The Chef

The moon rose high. Flames licked stainless steel. Flesh sizzled. Blood pooled on wood. Silver blades glinted and carcasses yielded. Fumes danced over pots—great bubbling cauldrons that rarely saw rest. The pungent scent of the forest floor mingled with aged wine and spices that few knew existed. Great things from the deep were dissected and laid to rest with the constituents of offspring that would never know life. Marron Vanelle. Sorcerer. Alchemist. Chef. White-clad god of an Earth-bound realm that thrashed, screamed, and clawed heavenward with every plate that ricocheted off the pass; he surveyed the chaos and tasted salt.

Peering out from his sensuous envelope, he watched his pain disappear into mouth after mouth. A woman of twenty years took him between her lips and convulsed—the perfect combination of demi-glace, emulsion, and tincture, sparking an orgasm that raised eyebrows all around. A man anxiously searched his pockets for medication after tasting a jus procured from things that lurked in the deepest abyss. But the Chef’s gaze perched on an achingly beautiful Italian suit-jacket, under which hunched a singular grotesque. Agitator. Provocateur. Nemesis.

A grim-looking specter—a denizen of the front-of-house—appeared at Marron’s side. She relayed the traffic of the creature’s face and every nuance of its hideous form. It had demanded a concoction of the Chef’s own devising—off-menu, offhand, and off-the-cuff. Marron disappeared into his sanctum and muffled the chatter of his busy mind. He sliced skin and tore joints before committing his victims to the flame. He prayed to long-forgotten deities and anointed his offering with sacred oil before presenting the crucified beast for his critic’s approval. His prayers had returned bearing the stink of ill will. Afterward, the monster mumbled feigned courtesies, paid, and promptly disappeared.

The moon resumed its slumber. A new day, dragged into being by the chariot of fire, saw another ghoul take the guise of the patron. Marron Vanelle swallowed. Inhaled. Grinned. He knew exactly what to do. Flames licked stainless steel. Flesh sizzled. Blood pooled on wood. Silver blades glinted and carcasses yielded. Fumes danced over pots—great bubbling cauldrons that rarely saw rest. This dish would be a concoction of the Chef’s own devising—off-menu, offhand, and off-the-cuff. Critic confit with a reduction of malice, resentment, and... satisfaction.