AT DISHES AND DANGERS, WHERE THE ONLY HAZARD I INTEND TO FIND IS HOW ZIPi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-Pi-PING GOOD THE DISHES ARE. FINN, NARRATOR MODE.”

The guttural sound boomed again and The Cereal Killer was suddenly and inexplicably a Rupturer.

She popped up in front of Oberan.

“An owner who thinks jailing his customers in an emean prison counts as ‘service’,”

She disappeared, and reappeared leaning on Mads’ shoulder.

“A hardworking waiter-line cook-busboy, who finds himself facing the greatest challenge of his life: his love for me.” She cupped his bare pec as he blankly stared straight ahead - long since past the point of pretending he could fathom what emotion was supposed to be on his face -, gave the ‘wall’ a wink, and disappeared yet again. The muffled voice coming from beyond the walls told Mads that she was either in the storeroom or on the top of the building.

“AND A BUILDING THAT WILL EXPLODE INTO A BURNING EMEAN ABYSS NO LESS THAN 24 BREAKS.”

He blinked. “Wha-?”

“JOIN US ON THIS EPISODE OF

FOOD

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND

ORDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER.”

Oberan spoke, frowning rather heavily. “Wait, that wasn’t in the contra--”

But he was interrupted by the unmistakable tune of Saphire-ah and the Silver Ladies’ hit single “Hey, There’s Someone at the Door” as the doorbell rang. The door opened and a tiny head glanced around the corner, observing the scene quizzically. “Hello? I have a tiny package to deliver…?”
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Re: Food Grand Order - Episode 54: A Kitchen's Nightmare's Nightmare

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Mister Aristocratically Sexy, Mister Pale Scandinavian, and Mistress Walking Melted Crayon Box

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Notes:
I really should have gotten high before reading that.

This was... difficult to put into words. You capture the anything-goes, formless, and utterly irreverent nature of the Emea perfectly, while still reflecting your characters intrinsic natures, also. Points well-earned!

Your review request is here. Also, please indicate on your request thread that this has been reviewed by using the button below (just add my name at the end). Thanks!

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