Okay - when you get a 1,000-word flash fiction challenge where your story has to open with a dead body... well, you already know the result aint exactly gonna be fluffy kittens and rainbows. I don't know what weird corner of my brain this came from, okay? But here it is. I'm not sure if 'enjoy' is the right term here, but - oh well, I did what I did...
(Full details of the Challenge - originally issued on 12th June 2015 - can be found here.)
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Jeremy gazed around the kitchen in a daze. It was
well-stocked, he’d give them that. Fancy-looking gadgets and gizmos gleamed
from the racks behind him, and the worktop in front heaved with ingredients; fresh
vegetables, herbs and spices, fancy oils. Oh, and a naked male corpse.
“You have two hours,” said a snooty-looking man in chef’s
whites, “to create a delicious main course from the ingredients in front of
you. It must be original, it must be delicious – but most of all, it must be perfectly
cooked."
“Yeah,” said a man in a cheap-looking suit beside him. “’Cos
we’re judgin’ you like we’d judge professional
chefs. An’ your time starts – now!”
A siren honked from somewhere above, and out of the corner
of his eye Jeremy saw the other two contestants bolt into action like rabbits
out of a trap. He stared down at the bloated body in front of him, studying its
face. It was no-one he knew, thank God – but at the same time it looked like
every restaurant owner Jeremy had ever trashed in his weekly food review
column. How on earth was he supposed to turn this poor sod into dinner? If push came to shove he could
rustle up a mean Spag Bol, but he’d never cooked a person before…
He shot a sneaky sideways glance at the contestant on his
left, who was grunting with the effort of tugging at his corpse’s head like he
was trying to rip it off. As if feeling Jeremy’s gaze on him, he turned and
grinned, flashing rotten teeth through his equally rotten lips. “Braaaaiiiinnnns,”
he said.
Jeremy turned away with a shudder. This was not his area of expertise. As a
celebrated restaurant critic, his job was to judge other people’s culinary
efforts – but that didn't mean he had to know anything about the process behind them. In fact, he
liked to think it was his very lack
of knowledge in that area that made his damning reviews so hilariously caustic.
Not for nothing was he known as ‘The Butcher’ in the world of food reviewers; featuring
in his column was an ‘honour’ restaurant owners had learned to fear rather than
welcome. But, as Jeremy had always
maintained, he was simply giving the public what they wanted -- which was clever
snark and witty put-downs, not honest opinions about the food…
“You have one hour and thirty minutes left,” said Snooty
Chef Bloke.
Jeremy’s heart almost jumped into his throat. In a panic he
glanced at the contestant on his right, who was clearly well ahead of the game
and already sipping a glass of wine and weighing out some fava beans. Dragging his
unconventional protein source towards a strategically-placed chopping-board, he
tried to remember the wall chart he’d seen in butchers shops with the cow
divided up in dotted lines. Could you apply that to a human? Even as he debated
whether any of the meat on this
particular specimen could be described as ‘lean,’ it seemed as if its dead eyes
were looking into his soul. Silently mocking him -- Ha! Not as easy as it looks, is it?
No, it wasn't. And if Jeremy couldn't pull something out of
the bag, he would soon be judged too. Harshly, like he’d judged others in the
past. And probably unfairly. He stared down at the corpse.
Okay, he thought, I've been a tool. Sorry. But if I can win
this thing I promise I’ll make it up to you. All of you.
*******************************************************************************
Jeremy picked up his creation, dread creeping up his spine.
So far things had gone badly; these two were merciless critics. Snooty Chef
Bloke dismissed Contestant One’s dish as tacky and unimaginative, citing Chianti
as being a “‘nineties” choice of wine. Cheap Suit Bloke complained he’d be the
picking the bits of skull in Contestant Two’s effort from his teeth for weeks
to come. And now, as Jeremy presented his dish, they looked down their noses at
it with equal disdain.
His palms began to sweat as they prodded at it with their
forks and lifted a small sample to their mouths. They chewed in silence, squinting as if the
action was an ordeal. Then Cheap Suit Bloke put his fork down and frowned. “You
clearly know nothin’ about cookin’,” he said. “It’s bloody ‘orrible. What d’you
call it?”
“The only thing I could, under the circumstances” said
Jeremy. “Humble Pie.”
The two Blokes grimaced at each other in a code Jeremy
evidently wasn't meant to understand, and his pulse thudded in his veins as the
silence stretched into what felt like infinity. Then they both turned to him
with dispassionate faces. “Well,” said Snooty Chef Bloke, “’humble’ is the one
thing you should be about this
effort. But since you've acknowledged that – and the other entrants’ offerings were
even worse than yours – we’re left with little choice but to declare you the
winner.”
“Congratulations,” added Cheap Suit Bloke. “You get to go
back. But when you get there, for God’s sake buy yerself a cookbook.”
*******************************************************************************
Awareness came in a rush; the antiseptic smell, the intermittent
beep of a nearby machine – but most of all, the feeling of being alive. Jeremy opened
his eyes to the glare of fluorescent strip-lighting and the reassuring face of
the cardiac consultant.
“The operation was a success,” he said, “but we almost lost
you at one point – your heart stopped beating for a full two minutes. You’ll
need to make some serious lifestyle changes if you don’t want to end up back
here in the future.”
Jeremy nodded. “I’ll cut down on the booze and rich food for
a start,” he said.
“You won’t get any while you’re recuperating anyway,” said
the consultant. “It’ll be plain hospital food here.” He arched an eyebrow as he
scribbled on his clipboard. “And I'm sure you’ll have plenty to say about that.”
Jeremy smiled. “Not this time,” he said.
Ha! That was fun :)
ReplyDeleteFrom pimp-slapping food porn right in its gross and disturbing mouth to making a life statement about our quality of food and its affect on our life -- an excellent segue!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you liked it - and thanks for being brave enough to read past the initial ickiness of the subject! ;)
ReplyDelete