Cripple Wolf Page 7

  Amy and Buffo rushed to the bacon. Neither bothered with utensils or plates of any kind. They both just reached in, grabbed handfuls of the greasy meat (Amy only grabbed one handful, the other hand still hid the vial), and ran back to their kitchenettes.

  Amy grabbed a pan, put it on the stove, threw some bacon in, and set the heat.

  She kneeled down to use the Replicat 7300, a black box about twice the size of a normal microwave. It had a door on the front, just like a microwave, but no buttons to push. Amy had heard of these machines but she had never had the opportunity to use one.

  Let’s try this out. Milk.

  She opened the door and inside was a container of milk. She took it out and unscrewed the top. She quickly glanced around to confirm that what she was doing was out of sight of the hidden cameras, the Supreme Chef, and Buffo.

  The top of the vial popped easily off and the contents quickly deposited into the milk. Once the container was empty it disappeared in Amy’s hand. It didn’t melt away or turn to dust, simply one minute it was there and the next it was not.

  She stood up and placed the milk on the counter. She did another quick scan of the room to make sure she got away with it. . . whatever it was she just did. What was in that vial?

  The guards made no indication they saw anything. The Supreme Chef sat on his throne just staring off into space. Buffo was . . . Buffo was staring directly at her. His eyes glared and he no longer looked like the peaceful clown cook in touch with the universe like before—he looked outraged.

  Did he see? He couldn’t have.

  It was too late. The deed had already been done. There was nothing more Amy could do but continue cooking for the final showdown. The clock was ticking.

  The buzzers went off ending the final round. The Supreme Chef floated down and landed his throne on top of the mound of bacon.

  “Time,” he boomed.

  Amy and Buffo brought up their dishes to be judged.

  “Buffo,” said the Supreme Chef, “you shall be first. What do you have for me?”

  Buffo was carrying several balloons that floated about him. Each balloon had about a dozen brown globs sticking to it. The globs looked like small pieces of fried bread. Buffo held out one of the balloons.

  The Supreme Chef took it, “and what is this you have here?”

  Buffo held out one of his hands, spread his fingers and turned the hand around demonstrating it was empty, snapped his fingers, and magically produced a white card. He handed the card over.

  “Bacon Balloon Polyps,” read the Supreme Chef.

  He examined the balloon, removed one of the “polyps” and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and smiled, “Delicious.”

  “And what do you, Amy, have for me?” he asked turning to Amy.

  She offered up the large cold glass, “Bacon and Berry Smoothie.”

  He grabbed the glass with his free hand and took a sip. “Amazing.”

  Amy watched, trying not to betray her nervousness. She had no idea what was in that vial that she dumped into the smoothie that now the one and only Supreme Chef was drinking.

  The truth, dear reader, will be disappointing to you but would be wondrous to Amy, Buffo, and the Supreme Chef. The vial contained nothing more than a concentrated solution of monosodium glutamate, better known as MSG. Ancient health codes had long ago rid the world of the flavor enhancing miracle known as MSG but, as fate would have it, Amy had come into possession of the very last drops.

  The Supreme Chef looked back and forth at the bacon balloon polyps and the bacon and berry smoothie.

  “Silence, while I consider these treats,” said the Supreme Chef as he shut his eyes to concentrate.

  Hey kids, who will the Supreme Chef choose as the winner? Play along at home and decide your own winner!

  Buffo’s Bacon Balloon Polyps

  1 lb bacon, cooked until crisp, drained on paper towels

  2 (8 ounce) packages cream cheese, softened

  1/2 cup Miracle Whip

  1/2 cup shredded parmesan cheese

  1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese

  1/8 teaspoon garlic powder

  1/8 teaspoon onion powder

  1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  Process the bacon in a food processor. In a large bowl, beat cream cheese and Miracle Whip until well mixed. Beat in the remaining ingredients (except the bacon). Beat in the bacon only until mixed. Shape into small balls and stick on a balloon or wrap in plastic wrap. Chill.

  Amy’s Bacon and Berry Smoothie:

  1/2 cup yogurt

  1 cup milk

  1/4 cup bacon grease

  1/2 cup frozen raspberries and blueberries

  1 teaspoon bacon bits

  4 strips of bacon

  1-2 tablespoon dark chocolate powder

  1 Vial essence of flavor (500 milligrams of MSG or a generous dosage of LSD is an appropriate substitute)

  Blend all ingredients. Drink daily. Die at 38.

  The Supreme Chef opened his eyes, “Amy Kaga, I declare you the winner!”

  Amy’s heart leapt in her chest.

  “What!” screamed Buffo. Both the Supreme Chef and Amy turned to him in shock.

  “She cheated, I saw her put something in her dish. Something she brought in with her.”

  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” asked the Supreme Chef.

  “Because I was sure my skill could best any dirty trick she had,” Buffo glared at Amy, “but her bad mojo is very strong indeed.”

  The Supreme Chef turned to Amy. “Is this true?”

  She looked up at him and met his eyes. “No.”

  He looked at her for a few moments and then down at the glass of bacon and berry smoothie. He held up the glass and inspected it, sniffed the drink carefully, and took another long, slow slip. The Supreme Chef smacked his lips and sat silent.

  He turned to Buffo. “Do you have any proof?”

  “She had some kind of vial,” said Buffo, “but it disappeared after she emptied it . . .”

  “Due to lack of evidence, I must decide in Amy Kaga’s favor,” ruled the Supreme Chef. “To make such an accusation and have no evidence brings grave dishonor to you and your clan, Buffo. I have no other choice than to doom you to the greatest punishment someone of your obvious talent could ever know—a lifetime of fast food service!”

  The Supreme Chef pointed dramatically at Buffo as the clown screamed, “But she cheated!”

  There was a bright flash and the clown was gone.

  The video screen turned on showing Buffo standing beside a deep fryer holding a basket of French Fries. A pimply teen wearing a paper hat walked up to him and started yelling. The footage had no audio but Buffo’s makeup made his streaming tears abundantly clear.

  “Oh, poor Buffo.”

  The image changed to the video girl.

  “Congratulations Amy Kaga, you have cooked for your life. You are today’s champion and, after a quick commercial break, we’ll join you in the Winner’s Circle for your reward!”

  COMMERCIAL BREAK

  (The screen shows a young girl of about ten. She looks nervous as an arm from off-screen offers her a pack of cigarettes.

  Off-screen female voice, obviously belonging to someone older than the girl we can see: Go ahead, just try. One won’t hurt you.

  The girl takes a cigarette and nervously holds it up to her lips while another hand quickly appears from off-screen with a lighter.

  Screen changes to an old woman in a hospital bed hooked up to a respirator. The heart monitor she’s hooked up to flat lines.

  Screen changes to a young man in his twenties walking through a forest. He is wearing a backpack and hiking boots. He has a broad smile as he takes in nature.

  Camera zooms in on a small pile of sticks in his path that he is unaware of.

  The man trips over the sticks and falls off the path. The camera zooms back revealing that he was walking next to a very large, steep hill. He rolls down the hill hitting sh
arp rocks, tree stumps, and thorn bushes. The viewer can hear loud cracks as his bones snap against the obstacles. After a good thirty seconds of this his body finally comes to a stop at the bottom. Then a black bear leaps on him from off camera and starts eating.

  Screen changes to two middle-age nondescript men leaning in and kissing.

  Image flashes to the Earth exploding.)

  The screen goes black and “FAGS KILL” flashes up in white letters.

  Then: HOMOBOMB BY JEFF BURK

  WINNER’S CIRCLE

  Amy stepped into the large circular room that everyone knew from TV but few had ever stepped into. The room was only about fifty feet across but the ceiling went hundreds of feet into the air. Great glass columns lined the edges of the room extending from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room the Supreme Chef sat on his throne.

  “Approach,” he said.

  Amy did and got down on one knee, as was the custom for winners on the show.

  “Amy Kaga, you have proven yourself. You have bested your challengers and have earned the honor to serve others. Tell me, what kitchen in the world do you desire?”

  “My great-great-grandmother was a grand-master chef back in the old country,” began Amy, “she was a simple woman, born to a poor family, and married to a poor blacksmith. The two weathered great difficulty in their life but they were happy. The highlight of their life was the one child they had—a girl, my great-grandmother.

  “Her mother taught her the family secrets of cooking and her father taught her the art of forging steel. Combing the two she created a new school of cooking—Wu-Fu. Have you heard of it?”

  The Supreme Chef arched one eyebrow but didn’t otherwise respond.

  Amy sneered. “Yeah you have. Wu-Fu is not just a legend. It gave birth to all the great schools of cooking—Way of the Simmer, the Blackened Path, even the Clown School of Cooking has its origins in Wu-Fu.

  “Most famously, my great-grandmother forged special instruments of cooking. Her skill at crafting the perfect pot, pan, or knife was unmatched. She spent the last twenty years of her life working on one utensil—the perfect knife was what she called it.

  “One day, after all that time of toiling, she finally finished. While taking her prize home to show her friends and family she was mugged by a common thief. He managed to wrestle the sword from her and stabbed her with her very creation. He left her to bleed out in the street.

  “My family considered the treasure lost but I learned that the thief sold the blade to a private collector who in turn sold it to a television studio—he even made up a silly story about the holder being the greatest chef in the world and master of all flavor.

  “My great grandmother made that sword—the Blade-O-Matic 5600,” Amy pointed at the weapon that hung from the Supreme Chef’s waist.

  “What kitchen do you desire?” the Supreme Chef repeated.

  “I desire the “Cook for Your Life’s kitchen.”

  He nodded. His eyes stayed hard but a slight smile betrayed the corner of his lips. “I knew one day you would come.”

  He stood and drew the sword from his belt. He sliced through the air twice and spun the weapon around, handing it to Amy hilt first.

  She took the sword and marveled at its beauty.

  After so many generations the Blade-O-Matic 5600 was finally returned to its makers.

  The Supreme Chef kneeled before Amy and lowered his head. He mumbled a prayer to the Gods of graters, steamers, and nonstick pans.

  Amy unsheathed the sword and pressed the flat side of the blade against her forehead. She closed her eyes and said a short prayer to her ancestors.

  With no warning, she swung the blade down and lopped off the Supreme Chef’s head. The head hit the ground, bounced once, and then rolled a few feet away from the throne. The body crashed to the floor instantly.

  Amy kneeled down next to the corpse and carefully removed his cape. Beneath the regal covering, the Supreme Chef wore a plain white chef’s uniform. She wrapped the cape around herself and sheathed the sword at her side. She was now the new Supreme Chef and she sat down in her rightful floating throne.

  (Amy shifts about in the chair getting use to the seat. She adjusts the collar of the robe and then stares straight into the camera.)

  Amy: “Ladies and Gentlemen, you have been watching “Cook for Your Life!” Join us next week for another tasty episode. Goodnight.”

  FADE OUT

  Once upon a time, in a strange land know as Portland, Oregon, there lived a man who went by the name Jasper. No last name, just Jasper.

  Jasper liked to tell people that he called the entire city “home,” which was a nice way of explaining that he was homeless.

  Jasper spent his days pushing his grocery cart around the city collecting cans to turn in at the recycling center. Sometimes he would just sit outside one of the city’s tourist hotspots and panhandle.

  He spent his nights beneath one of the city’s many bridges. There he would eat whatever food he was able to pull out of a dumpster and drink cheap beer, bought with either his recycling or panhandling money, until he blacked out.

  Most mornings he woke up wet. Portland is a very rainy city and unless you have a roof, and a real one—cardboard shacks just don’t hold up—you wake up wet most mornings.

  Jasper was reflecting upon this terribly irksome fact about his lifestyle one afternoon when he stumbled upon a solution.

  He had been tin can hunting in the southeast part of the city. He was pushing his stolen shopping cart that contained all his finds from the day’s ventures. Enough tin to surely get a six pack of PBR.

  The area is a manicured, well-kept residential part of town, the residents mostly yuppies and college-aged-hippies. The people who live there feel safe enough to walk by themselves after dark, get blind drunk with people they never met before, and, most relevant to this story, let their cats roam freely all hours of the day and night.

  One of these very cats, a white long-hair, darted beneath Jasper’s feet from seemingly nowhere. Jasper stumbled but quickly regained his balance.

  The fluffy beast darted again at his feet. Jasper’s hands shot down and snatched up the cat. He held it out and looked the animal over.

  “RAAAOOOWWW!” it protested and wiggled.

  Jasper turned it around, flipped it upside down, and then held it over his head.

  “Yeah . . .” he said to himself while tucking the cat under his left arm.

  “. . . raow.” said the cat.

  He rooted around the many pockets in his old and dirty leather over-coat and found the ball of twine he always kept on him. With a few quick flicks of his wrist, the cat was bound. Its legs pressed tight against its body by the twine wrapped around it like a package.

  “Raow?”

  Jasper placed the cat in his shopping-cart and continued on his way, keeping his eyes open for more cats to catch. The next five were easy, there were so many cats in this city that by shear probability, he was bound to run into a few friendly, slow, or fat ones.

  But he needed some way to catch the number of cats he required for his plan. He looked down at his five prisoners and they looked back up at him—hate burning in their eyes.

  What do cats like? How can I bring them to me and make them happy they did it?

  It suddenly clicked with him and he went to the nearest pet store. The clerk on duty was either really stoned or astonishingly apathetic because she didn’t bat one heavily mascaraed eye as Jasper pushed his shopping cart, complete with five kitty hostages, through the store and the check-out.

  Once he got outside, he opened up the plastic store bag and pulled out three one-pound bags of the finest ground catnip he could buy. He put two bags in the pockets of his coat and he tore open the third bag. The sudden wafting aroma of catnip made the cats in the cart cry out louder.

  Jasper dumped half the contents of the bag over the shopping cart and everything within. He poured the rest of the bag over himself, taking care to rub
it into his clothes and hair. The cats in the cart purred loudly as they entered a drug-induced bliss.

  Jasper pushed the cart back to the cat-infested neighborhood and, in almost no time at all, cats were coming to him. He just had to pick them up, tie them, and put them in the cart. If he rubbed some catnip on their faces, they put up no fight at all. I must have gotten some primo shit, he thought.

  Soon his shopping cart was filled to the brim with purring and mewing drugged-up and tied up cats.

  He pushed his cart back to his normal spot under the bridge. It was a desolate spot, a fifty yard by fifty yard grass clearing, bordered by highways and long-abandoned warehouses. A private location where he felt safe sleeping and leaving what meager belongings he had behind when he went out.

  Jasper took the cats out of the cart and piled them on the ground. He lined them up in rows, all facing the same direction, and began to tie the cats together, making cat-boards. Then he stacked the cat-boards on top of each other, tied them together, and created a cat-wall.

  But then Jasper was out of cats. It was obvious he was going to need a lot of cats to complete this project.

  He picked up the cat-wall. It hissed at him and its collective predicament. He carried it over to a tree near the edge of the clearing. He leaned the cat-wall against the tree, and then tied it in place.

  “Behold,” Jasper said, stepping back and holding out his arms in awe, “my house of cats.”