A Taste of Death

         Nestled upon the metallic surface of Jupiter, hidden within the middle storm band of System One, is a glistening pimple of life: J-10 -- one of many Diatanium Hexaplate domes constructed out of two-mile wide, hexagonal plates of diamond, welded together by titanium, and spread throughout the Galaxy. Encased by the glistening dome structure of J-10 is the Jovian metropolis of Phlur-Goneous Keptem-8, home to about ten million inhabitants.

         One person you will meet, who calls the bustling metropolis of Phlur-Goneous Keptem-8 home, is George DesMartes du Chute-Tu. George is a thin and agile man, with a pale complexion, sandy hair, and, wouldn't you know, is deaf. George learned to lipread early in life, so you’d never guess he couldn't hear you if you met him and had a conversation. Besides being thin, agile, deaf, and extremely accurate with most any gun, George is a big fan of the food service industry. Being so, George is also a connoisseur of fine restaurant etiquette.

         On this particular night, we find George wearing a swank pressed suit, as he decided to dine at the most exquisite restaurant in all of J-10. It’s name is Shaunté Cuisine, and is located in the northeastern Orange District of downtown Phlur-Goneous.


         Shaunté Cuisine is an interesting restaurant for several reasons, and being located on Jupiter isn't one of them. The food you can order and have served to you, you can pick out from a buffet -- if you don’t like mucking about with waiters and menus; or, if you just want to dine-and-dash. But as awesome the buffet option is, that is only one reason why Shaunté Cuisine is the most exquisitely fabulous restaurant in all of Phlur-Goneous Keptem-8. When you walk into the sound-proof venue, you never realize the kitchens are behind the walls to your left and right. Nor do you think that one of the many stages surrounding the dining area is above you, secured by re-enforced ceiling beams. These stages help separate different rooms with live bands from rooms that are hosting a theatrical play, a historical re-enactment, a musical, a comedian, a solo artist, or various competitions – such as beauty pageants, lottery drawings, wet t-shirt contests, and bingo, as entertainment options for its patrons as they eat, drink, and spend money. Right smack in the middle of Shaunte Cuisine is an Amusement Arcade for children. The architects deliberately put the Amusement Arcade in the middle of Shaunté Cuisine to help control where children are at all time, and is important in keeping the peace throughout the restaurant.

         Yes sir, Shaunté Cuisine is definitely a first-rate dining experience without being snooty. You only have to wear a tie if you want to, or are dining in an executive room, where a tie is required.

         George came here to dine at Shaunté Cuisine for two reasons, and neither concerned the Amusement Arcade or wearing a tie. The fabled Mr. Dennys is said to make an appearance here, ever so often, at Shaunté Cuisine. George fondly remembered his dad telling him about the strange character, Mr. Dennys, who has the uncanny ability to materialize anything for people in need – like a sum of money, foodstuffs, or other random whatnot – but cannot materialize anything for his own self. For some strange reason, his ability doesn’t work that way.

         George didn’t need anything materialistic. Although, he did want to see, or perhaps meet the urban myth: Mr. Dennys. Huh! Mr. Dennys must have one hell of a life. It must drive him crazy not being able to help himself. Man, it’s hard to imagine what it would be like if I couldn’t help myself, but could only help others....

         Beside Mr. Dennys, George wanted to try the Cattlemoth steak at Shaunté Cuisine. I’ve heard they serve the tenderest cuts of Cattlemoth in all of Phlur-Goneous! Man, I can’t wait to tear into a nice-n-juicy slab of meat! Too bad it took me three years to earn enough credit to eat here.... But at least I’m finally here!


         Standing amongst the autumn lure to the entrance of Shaunté Cuisine, amidst the ambient orange and yellow lighting, George was caught mid-thought by a short-n-plump penguin-looking maître d’, who waddled up to check him in.

         “Nom, mís-suer,” asked the maître d’.

         “Du Chute-Tu, George.”

         The maître d’ scrolled a finger down the screen on his podium, tapped it, and said, “`es, Myst`r du Chute-Tu. Plez, fuh-loh mii.” George followed him into a light-blue neutral room, not far from the entrance. He didn’t want to be distracted from his Cattlemoth steak by bad music, bad acting, or children running about, so George made sure to reserve a booth in a neutral room.

         This light-blue neutral room had no entrance to the Amusement Arcade, because children aren’t allowed in this particular room. And, instead of a band playing – the performance stage is also closed off in this room – lite music is piped in through speakers hidden in the ceiling. They’re hidden to enhance the patrons dining experience, and keep the environment looking as natural as possible. The management of Shaunté Cuisine make sure to have at least four different neutral rooms at all times, set at various levels of a silence, and one neutral room with a child option -- even though children are rarely quiet.

         The plump maître d’ swerved around tables and lead George to his booth, linked to other booths, in the middle of the light-blue neutral room. He said, “`ere es ur tabil, mís-suer. Plez, `ave eh ples-sant di-ning `x-perie-ence. An’ thaunk yoo fur die’n’n at Zhaunte Coozine.” He bowed and waddled back to his Check-In post at the entrance of the restaurant.

         As he slid into his booth, George thought, I’m not sure if that maître d’ is human or an android. Of Course, I could do some dig’n.... He was already enjoying himself, and liked the saltwater fish tanks – filled with exotic fish, crustaceans, and mussels imported from the last oceans on Earth – that lined the top of the dining booths.


         Seconds after George sat down, a limber young waiter with a bad part, fake moustache, and a French accent – that’s decidedly not French – appeared like a phantom before his table. “Good evening, bon vivant,” he said, handing George a 30-page menu. “What would monsieur like to drink?”

         George said, “Water’s a good start,” and began thumbing through the menu.

         “Mmmm-k,” smirked the waiter, and plinked George’s drinking glass with his light-pen. George arched an eyebrow, glanced at his drinking glass, looked back at the waiter, smiled and shook his head in disbelief. As if nothing happened, the waiter asked, “Would monsieur care for an appetizer before ze main me-al?”

         George flipped back to the first pages of the 30-page menu, scanned the appetizers advertised, and took note of the daily special. He said, “I’ll pick form the Salad Bar,” and thought, Greens are healthier than soup.

         “Very good,” said the waiter, scribbling on his electro-pad. “An` for ze main me-al?”

         “I’ll have a 10-inch cut of your Angus Cattlemoth steak. Bloody-rare, but flame-kissed. And I’ll have it served.”

         “Bludie Ungas, ... 10-ench....” -scribble, scribble- “Fleem kessed.... Teh-bel....”

         “And, I’ll take a lite sherry with that,” said George, fingering through the end pages of the menu.

         “Sssher-rie, l-lit.” -scribble, scribble-

         “Aaaaaand, I’ll pick up something from the Ice Cream Bar for dessert,” concluded George, snapping shut the 30-page menu, handing it back to the waiter.

         “Bar, ... cr-r-reme....” -scribble, scribble- “Very good, monsieur,” said the limber waiter, taking the huge menu. “If you know where the Salad bar is, I shall check back with you, momentarily.”

         George nodded and, like that, the waiter disappeared as mysteriously as he first appeared. George blinked rapidly. His eyes darted left-to-right, right-to-left, before he dismissed the thought of a phantom waiter. George stretched his arms, then slid out of his booth and headed for the nearest salad bar.


         Grabbing a bowl from the end of the bar, George started with a base mix of lettuce, shaved carrot bits, and purple cabbage, coded with vinegar. He peppered the foundation with chopped bits of tomato, then sprinkled it generously with bean sprouts. He then slathered it all with creamy Ranch dressing, and topped it off with chunks of blue cheese and a handful of croutons. Yeeaaahhhh! Take that Ceasar.... Whoever you are.

         Pleased with the mix, George walked back to his booth and ate his salad.

         Minutes later, as he rushed from table to table, the limber waiter noticed George nearing the bottom of his salad bowl. He ran into the kitchen.

         After finishing the salad, George thought, Yeah, I should’ve went with the Italian dressing, instead.

         Right on beat, the waiter ran out the kitchen, appeared at George’s table and replaced the empty salad bowl with a rare cooked, 10-inch, T-bone cut of flame kissed, 100% pure Angus CattleMoth – sauteed in it’s own bloody juices and garnished with a single twig of parsley. Just the way George liked it. Mmmmmm-mmmm, he salivated, whilist rubbing his hands together. Smells like Heaven! And, thank the Great Baker, no cloves! Diesel Diner what’re you thinking?!


         As George tore into his bloody CattleMoth steak a floozy with dark, shoulder length hair, a thin oval face, and looking like somebody from out of the 1960's had sauntered up to his booth. She was wearing a gaudy, pink pastel dress lined with fuzzy dangle balls, and a pair of black knee-high boots. With a big smile plastered across her face, she said to George, “Hey, hey, there, daddy-o! O, o, o! Mind if I join you? You, you, you?”

         George devoured three good bites of his deliciously tender Cattlemoth steak before he acknowledged the floozy talking to him. With thin, red juices dripping off his chin, he glance dup at her and said, “Huhhh?!”

         “Cool, cool, cool, mine honey child-child,” said the floozy, tucking a lose strand of hair behind an ear. She flashed a broader smile than before (if possible), and slid uninvited into the booth. “My name’s Linda, love child-child. What’s your name, honey love? Love, love, love?”

         With the thin Cattlemoth juices still dripping off his chin, George eyed Linda like a wolf protecting his meal. And, after a measured silence, he finally answered, “George. George du Chute-Tu.” He grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth. Great! Now I have to act civilized with this chow sitting in front of me. Yeah, right! He resumed attacking his bloody Cattlemoth steak.

         Linda watched George, for a minute, eating like a caveman. Then she glanced around the room, looking for something to say, and found nothing. She looked at the exotic fish swimming in the tank above George. She tapped her finger on the table and looked at the ceiling, trying to spot the hidden speakers. Finally, out of frustration, she said, “Hey, hey, hey, daddy-o. O, o, o! How about we go to your place? Eh, eh, eh?”

         Linda blinked hard, thinking, I can’t believe I said that, skrat! I’ve been sitting here with White Rabbit for, what, two minutes now, pow-wow? Oh well, ... I said it. Shtick! Time to deal with the sequel.... Her emotions swirled at the thought of what if. What if White Rabbit had said, ‘Yes, yes! Yes, honey-dollop! Lets’s flop, an’ go back to my place, ace! Let’s go right now!’ ... Meow, meow, meow! Linda sat there, watching George finish his Cattlemoth steak, trying to think of what to say next.

         George put down the meatless Cattlemoth T-bone, looked up at Linda, and said, “You know, I was enjoying myself before you disturbed me....” She winced, the dangle balls on here pink pastel dress wincing as well. But George continued to say in a cool even tone, “But, relax, sugarplum. I never turn down the company of a pretty lady,” and Linda felt her tension slip away. She thought she saw George’s eyes glimmer as he said, “If you wanna join me, that’s fine.” She looked down at the table and smiled, while George’s left eye twitched. Something about her smile reminded him of ... of somebody.... He kept his cool, though, and rambled on, saying, “Lady, if you wanna have some fun, well, then, that’s fine too. But that’ll have to wait until after dessert.”

         Linda, a.k.a. Taste, found herself relieved when White Rabbit didn’t agree to go back to his place right away. Distracted, she was thinking, Would’ve I?... But George made it easy for her to focus on knocking him out and deliver him to the Red Queen. So Linda continued to smile, and said, “That’s cool-cool, daddy-o. O, o, o! I’ll swing with yah – whichever way, yah say. But hey, hey, hey! Dinner, what ho? Did you know the dish ran away with the spoon? Yeah, yeah, too soon, forsooth?...” Maybe I can spike his drinky-drink, and drag him out of here-here, within the hour. Chowder!

         “Of course, sugar-baby,” answered George, simmering in his own thoughts. “Step-mom owns a farm down south. And, wouldn’t you know, she herds cows who jump over the moon!” George knew the jargon of the catering business. It put him at ease.... And on edge. He smiled, and thought, Linda, that pink dress you’re wearing contrasts nicely with the light-blue in this neutral room. But, still, sugar dumpling, your smile....

         “Ooh, tre-chic,” she said, playing into George’s trickery. “Prey, do tell more, Mr. Mister!”

         “Okay,” George accepted, his thoughts honing in on that smile. A smile not as bright, nor as lovely.... “You said your name was Linda, right? Well, Linda, as long as you’re eating with me tonight, I’ll tell you more. Otherwise, I’ve been taught that it’s bad dinner etiquette to conduct a conversation without eating. Will you join me for the buffet?”

         “Oh, hey, groovy vibration, love child. Wild, wild! Your style’s a mile above the rest! Oh yes– yes–yes!” Linda jumped up and down in her seat like an excited child, making the fuzzy dangle balls of her pink pastel dress dance about in a pleasantly distracting way. George’s smile was purely authentic.


         As if listening to their conversation the limber waiter – with a bad part, fake moustache, and decidedly non-French accent – appeared from out of nowhere, looked at George, and said, “Monsieur?” George nodded. The waiter turned his attention to Linda, and asked, “What would madàme-moiselle like?”

         Linda looked around the room for a moment, then said, “I’ll take whatever he’s having,” fluttering a hand at George, who looked brusquely at her, meatless T-bone clasped firmly in hand. “You know so, daddy-o. O, o, o!” She flashed her big bright smile, and in her eyes George saw pure joy.

         He wiped his mouth, and smiled back. An image was coming into focus in his mind. He masked his thoughts perfectly, though. He told the waiter, “Scratch the end of my first order. I’m almost done with my steak, here.” The waiter looked suspiciously at the meatless T-bone. “We’ll choose from the buffet in a minute.”

         The waiter repeated, “Scritch ... ole ... ordah....” -scribble, scribble- “Open ... buffet.... An’ what would madàme like to drink?”

         “Ditto.”

         “Excuse me, madàme?”

         “Whatever good ol’ George, here, is have’n.”

         “Bring us of a bottle of the house wine,” he said, feeling spirited.

         “Oh, you. You are trying to be my love child, aren’t you, daddy-o? O, o, o!”

         George smiled, slightly.

         The limber waiter scribbled on his electro-pad one last time, and said, “Very good,” and vanished.

         Linda, shocked by the vanishing waiter, looked around, befuddled. George said: “Don’t worry about him. He does that.” Linda shook her head, and looked at George, who resumed tearing off the tiniest bits of fat and gristle attached to the bare T-bone.

         Satisfied when he couldn’t lick it any cleaner, George sat for a bit, sucking on the tasty T-bone, and digested. He burped loudly – to the dismay of nearby patrons – wiped his mouth, took a drink of water, then got up and walked over to the buffet.

         Linda, the whole time, watched George in curiosity; then she followed him to the buffet when he walked to.

         Three tables down from their booth, toward the center of the restaurant, George and Linda picked random items to eat, starting from nowhere in particular. Linda wasn’t sure if George was trying to ditch her or not. When she walked to the opposite end of the buffet – to grab some Tigrical dippers – she watched him carefully.

         George knew Linda was watching him, and didn’t care. He was enjoying his dinning experience, and wasn’t about to let a floozy from the 1960's ruin it for him. But, if she wants to make it later, well, then, that’s fine.


         Back at the table, Linda sat and picked at her meager five plates to George’s eleven. She said: “So, what were you say’n about your mom, sugar daddy-o? O, o, o,” and picked up a sky-tuna on rye. She took a healthy bite, decided asking anything else would sound too possessive and off-set the mood.... If there was a mood to off-set. At least he didn’t turn me away when I asked him to go to his place.

         With the last bite of an English biscuit, George sopped up every last bit of spam chowder from inside the bowl. He was determined to waste none of it. In the meantime, he said, “My step-mom owns a nursery out in Hydross Q. I learned how to raise Cattlemoth there, when I was younger. And, as far as I know, she also has the best way for rounding up chickemoles....” He paused to eat the soggy biscuit.

         Between bites of her sandwich, Linda said, “Which is?”

         George chewed his biscuit, swallowed it, took a drink of wine, then laconically said, “Dynamite.”

         Linda choked on her sandwich. The lite music from overhead mingled with the sounds of silverware plinking against dinnerware. Linda wiped her mouth, took a drink of wine – to help stead her composure – and said, “You mean, old-Earth style dynamite?”

         “Of course,” smiled George, taking another drink of wine. “First, make sure you find both entrances to the chickemole’s dug out. Throw a stick of dynamite in one hole, then run to the other hole with a couple of good sized bags. And, after about a minute, you’ll feel the explosion rock the ground, as well as hear it. From then on, you’ll be knee deep in excited, deaf chickemoles!” George grabbed few of Linda’s Tigrical dippers and ate `em. He took another drink of wine, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and said, “Yeah, my step-mom’s from old-Earth. So, you know, ... anything I learned of the farm is all I got to learn about her past.”

         “And that says it all,’” Linda cut-in, surprised by the nostalgia she felt over a school lesson she hadn’t thought of in years. “Yeah, yeah; love, love. I’m familiar with the old expression: Respect your elders,’ and all, doll.”

         They chuckled gingerly at a school lesson ingrained in their hearts – if not their souls – forever. Linda started eating her Tigrical dippers before George ate them all, and he refilled their glasses. Then, he stacked another empty plate for the busser to clear away, and chose next to eat a thick-n-juicy, leg of lamb chop – sauteed in a light French wine. He feasted upon it fiercely, like a starving Saber-Toothed Ramshackle.

         Eat that, George! Yeah, yeah, yeah! Go! Go! Go! Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Yeah, yeah, yeah! Go! Go! Go! Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Linda found herself overrun with spectator-like delight, as she watched George devour the leg of lamb chop. Don’t be civilized, my sugar daddy-o. O, o, o! Be the caveman you are. Are, are, are!

         And eat, George did. For about ten minutes! So did Linda, as she jibed with the vibe George was exuding. Soon, the dishes pile up, and George was down to his last – a bowl of minestrone.

         Linda finished her meal three plates ago, but was halfway through an ice-cream sundae comparable to Mount Everest. Her metabolism takes care of what she eats, so she never has to watch her figure.

         Alas, for as pleasant as everything was, George couldn’t enjoy his bowl of minestorne – growing colder and colder – because a rude patron a booth over was arguing with the waiter about the wine selection. The commotion forced George to excuse himself from the table to visit the restroom.

         As he walked out of view, Linda slipped a vial of Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid out of her knee-high boot. She looked around, making sure nobody was watching her, and dumped the vial of GHB into George’s bowl of minestrone. She stirred it into the Italian soup, mixing its flavor with the virtually tasteless date rape drug. Mmmmm, delicious minestrone! Stir yah, arone! Too bad Benevolence wants you alive White Rabbit, dang nab it, or I would’ve brought the cyanide. Raw hide!...


         A few minutes passed, and George returned from the restroom. He was relieved to see the person arguing with the waiter before was now drinking a Merlot. Linda also felt relieved when George returned. She asked him, “Did everything come out all right, daddy-o? O, o, o?”

         George sat down, and said, “Oh, yeah. Yeah.” He looked at Linda with a calculated coolness in his eyes, and wondered what her concern was. “Just some gas, cupcake. I didn’t think it’d be polite to unleash it at the table.”

         Linda giggled, and said, with heavy sarcasm, “Aren’t we the gentleman? Eh, eh, eh?”

         George smiled politely, looked down at his bowl of minestrone, begun to stir it, thinking, Where was I? Oh, yes, dessert! At length, he said, “I’m not sure if I want to eat this cold soup or not. I mean, it’s still good soup, n’ all.”

         Linda looked at him sheepishly. “What, your not going to eat your soup? Do you think I poisoned it? It’ll taste it if you don’t trust me.”

         “Nah-no,” stammered George. “Like I said, it’s still good soup.... It’s just that sundae of yours was calling my name before I went to the restroom.” He looked off toward the ice cream bar, still stirring his minestrone.


         Being a person of limited patience, Linda had finally had enough. She thought, I can’t take thise bore anymore! I’m gotta takeout him out with a shout! She looked at George ignoring her. Plan B! B, b, b! Slipping a dagger out the knee-high boot, Linda firmly gripped its hilt and lunged over the table, pastel dangle balls a flutter, as she shouted a menacing war cry.

         Simultaneously dodging to his right, and tossing his poisoned bowl of minestrone at her, George slid out of the booth like an oiled snake. He struck out across the dining room, putting some thinking room between himself and Linda.

         She landed safely and batted away the soup bowl with a swift kick. It splashed a lonely patron sitting at a table across the aisle; who flipped out, started screaming, then fled. Panic-stricken, most of the patrons in the light-blue neutral room did the same thing the minestrone-splashed patron did, but for no-good reason. People ran in different directions like idiots. From a safe distance, the smart people stayed to watch George and Linda fight. As they did, bets and odds were negotiated.

         Linda flung her dagger at George, missing him by a hair, sticking a chair instead. George skid to a stop by a table, grabbed a fork and knife off it, and heaved `em – one, two – at Linda as she was scooting out of the dining booth. Looking up in the nick-of-time, she rolled onto the floor as the fork and knife clattered off of the fish tank. Linda sprang out of her roll, and hopped onto a table in front of her. George seemed to freeze as she stepped – once, twice – and jumped off the table at him. The crowd who remained cheered wildly.

         Out of instinct, George whipped the table cloth off of the table he was standing next to, and flung it at the flying femme fatale, hoping to hit her with a dish in the process. Linda sailed through the table cloth with ease, making it plume majestically, as the sole of her foot connected full-force with George’s chest. He slammed against the wall, and slapped the floor as he dropped to his knees. He looked up in time to see Linda land on her toes. She smiled down at George. Her dark shoulder length hair covering half her face, and half of her dark, playful smile.

         Suddenly, George remembered. . . . He remembered where he had seen that smile before, Three weeks ago, ... in the Happy Smile Tower.... Paper Clip’s benefactor!...


         From out of his sprawl, George launched like a linebacker after the snap. He speared Linda in her mid-section, carrying her back a good ten yards before she started squirming, knocking him off balance. George let her go as they fell. He landed hard on his chest, bruising it for sure. Linda fell on hard on her arse, tumbled backward, rolling through the swinging double doors that lead into the kitchen. The cooks yelled at the intrusion, as random chants issued from the crowd, along with enthusiastic advice being yelled to each fighter.

         George, laying face down, rolled over, and rubbed his chest. He breathed deep and cringed. When he did, voices rose in protest amongst the kitchen. George picked his head up and, in front of him, the double doors burst open. There was Linda, wearing oven mitts and holding a steaming frying pan above her head. She ran out of the kitchen and took a swipe at George. As the double doors swung back-n-forth, kitchen employees were seen scampering out the backdoor.

         George pushed off the floor, barely dodging the frying pan. Hot oil spattered his arms and face, making him flinch in pain as he landed. Linda advanced, and swung again. George ducked, countering with a spinning leg sweep. Linda dropped the frying pan, back-flipped away, ducked, and sprung out of the way of the kitchen doors as they burst open again. George, at the same time, spun to a stand from the momentum of the leg sweep, and reversed into a spinning roundhouse. As he did, he banged his Achilles heel on the edge of the kitchen door when it burst opened, making him yelp in pain and fall to the floor. Simultaneously, a collective groan issued from the crowd in light-blue neutral room.

         Ignoring the crowd, Linda peered into the kitchen as the double doors continue to swing back-n-forth. She saw her friend, Gregory, run and hide behind a big stainless steel refrigerator in the back of the kitchen. When he turned around and made eye contact with Linda, Gregory smiled and winked at her. As the doors swung to a close, Linda bolted into the kitchen, like a streak of lightening, before they stopped shut.

         Picking himself off of the floor, George bit back the pain coursing throughout his heel. He rubbed his chest, and muttered curses under his breath, as he hobbled to the calm double doors. The squat, penguin-like maître d’ crept up out of the crowd, behind George, thinking the fight was over. George knew better then that, and stepped to the side of the doors. Cautiously, he pushed one open and ducked back. When he did, a boiling pot of spaghetti noodles sailed by. It hit the maître d’ square in the gut, making the noodles and boiling water splash everywhere, burning him in the process. At this point, most of the crowd started to flee with their ill-gotten gains. But, a couple of daring people stayed to watch the end of the fight.

         George saw the maître d’ – covered in spaghetti noodles, run off, screaming bloody murder – and thought, Huh, I guess he is human, after all. Turned his attention back to the fight, George charged blindly into the kitchen. Bullets greeted him as he pushed through the double doors, and dove behind the deep vat fryer – keeping it between himself and the gunman. George swiped an arm across his forehead, smearing the sweat, and reached up to pluck a grill basket – full of French fries – out of the deep vat fryer. When the gunfire stopped, George heaved the steaming grill basket overhead like an old-world grenade.

         Amid pushing in a fresh clip, a shadow crossing the floor perturbed Gregory. He looked up, with perfect timing, for the grill basket to smash him in the face. French fries exploded everywhere and the grill basket clattered on the floor, next to Gregory’s gun. He screamed in bloody terror, whilst running in circles, batting air at his face.

         Linda, standing behind the 18-inch flattop grill, screamed, “Gregory!”

         George sprang around the corner and nailed her in her ribs with a sliding elbow. She stumbled over, grabbed her side, gasping for air.

         Gregory forgot about the oil scar burned into his face when Linda got elbowed. He took a deep breath, picked his gun up off of the floor, took aim, sighting George squarely in the reticule, pulled the trigger, and his modified, nickel-plated 9mm went “click!”

         George, hearing the click behind him, grabbed a pan – chicken chunks simmering in a creamy Alfredo sauce – off the 18-inch flattop grill and flung it at Gregory, who was cursing his pistol. Alfredo sauce and chicken chunks erupted in a spray of violence as the pan smacked Gregory in the jaw, making him drop his gun, yet again.

         This time, the 9-milli went “BANG!” when it hit the floor. Linda screamed in an octave never meant to be screamed, clenched her stomach, and toppled onto the greasy kitchen floor.

         Through a mask of creamy Alfredo sauce, Gregory sputtered, “Ling-jaw!”

         George snickered. Ah-ha.... A cooked goose turned loose! He bound behind the bread racks parallel to the dish pit.


         Gregory stood breathless, as his love, Linda, his fellow operative, Taste, lay quivering in a crimson puddle, surrounded by subdued white hues and the lackluster greasy shine accustom to restaurant kitchen floors. He suddenly snapped to, ran over to Linda – her pink pastel dress becoming a dark magenta, its dangle balls soaked enough to drip – and he scooped her up in his arms. Then he shook her, begging her to reply. In response, she leaked her velvety life force onto his clothes. “Ling-jaw!” he screamed. “Wak ip!”

         That is, until a bread tray smacked him in the back of the head *TWACK!* making his vision explode into a rainbow of color. He stumbled across the kitchen, into the dish pit, knocked over a tray of glasses, and stood against the sink for a moment while rubbing the lump forming on the back of his head. Then he spied a pair of French Fry bin dividers, freshly washed and drying, on a table alongside some other prep dishes. Gregory grabbed the dividers and brandished them, one in each hand, like a pair of sabers. He twirled them at the wrist, trying to intimidate George with his fearless skill and apparent mastery of makeshift weaponry.

         George, standing in-between the bread racks, grabbed two bread trays off a rack and yielded them like shields. In pre-fight tradition, he spun the bread trays, twisting at the wrist, whilst crisscrossing his arms – matching Gregory’s fearless skill and mastery.

         The two men stared each other down, intently -- also in pre-fight tradition.

         Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan fell. It clanged on the floor, signaling the start of the melee.

         Gregory ran at George – screaming and slashing with a fury rarely seen, or attributed to, a pair of French Fry bin dividers. George defended successfully with his bread trays against a few slashes before his ring finger and pinky almost got slashed off. He jumped back, trying to shake his injured hand free of the bread tray and defending with his good hand. Gregory stabbed twice and missed twice. George counter attacked with an upward-spin, buzzing Gregory’s torso as he dodged backward. But George lost his balance and stumbled into the dish pit shelf.

         Gregory stabbed at him again – only to regret it. Linda ran in front of George, hellbent on lacerating him with a Rotila-Blade 3000 she had found in the prep area, across from the 18-inch grill. She saw it laying there after she recovered enough from being shot in the stomach.


         George freed his sliced hand from the bread tray and grabbed a metal lid off the shelf now supporting his weight. He held the lid out, ready to block Gregory’s stab attack, but Linda plowed into him instead. They furiously butted heads. George smashed more against the shelf from the vicious blow, his heads smacking the wall. Linda seemed to slam into him limp as can be. Limper than before. George regained his footing and pushed Linda off him and towards Gregory.

         Who dropped the French Fry bin divider he was holding, and caught Linda’s body ... who had the other French Fry bin divider stabbed through the back of her throat.

         George slipped by without being noticed and went through the double doors into the light-blue dining room. His pressed suit was smeared with blood from Linda slamming into him.

         Not knowing what else to do, Gregory dropped Linda’s lifeless body on the cold, hard floor, stepped over it, and reached into to the stainless steel freezer left open. He grabbed a handful of frozen cattlemoth burger patties from out the freezer, and began flinging them at George through the swinging double doors like ninja stars.

         Barely three steps into the dinning room and a frozen burger pattie hit George in the tip of a shoulder blade, making him stumble forward. A second pattie hit him in square in the kidney. That one made George stop dead in his tracks. A third pattie nailed him sideways, along the ribs, and he dropped to his knees. He winced with each hit. His arms strained overhead, trying to strangle the agony out of his back – which, obviously, wasn’t going to happen. Another frozen pattie, with freezer burn no less, smashed thru the stem of a wine glass on the table in front on him. Two more patties ricocheted off an overturned table to George’s side. Still, another pattie whizzed by George’s ear, making him dive for cover behind the overturned table. Damn, this guy’s a good aim!


         When the double doors stopped swinging, Gregory ran out of the kitchen, over to the overturned table George hid behind, and with hulk-like strength, tossed the table out of the way. In stunned silence, the table clattered on the floor in the background, and tumbled to a stop. The sound faded into a stunning silence – one of a man second guessing himself. “Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh, Awe-Awe-Awe-Awe, ...” stammered Gregory, totally shocked that White Rabbit, or George, wasn’t behind the table that he strong-armed into the – up until then – undemolished side of Shaunté Cuisine’s light-blue room. Gregory threw his fists in the air, and yelled, “Aarrgghh!”

         George, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found throughout all of Shaunté Cuisine. He completely disappeared, somehow, like the limber waiter always had.

         Gregory stormed out of the restaurant, pushing bystanders out of the way as he went. He looking back a few times, thinking, Shudg Awe ga bek, ang du sum-ting uh-bowt Ling-jaw’s botty? He found his sleek, SHX-Sudan Deluxe parked in the lot behind Shaunté Cuisine without the help of a valet – who were all milling around, dumbfounded, with the rest of the crowd. Being able to start his hover-vehicle with a palm print made Gregory feel giddy at times like this. When the motor started, he revved it twice, then raced out of the parking lot as fast as he could get.

         When he vanished down the boulevard, George had finally appeared from behind a pillar, looking like one of the many bewildered people standing outside of a big, fancy restaurant. Besides the unexpected catering engagement, George was pleased with his Cattlemoth steak. Yet, he was bummed out that he didn’t get to see, or meet Mr. Dennys. Squinting into the gloomy tangle of people, George thought, Wait! Is that him?! No. No, it isn’t.... Oh, well. One outta two ain’t bad for tonight! And, I did get the better of the two, even though that floozy did interrupt my dinner. Huh, I wonder if Mr. Dennys could fling a better date out of his sleeve? The pale caterer chuckled to himself as he smoothed down his crumpled, blood smeared suit. Then he hailed an auto-taxi and headed home, anticipating a hot bath to sooth his aching chest. George had, once again, accomplished disappearing into the night without being noticed.

* * * * * * * *

         After five minutes of driving to nowhere in particular, Gregory decided to report in. From the dashboard Comm-Link of his SHX-Deluxe, he called up the Red Queen, hoping she’d be in the restroom, or something like that and not answer. Unfortunately, for Gregory, the Red Queen answered on the first ring.

         “Mmmmm," she purred at the screen. "Precious Mock Turtle, please tell me you have White Rabbit.....”

         Gregory felt bad enough, and he didn’t hesitate to say, “Noo, yarg Hiestess.”

         “From what your face looks like, I figured as much.” The Red Queen turned away from the com screen to suppress a giggle. White Rabbit got you good! Ha, ha, ha! Her face reappeared on screen, and said, “And where’s Cheshire Cat?”

         Gregory sighed heavily, and said, “Ling-jaw’s ded.”

         With infinite patience, the Red Queen said, “Incompetent, Mock Turtle. Why couldn’t it be you, ... instead of Cheshire Cat? And what of White Rabbit?”

         Shame and disgust welled in Gregory’s throat as he diverted his eyes from the dashboard’s view screen. Blandly, he admitted, “`e, uh ... , er, uhm ... 'e dis-sa-turd.”

         “My dear, Mock Turtle, disappeared isn’t an answer worthy of Cheshire Cat’s demise.”

         “Fffffuuph ...” began Gregory, but decided against saying anything; his heart was beating in his ears from the way he felt, and the dull grey vision he’s always seen the world with started to brighten and vibrate. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he wiped the tears from his eyes.

         “Yes, yes, Mock Turtle. Keep your feeling in-check,” admonished the Red Queen, feeling Gregory’s change of state. “As I was saying, I’ve come to rely on good old Cheshire Cat’s remarkable skills through a great many Phases. Phases, her brother and I used to build this catering unit from scratch. Yes, dearly departed Cheshire Cat helped us to get a leg up on the D-n-O sector back then. As poisoning is how most of those dim sparks do their catering."

         She arched an eybrow. “Anyway, know this, Mock Turtle: You’re no replacement for Cheshire Cat in this catering unit. But I do expect you to pick her slack up, since she was nice enough to bring you on this mission – and you, ahem, let her die. So, now you’re working to replace Taste, while still being considered for the position of Sight.”

         Hearing that piqued Gregory’s attention. Contrast and definition returned to his vision, clearing the emotional blur that afflicted his sight moments ago. Unconsciously, he smiled down at the Comm screen.

         The Red Queen snarled instinctively and looked as if she was going to spit on her camera. Instead, she inhaled deeply, and said in a calm but quivering voice, “I don’t like you very much, Mock Turtle. You know this. And, now, the death of Linda makes me like you even less.” The Red Queens had the bad taste-look upon her face. “Your incomprehensible in-between-land talk is one of the things I loathe about you, most, jellyfish. I know who’ve you catered for in the past, and your meager connections don’t impress me, either.”

         Gregory didn’t think anything about that statement. He was numb enough to ignore the tongue-lashing he deserved.

         ”But,” continued the Red Queen, baiting the hook, “your connections have nothing to do with your, ahem, considerable talents. Which, by the way, have sparked a new hunt for our elusive White Rabbit. Yes! Brave, Mock Turtle, I know how personality never belies talent.” She clasped her hands merrily. “And I know how you and Mad Hatter get along so splendidly! So, I’m assigning the both of you together to track down the White Knight, as well White Rabbit.

         “I’m not totally positive how your sight works, yet,” purred the Red Queen, “but here’s the plan according to what I know you’re capable of. First, know that Linda, dear Taste, my happy enigmatic Cheshire Cat, will be dearly missed by all the Five Senses. So put this unfortunate Shaunté Cuisine accident out of your mind, Mock Turtle. The maggots will recognize her body, and do what is expected of them. And, just to let you know, Mad Hatter and Cheshire Cat were regularly doing the fruit chew. So, be sure to keep your feelings in check around him. Because, second, ...”