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MagicianXV
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| Joined: | Mon Dec 12th, 2005 |
| Location: | USA |
| Posts: | 26 |
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Posted: Wed Aug 13th, 2008 07:46 am |
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Hey everybody! Here is my latest, which I hope you all have fun reading. If you deem fit to review, I will be terrifically grateful and offer you pie.
Enjoy!
***
Fantastic Chef, by MagicianX
“I still can’t believe you managed to get tickets!” said Molly Dawson, shaking her head. She had been repeating this phrase quite often for nearly a week, and it was beginning to wear on her sister.
“I told you, I bought them a long time ago,” Rina said patiently. “They’re not hard to get if you plan for it.”
“Yeah, and that’s the part that I can’t believe. When do you ever plan anything?” Molly locked her car door, and began to follow the steady throng of people moving along the sidewalk. At the end of the parking lot stood a tall glass and steel building, glinting attractively in the late afternoon sunlight.
“I can plan things when I want to,” Rina said carelessly. She trotted a few paces ahead of Molly, not wanting to lose the lead. “Just because I don’t like to doesn’t mean that I can’t.”
“I still want to know what you did with the real Rina.”
“I called in some mob connections. She’s been sleeping with the fishes for days now.”
“Oh. Gross.”
The girls waited for a break in traffic, and then darted over to the building’s main entryway; a security guard, rigid with self-importance, stopped them before they could pass.
“Destination?” he demanded, eyeing them with icy suspicion.
“Um—we’re going to see the taping of ‘Fantastic Chef’,” Rina offered. She looked as though she might start laughing at any second, and the guard’s eyes narrowed into paper-thin slits.
“Tickets?”
Rina passed over two pages covered in print, and waited while the guard examined them.
“You got these online?”
“Yeah,” Rina said, nodding. “I bought them a while ago, and printed them last night.”
“They’re real!” Molly added nervously. She hated police of any sort; they always made her feel guilty, though the worst crime she was conscious of having committed was jaywalking. “I saw her print them!”
“Hmm.” The guard peered at the pages for a few more seconds, then thrust them back at Rina. “Okay, go ahead. Follow the signs.”
“Thank you, sir!” Rina saluted smartly. “Keep on defending the peace, okay? Stay vigilant and conscientious! beat back the foreign invaders, and keep a lookout for extraterrestrial—whoa!”
“Come on!” Molly hissed, flushing with embarrassment. She dragged Rina past the guard, who was glaring with such ferocity that Soviet spies would have given up their darkest secrets in moments. “You’re humiliating me!”
“You’re too sensitive,” Rina observed, grinning. “Just relax! This is supposed to be fun!”
“It will be, if you stop acting like a spastic puppy.” Molly looked around, and spotted a television mounted on the wall; it displayed a series of room numbers with a corresponding list of names. “Okay, there it is. ‘Fantastic Chef’, stage four.”
“Excellent!” Rina lead the way, with Molly half-jogging to keep up. “Remember that episode a few weeks ago, where Chef Benson did that thing with the cinnamon glaze? That looked delicious, didn’t it? I hope we get to try whatever they make tonight!”
“Benson is okay,” Molly said smoothly, “but I’ve good money that says Myers beats the pants off him tonight.”
“You’re on!” Rina caught Molly’s eye, and both sisters grinned.
Stage four was up several flights of stairs, followed by a short walk through the sunlit atrium of the studio. Molly enjoyed it, and even Rina’s insistence on recounting the last two months of episodes couldn’t dull her mood. A few people chuckled at her enthusiastic monologue as they waited in a long line outside the soundstage, to Molly’s chagrin.
“Cut it out,” she hissed in Rina’s ear. “People are staring!”
“No, it’s okay!” said a tall man in a ‘Fantastic Chef’ baseball cap. “Please, continue!”
Rina shot Molly a smug look, and launched into a full recap of the previous week’s sessions of deep-frying and experimentation with red peppers. Molly tolerated it, sighing resignedly until the line gave way and they were able to enter the soundstage.
“Wow,” she breathed, her eyes coming to rest on the familiar set. “Look, it’s all there, Rina.”
“Yeah!” Rina stared in delight at the familiar workstations, set out with racks of pots, pans, knives, seasonings, and countless other culinary equipment. At the far end of the stage was the raised platform where the judges would sit and cast their critical, refined palettes over masterpieces presented by the competing chefs. “This is going to be great!”
Their seats were excellent—about three-quarters of the way toward the stage, and at just the right spot to clearly see all the activity. Molly settled in, peering eagerly at the polished countertops and huge ovens; beside her, Rina fidgeted and twisted about, trying to take in everything around her. Cameras were set at intervals all around the stage, providing a potentially panoramic view of the audience and chefs; the girls had seen this approach used countless times when they watched from their television at home, to great dramatic effect.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” Rina muttered, looking at the clock on her cell phone. “Shouldn’t they start soon?”
“It takes longer to film than it does to air,” Molly pointed out. “What they show on TV is all edited and cut down to fit into a time-slot. We have to sit through all the preparatory stuff, too.”
“Great,” Rina muttered, and proceeded to squirm for another half-hour. Just as it seemed like she might burst from impatience, some lights near the stage flashed, effectively ensnaring the audience’s attention.
“Hey, here we go!” Molly exclaimed, leaning forward. “Look down there, it’s Phelps!”
Widely known and beloved to audiences was Phelps, the faithful, ever-energetic announcer for ‘Fantastic Chef’, and Molly was correct—he was currently dashing around the perimeter of the stage, arms out, encouraging the audience to cheer and work themselves into a fine frenzy. When he had completed the circuit, he stopped, center-stage, and snatched a microphone from its stand.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen!” he hollered, to thunderous applause. “Is anybody out there ready for a good time?”
“No!” Rina shouted, delighting herself to no end, and totally missing Molly’s eye-roll.
The rest of the audience bellowed that it was ready for a good time.
“All right then! We’ve got some fantastic stuff in store for you tonight!” Phelps began to trot around the stage again, and gestured to one of the workstations. “The challenger is, of course, the talented Chef Myers—“ he was forced to pause, while the crowd went bananas for a few moments “—and he’s fired up like I’ve never seen before. This may be it, everybody.”
A hush fell over the audience. Phelps eyed them knowingly.
“This may be it,” he repeated, letting a solemn hush enter his tone. “This may be the night. Tonight, our master chef—the indomitable Chef Benson—may be dethroned.”
Having already gone bananas, the crowd tried going pineapples. A lot of them liked it and carried on for a while; the rest sat politely and waited until the others were finished.
“Go Benson!” Rina called, seeming not to notice that Molly was holding her down to keep her from leaping out of her seat in a fit of enthusiasm. “Benson forever! I wanna have Benson’s babies!”
“Would you shut up?” Molly begged, as her cheeks again flushed. “Please?”
“So!” Phelps said, nodding to the now-rapturous crowd. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to that, right?”
The crowd informed him, loudly and at great length, that they were.
“Great! Now, we’ve got a few minutes before the chefs are ready to start, but how about some entertainment in the meantime? If I’m not mistaken, we’ve got a few special guests here tonight, and I’ll bet they’d be happy to give us all a little something. How about it, eh?”
“What’s he mean?” Molly asked, but Rina only shook her head.
“Dunno,” she said. “There was nothing about it on the website. I thought it was just a regular episode.”
“Come on our, fellas!” Phelps called, and waved at someone offstage. Seconds later a quartet of white-coated figures jogged out, and the crowd began to experiment with going papayas.
“Look!” Rina squealed. “Look, it’s Chef McCreary! And Chef Kim, and Chef Gisson! And even Chef Saunders!”
“Special guests!” Phelps repeated, “and they’ve got something hot to show you! Boys?”
The chefs, who had clearly been waiting for this signal, dashed off the stage and into the audience. People began to hoot and cheer, nearly shaking the rafters in their exuberance; this was a tradition, but nobody had been expecting it so soon. Each of the four chefs circulated through the aisles, shaking hands and chatting briefly with guests. After they had stopped a few times, each of them pulled a member of the audience out of their chair and toward the stage.
“That was quick!” Rina commented, impressed. “They usually take a lot longer.”
“I don’t think this is for competition,” Molly said, watching the chefs curiously. “I think it’s like Phelps said, just extra. But—hey, look! There they go!”
The chefs had suddenly spun into action with their new acquisitions, and on this show, that meant only one thing.
“And there go the clothes!” Phelps laughed, as the selected guests were efficiently undressed. “Smile for the cameras!”
“I’m glad that isn’t me,” Molly half-groaned, though she was grinning as she said it. “I’d hate to be naked on national TV.”
“Not me!” Rina declared, prompting a ripple of laughter from anyone close enough to overhear. “I’d totally do it.”
“And here’s the theme for our pre-show entertainment,” Phelps was informing the audience. “‘Hanging around’!”
Not everyone laughed at the joke, but all watched in fascination as the guests were led to a framework of metal, cuffed into place ,and left to dangle, swaying as the chefs lit a quartet of matches. In unison, the matches were dropped, and a bed of charcoal ignited with a whoosh.
“Let’s hear it for our volunteers!” Phelps called, holding a gracious hand out to the four captives; they looked slightly less amiable now, but that might have been a result of all the fire. “They’ll be here to entertain you until we’re ready to start filming, and if anybody wants to stick around after the show, I think we’ll have enough for everyone to take a bite!”
More applause followed, and Phelps led the chefs offstage again. The suspended guests continued to struggle over the fire; they were clearly beginning to roast, and the audience was already eating it up.
“Hey, do you think they do this before every show?” Rina said Molly. “I’ve never heard about it, have you?”
“Uh-uh,” Molly confirmed. “I think it really is something special. Pretty cool!”
“Not the word I’d have picked, actually,” Rina noted, watching the suspended figures twisting in plumes of brilliant flame. “Kinda the opposite.”
The entertainment was effective, and the audience—Molly and Rina included—remained entranced until the stage crew had finished their preparations. At last the four chefs returned, extinguished the flames, and made a show of releasing the captives. Two were still conscious, and—amid deafening applause—managed a pair of shaky bows before being permitted to lie down on silver platters and be taken away.
“I’m definitely getting a taste!” Rina told her sister happily. “Everyone at school will be so jealous!”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Phelps shouted again, holding his hands up; the crowd fell silent, and the sisters edged forward on their seats. “We’re just about ready to begin! Chefs Benson and Myers will be here momentarily, and the judges should arrive at any time. I want to thank you all in advance for being a part of this momentous occasion, and tell you how proud we are to have such a fantastic crowd to watch the performance. Give yourselves a big hand!”
The crowd went papayas again, since they had all enjoyed it the first time. Phelps waited until they were finished to continue.
“Just a quick reminder than all selections by the chefs are final, and can not be disputed. The four that we cooked for the pre-show had all filled out their consent forms, and lots of you have done the same, right?”
Many members of the audience cheered that they had; Molly sank a little more deeply into her seat, glad that she had done no such thing.
“I love this show,” she told Rina, “but I definitely wouldn’t want to get cooked.”
“What, really?” Rina looked at her, seemingly astonished. “Why not? It’d be awesome to get cooked by Benson! Or even Myers!”
“You’re insane,” Molly told her, though this was nothing new. “It’s a great show, but if they cook you, you’re dead. I don’t want to be dead.”
Rina shrugged. “It’d be worth it, if you ask me. You get to be on TV, and you’re cooked by one of the best chefs in the world. I think it’s a great deal.”
“And again,” Molly said patiently, “you’re insane.”
“Whatever. If you didn’t fill out that form, they can’t pick you anyway, you big chicken.”
“And I definitely didn’t,” Molly said firmly. “Did you?”
“No,” Rina said, sounding regretful. “I should have. You can do it right on the website. I didn’t plan ahead.”
“For once, I’m really glad that you procrastinated,” Molly told her truthfully.
“So, I think you all know about the forms,” Phelps was saying “but we’re required by law to point it out. So if you’re asked to come onstage,” he gave them a wan smile, “no pouting, okay?”
There was a chorus of ‘Okay!’ from the sort of people who answer announcers at shows.
“Good deal! And—hey, here we go! Ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for our distinguished judges!” Phelps threw his hand out, bringing the room’s attention to the three figures entering from a rear door. “Let’s hear it!”
Molly and Rina cheered enthusiastically, although a quick exchange confirmed that neither of them knew whom the judges were, or why they were distinguished.
“I think of one of them’s a French chef or something,” said Rina casually. “I don’t care, I just wanna see Benson.”
“There he is!” Molly exclaimed, her arm shooting out. “Look, it’s Myers too!”
The other observers had also spotted their heroes, and the room was suddenly thunderous with roars and applause. The two chefs bowed; Myers looked crisp and determined in his starched uniform, while Benson glowed intimidatingly in a crimson silk jacket. They locked eyes, nodded curtly, and went to stand behind their respective stations, followed by small teams of assistants.
“This is going to be good,” Molly murmured. “Did you see the way they looked at each other? They’re ready to fight it out.”
“Big time!” Rina agreed, again beginning to squirm in her chair. “Oooh, I can’t wait to see what they make!”
The soundstage swelled with fanfare as the chefs and sous-chefs readied themselves; Phelps stepped forward once again.
“Good evening, and welcome—to Fantastic Chef!” He held out his hands, radiating poise and charm. “Tonight, Chef Myers will attempt to topple the regime established by Chef Benson over an unprecedented seven months of culinary battles! Many challengers have tried and failed to defeat this mighty dynamo, but Myers has sworn to succeed or die in the attempt.”
Molly, along with many other watchers, exploded in shouts of support; Rina and throngs of Benson-ites glared hotly.
“Chef Myers,” Phelps said, approaching the young man, “do you have any words for the defending champion?”
Myers crossed his arms and fixed Benson with a steely gaze; all around the stage, enormous screens conveyed his expression to the watching crowd. “I’d just like to say that I’m honored to be here, competing against such a legend.”
People clapped, but there was a definite sense of letdown.
“And,” Myers added, when silence had fallen again, “that Benson is, without a doubt, going down hard.” He shot out a finger like a spear and aimed it at the crimson-garbed chef. “That coat is mine, old man. No cinnamon glazes are going to save you tonight.”
The crowd, unable to cope with this in any conventional way, went apricots, radishes, and dragonfruit all at once. Myers crossed his arms, looking smug.
“Chef Benson?” Phelps asked, looking like he might burst with glee; this was the stuff that announcers dreamed of. “Your response?”
Benson gazed levelly at the younger chef, his lined face composed, though not necessarily calm. He took the microphone, seemed to consider it for a moment, and finally said two scant words.
“We’ll see.”
“Ha!” Rina shouted, punching Molly on the shoulder as the Benson-ites whooped and screamed. “Now that is style!”
Molly, reluctantly, had to admit that she was right.
“And the gauntlet is cast!” Phelps declared, nearly hopping with pleasure. “This will surely be a titanic struggle between two powerhouses of the kitchen, and only one will be standing at the end! Just one thing remains for this contest to get underway, and I think the audience knows what it is!” He swung his head sharply toward the crowd, many of whom had forgotten to breathe in their suspense. “Right?”
“Yeah!” Molly and Rina screamed, their voices mingling with hundreds of others.
“All right then! At the signal—” he gestured to his right “—Chef Benson, and—” he gestured to his left “—Chef Myers! Get ready to pick your participant!”
The two chefs stepped forward, again followed by their assistants.
Phelps was motionless, poised like a man at the edge of a cliff.
A gong sounded, rippling through the room and rattling the already-electrified nerves of the audience.
“Go!” Phelps roared.
The chefs launched, and the aisles were suddenly full of white-clad figures. Benson’s silk jacket caught the light from time to time as he paused before good prospects; Myers moved between rows like a shark through a school of minnows, examining and discarding person after person. Their assistants were just ahead, waving to Myers or Benson when they found a potentially solid choice.
“Jeez, look at ‘em go!” Rina said, clearly impressed. “They really mean it tonight. They’re not goofing around!”
“This could have been really scary,” Molly admitted, with a shaky laugh. “Imagine if we had filled out consent forms. They could pick us for this.”
“Yeah, just imagine,” Rina said. She looked up at the ceiling, and then slowly rolled her head to face Molly. “Hey, Molly.”
“What?” Molly was focusing on Benson, who seemed about to make his selection.
“Know what?”
“No. Is this important? I’m trying to watch—”
“I did fill out the forms.”
Benson suddenly became rather unfocused and swimmy. Molly managed to turn her neck, and located the grinning visage of her sister. “What?”
“The forms. I filled them out when I bought the tickets.” Rina’s eyes danced with light and mischief. “Isn’t that exciting?”
“Wha…”
Benson had started to move again; Myers was just behind him. Their assistants were still scouting the terrain, scanning faces and bodies with well-trained eyes.
“I just thought, ‘Well, why not?’ And so I filled one out for me…” Rina tapped Molly’s nose with her index finger, “…and one for you.”
“Excuse me, miss?”
Molly managed to turn her neck again, and had to make it tilt up this time. One of the assistants was standing beside her.
“Are you a participant, miss?”
“Uh?” Molly managed to say. “What?”
“Yes, she is!” Rina chirped, bouncing to her feet. “So am I!”
More assistants materialized, drawing Rina forward; Molly was also guided up. She found herself turned this way and that, her arms and stomach and legs poked and pinched by inquiring hands. She was partially aware that Rina was laughing, and that she could make out something red at the corner of her vision…
Clarity returned in a rush, just as Benson came to a halt in front of her. He gazed at her with the gravity of an elder god, and then looked at Rina. His face seemed to set.
“That one,” he said, nodding to Rina. “If you’ll come with me, miss.”
“All right!” Rina cried. She nearly leaped forward, amid approving laughter from the crowd. She grabbed Benson’s hand and, smiling, the old man led her toward the stage.
“Wait,” Molly managed weakly. “Rina, wait!”
“Hey, hold on!” An assistant had Molly by the shoulder. “Is that your friend?”
“My sister,” Molly said, her heart tripping over itself. “Can’t you stop her?”
“All the choices are final,” the assistant said firmly. He waved his free hand. “Chef, over here!”
“What have we got?”
Molly looked up at the familiar voice. Her mind swam again.
It was Myers.
“Hey, all right,” he said, tilting his head to look at her from different angles. “This could work. How’s her body?”
“Seems good,” the assistant said, nodding. “I think she’s a winner.”
“All right then. Let’s hit it, guys.”
A strong hand was around Molly’s wrist, guiding her forward. She looked up at Myers, bewildered.
“Did—did you pick me?”
“Sure did,” Myers said, his voice calm and confident. “Let’s work hard, okay? We can win this thing together. My boys think you’re something special, but if that girl’s your sister, she may be just as special. I promise to do my best if you will too.”
“Ah—but—” Molly looked down, and realized that she had just stepped onto the stage. They were approaching Myers’s workstation, and on the opposite side, Rina was standing next to Benson, beside herself with happiness. “I—um—okay. I guess.”
Myers patted her shoulder. “Good girl.” They stopped beside the station, and Myers nodded to Phelps.
“Ladies!” Phelps bellowed. “Gentlemen! This is it! With the help of these two lovely young ladies, Chefs Benson and Myers will make history! They have freedom of choice in all their ingredients tonight, and the only thing that matters is creating something fantastic.” His head swung toward Myers. “Are you ready?”
Myers looked at Molly, who did her best to nod. “Ready.”
Phelps shot a look at Benson. “Ready?”
Benson received an elated thumbs-up from Rina. “Ready.”
“Then at the sound of the gong…” Phelps held up his hands, waiting.
The gong rolled forward for a second time.
“Begin!”
Again, assistants surrounded Molly. This time they meant business, and she felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the four earlier participants as her own clothes were tugged off. Within seconds she was naked, her clothes tossed into a hamper; at Benson’s station, Rina was similarly attired, though she was clearly loving every second.
“And they’re off!” Phelps announced, dancing around the flurry of activity. “The participants have been stripped, and I have to say, folks, the chefs have made excellent choices. These girls would make a fine meal no matter who was cooking them!”
“Wow, thanks a lot,” Molly muttered, as the audience laughed their approval.
“First the chefs will take full stock of what they have to work with,” Phelps narrated, as Myers pushed Molly onto a scale. “They’ll measure and weigh the participants to determine cooking time, and decide what kind of dishes they want to make.”
“What do you think?” Myers asked on of his sous-chefs. “What we discussed?”
“She’d be great for the presentation,” the sous-chef said agreeably. “I’d say we go for it.”
“Okay, then. Molly, was it?”
“Er—yeah,” said Molly, momentarily star-struck at being called by name by her hero. Then she remembered that she was being called by name while naked, and the sensation dulled significantly.
“Up on the counter, please, Molly.”
Molly climbed up without much difficulty, and the assistants went to work; two began rubbing her skin with thick, salty-smelling oil, while another started to fuss with her hair. Another stepped in with a compact, and set about putting makeup on her face. This struck her as somewhat odd, since she had been operating under the impression that she was about to be cooked.
“And both teams are now moving at full steam!” Phelps informed anyone who cared to listen. “Myers’s team seems to be applying an oil of some kind, which can do wonders to brown the skin and give meat a rich flavor. Benson has his team prepping some spits, and they also appear to be mixing up several different sauces.” He skipped forward, holding out his microphone. “Can you give us any hint about what you’re doing, Chef Benson?”
“I’m interested in combinations of flavors,” Benson said curtly, whipping at something with a whisk. “This girl is a perfect canvas to create dishes that will work in unison with each other.”
“A fantastic concept from a true master!” praised Phelps. “And how do you feel about this, miss…?”
“Rina Dawson!” Rina said, seizing the microphone eagerly. “And I’d just like to say that I couldn’t be happier. I’m a huge Benson fan, and this is a dream come true!”
“Grand words from a sincere supporter!” Phelps praised, as the crowd cheered for the beaming Rina. “And what about Chef Myers’s volunteer?”
“M-me?” Molly started at the microphone. “Er—Molly Dawson.”
“Oh!” Phelps exclaimed. “Are you two sisters?”
Molly nodded. “Yeah, we are.”
“A brilliant twist, folks!” Phelps was practically skipping. “Not only are these two titans of taste waging war, but they’re doing it with sisters as their ingredients! This is really one for the record books!”
Molly privately thought that Phelps was overdoing the drama, but she supposed that was his job. Just as it now seemed that her job was to remain still while Myers’s assistants coated every inch of her with oil first, and then a second rub of red spice, which made her look rather nicely tanned.
“Looks good,” Myers said, nodding to the assistants. He was at a smaller counter, doing something with several dishes of vegetables. Get the oven preheated to…let’s say six-fifty.”
“Six-fifty?” Molly’s mind echoed. “Is—is that degrees?” she asked meekly.
“Degrees,” Myers confirmed. “Don’t worry about it, Molly. We’ll take care of you.”
“Sure sounds like you will,” Molly murmured. She looked across the stage at Benson and his assistants, where Rina was laid out on their largest counter; Benson was sharpening a long, curved knife.
“I think we’re ready here,” said one of the sous-chefs, and Myers stepped back into Molly’s view.
“This’ll just take a second, Molly,” he said calmly. He picked up a knife of his own, and the sous-chef pushed a cutting board under Molly’s ankles. “Just hold still.”
Myers was breathtakingly fast, and the supportive fan in Molly had time to marvel at his skill even while the rest of her brain was clamoring that it was her feet that had just been sliced off. There was little time to dwell on this, however, as her arms were held out to either side by the assistants. The knife flashed twice, and Myers’s prodigious skill with a blade was effective in removing both of Molly’s hands.
“Good job,” Myers said approvingly, taking her hands and feet and setting to work on his counter.
“Th-thanks,” Molly squeaked. She looked at her wrists, which were rather less interesting than they had been a few minutes earlier.
“And there goes chef Benson!” Phelps announced; Molly’s attention was drawn swiftly away from her own troubles, and back to her sister.
Although really, Rina didn’t look very troubled. Her face contorted as Benson rotated his curved knife around her legs, slicing each one the off at the hip, but she grinned supportively as soon as he was done. Her arms also came off, and the crowd cheered as the sous-chefs settled her onto a small chair. Benson, after ruffling her hair, got to work on her limbs, applying various sauces as he deemed fit.
Molly watched for a while, since Myers didn’t appear to require her attention for the time being—he was wholly occupied in chopping her fingers and toes, adding spices and vegetables, tasting, and adding spices again. His focus was absolute, and she wondered if he would even notice if she tried to get his attention.
Benson, on the other had, was almost casual with his assistants, and with Rina as well. His gruff demeanor had departed once he was in his element, and he chatted and laughed as he fitted Rina’s arms and legs onto four separate rotisseries, each limb coated with a different sauce.
“The flavors will combine into a single experience,” he explained to Phelps, when the announcer questioned him. “That’s the appetizer. We’re about to get started on the main course.”
“All right!” Rina exclaimed, as Benson picked her up and brought her to the center of his workstation. “What are you going to do?”
“A classic,” said Benson, sounding satisfied with his decision. He indicated the assistants, who had stationed a long rod to point at the ceiling. “I’ve always liked spits for an important competition.”
Molly, Phelps, and the crowd watched in anticipation as Benson lifted Rina and held her over the point of the spit. The metal was shiny and slick with oil; Rina swallowed, obviously nervous, but still she smiled.
With the practiced ease of an expert, Benson lowered Rina onto the spit in an easy motion, fitting the point neatly inside of her. He held her by the waist as she was skewered; she wriggled a bit, tightly squinting her eyes and biting her tongue, but made no attempt to resist. At the chef’s instruction, Rina tilted her head back and opened her mouth; Benson gave a final, downward push, and the point of the spit emerged from between her lips.
“And that’s how the pros do it, ladies and gentlemen!” Phelps cried, breaking what had become a deafening silence. It was replaced by equally deafening applause, and Rina, even with the spit protruding from her mouth, managed to grin.
“She really is insane,” Molly sighed, shaking her head. “Oh well. At least she’s happy.”
“That was good,” muttered one of the assistants. “I hope they don’t score him too well for it…”
“Forget them,” Myers said coolly. “Let’s get this done.”
The assistants hurried back to work, and Molly was quickly repositioned on a wide pan. Myers supervised, nodding periodically as the oven was checked for temperature, and a thermometer was poked into Molly’s thigh. The chef picked up a new knife and sharpened it, while Molly’s heart began to race; she had thought he was finished slicing.
“What’s that for?” she asked, staring at the shiny blade. How many times had she watched people on this show being sliced to bits? It had seemed so entertaining then…
“Just one more cut,” said Myers, perfectly composed. “Just relax.”
“S-sure,” Molly gulped, as Myers continued to sharpen. The audience was hushed, and even Phelps seemed to have run out of monologue.
“Can you move her hair?” Myers asked one of the assistants; a man darted in and eased Molly’s hair out from behind her neck. “Okay, good.” He slid a hand behind Molly’s head, and lifted it from the pan by a few inches. “Molly?”
“Yes?” Molly was wholly unnerved by the determination in Myers’s eyes.
“Thank you. I’ll beat Benson tonight.”
“That’s gre—”
Myer’s hand blurred, and the knife flashed. He set it down, and passed Molly’s head to the assistant. They slipped the pan into the blazing oven, while Phelps loudly praised him for his superb skill with edged implements.
On her spit, Rina continued to twirl and roast, and in the oven, most of Molly cooked at high speed. Rina’s arms and legs grew rich and savory on their rotisseries, and the dishes prepared with Molly’s hands and feet simmered in spicy gravy. When time was called and the gong sounded for a final toll, both girls were placed on serving platters; Myers preferred silver, while Benson favored white china.
The judges listened in rapt attention as the chefs took turns explaining their dishes. Benson served thin slices of Rina’s arms and legs, drawing the judges to notice how the flavor of each mingled and became a part of the whole. He asked them to note that, due to an even temperature and professional spitting, Rina was still conscious and ready to greet them, and even invite them to enjoy her as they ate. When they sampled slices of her breasts, stomach, and sides, they all agreed that she was a superb main course.
Myers stated his case clearly and with less refinement than the well-spoken Benson, but no one could deny the impact of his style. The appetizers, made from Molly’s hands and feet, offered a strikingly deep and varied flavor, and were complemented well by her body. The high heat and short cooking time had done an astounding job of preserving her full flavor, and the judges enthused over how her taste was complemented and accented by Myers’s choice of spices and oil.
Quite notably, however, was Myers’s decision to place Molly’s head as a purely decorative piece. The assistant who had applied her makeup was very talented, and the effect of her pale skin and light hair beside the dark, roasted body was quite striking.
When the judges had finished eating and had taken the necessary time to confer, the two chefs were called to stand before them, where the audience could see them both clearly. Myers was rigid with nerves, while Benson stood silent, but appeared calm.
“Judges, have you reached a decision?” Phelps called. He, along with the audience, was poised to go positively grapefruit, no matter the outcome.
“We have,” replied one of the judges. “It is our decision that the title of ‘Fantastic Chef’…”
He paused, and a few members of the audience nearly died from the tension.
“…Will remain in the hands of Chef Benson.”
The crowd went grapefruit.
Rina, who was just awake enough to hear what had been said, smiled. “Told you,” she sighed, and closed her eyes.
Myers and his team, though bitterly disappointed over the loss, relieved themselves from at least a degree of sorrow with a fine meal of Molly’s roasted body. Benson was gracious enough to share Rina with them, and the two chefs settled their differences and went on to open a world-famous restaurant together.
Molly, for her part, might have taken some comfort in knowing that she and Rina would both end up on a ‘Greatest Hits’ DVD, and would be largely hailed as some of the finest dishes ever prepared on an episode of ‘Fantastic Chef’.
But probably not.
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dany.licious
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Posted: Wed Aug 13th, 2008 11:26 pm |
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humm what else to say? it's a grat story and i loved it 
only thing that i didn't like was that lack of pain, if somebody cuts your fingers it hurts
well that's only MY point of view, i love realistic stories but it was very well written, ^^ congrats
pd. xcuse me if my english is not good, i speak spanish and my english grammar is terrific sometimes...
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Serenity
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Posted: Thu Aug 14th, 2008 02:09 am |
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dany.licious wrote: pnly thing that i didn't like was that lack of pain, if somebody cuts your fingers it hurts
One of the curious things about dolcett: dismemberment is painless (mostly).
Serenity
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MagicianXV
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Posted: Thu Aug 14th, 2008 05:41 am |
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| I just don't really enjoy writing pain and agony. If anyone wants to imagine that in, they're obviously welcome to do so.
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Jack1645
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Posted: Sat Aug 16th, 2008 09:12 am |
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| Great Story, keep it up.
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Rakked
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Posted: Thu Aug 21st, 2008 02:32 pm |
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I like it!
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Pie Chart
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Posted: Thu Aug 21st, 2008 10:07 pm |
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Very nice little story. Thank you.
Pie Chart/.
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Ocean Sunset
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Posted: Tue Sep 2nd, 2008 06:48 am |
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I read this story a few times and something did not strike me as correct about it from the first reading to the last I could not figure out what it was. I was sitting here and staring at my screen trying to work it out and it dawned on me finally....
It is Molly. Here is the reasoning I flushed out. Rina was excited to be a part of it, Molly was tricked. Ok fine it happens in these stories all the time, someone gets tricked and eaten. There are generally two mindsets to this though, the "Kicking and screaming I don't wanna die!" mindset and the "Oh this is how it is going to end lets make the best of it and this is actually not too bad" mind set. Molly tries to pull off the latter of the two but fails miserably. She ends up being coerced via peer pressure into doing something she really does not want to do. Not to sexy or exciting at all.
As I see it the driving things in these types of stories is either the conflict of life or death, or the beauty of willingly giving ones self in an ultimate lasting way. The writer missed this mark completely in my opinion and ended up with a character that just did not seem to care at all about herself or what was going on around her. This left me a as reader unable to empathize with her at all and almost as bored reading about her as she seemed to be going thru it.
Now for the good news, I find the premise of a cooking show very interesting and you had me hooked and on the edge of my seat up until the girls were selected, personally I was begging the story to NOT select the sisters and to pick someone else... or maybe pick Rina and not Molly... it would have been neat to get Molly's perspective on Rina's being cooked. Maybe Molly would have been horrified at first and then actually cheering her sister on towards the end. THAT kinda of growth and character development would have hit a home run for me in this story.
All said and done, thank you for taking the time and putting yourself out there for others to read, you show wonderful promise and I look forward to reading more from you in the future.
(Now I think someone offered me pie for reviewing?)
Last edited on Tue Sep 2nd, 2008 06:50 am by Ocean Sunset
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MagicianXV
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Posted: Tue Sep 2nd, 2008 06:46 pm |
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Very first thing, I want to thank you for the lengthy and thoughtful reply. I really appreciate everyone who reviews, but it's very rare to get some honest constructive criticism, and it is highly valuable to aspiring writers. It may not be easy to take, but I do wish more people would knock me down; it's the surest way to see where I can improve.
Now, as for Molly, I do see where you're coming from, and I don't necessarily disagree. Obviously, the knee-jerk reaction from any artist is, "You're wrong! My work is great, and you just don't understand it!" In this case, however, I think you have a valid criticism. She doesn't put forward a lot of protest or struggle, and looking the story over again, I see where that might make her seem bored or uninterested in her own situation. But stick with me, because there was thought behind it.
The story was not, by any means, intended as social commentary. However, part of my thinking, and the reason I characterized Molly and Rina as I did, was as a sort of personification of two types of television viewer. They're both avid fans of the Fantastic Chef program; Rina is the enthusiastic, borderline obsessive fan, and Molly is the more reserved, normal type. Rina is totally willing to throw herself into the proceedings, and since this is a cannibal story, that means she'll be killed. Since she IS an obsessive fan, she's okay with that, and maintains her enthusiasm for it.
Molly remains more reserved, and somewhat apathetic. I think this approach was a mistake now, since--as you pointed out--she comes across as bored, which can't possibly be interesting to read. (Boring characters, and bored characters, bore the reader. Not good.) But I was hoping to portray her as an opposite to Rina's willingness, and maintain her 'casual' viewer status, even when she was participating in the show. She's been watching it forever, and has grown somewhat desensitized to the fact that people are killed for entertainment. She recognizes it, but doesn't quite 'get' it. This extends even to her, and she doesn't manage to process what's happening before it's already over.
You mentioned two types of ways that people in the role of victim can react:
A) Kicking and screaming I don't wanna die!
or B) Oh, this is how it is going to end. Let's make the best of it, and this is actually not too bad.
If I had decided to use one of these for Molly, it would have been B. I say this because, while she doesn't take appropriate note that she is about to be killed, she does know that she is on national television. I suspect that the humiliation of making a fool of herself--IE, kicking and screaming--would be worse, in her mind, than being killed. (Again, my ten-cent social commentary.)
You also mention these ideas:
--The conflict of life or death
--The beauty of giving oneself in an ultimate and lasting way
While I do agree that these are valid, and extremely significant for the cannibal stories we all like, I don't think they would apply well to this story in particular. I mean, let's be honest--this was not a deep concept. It was shallow, exploitive, and inexcusable in almost every way. I had fun writing it, and it seems that a lot of people enjoyed reading it, but I have no delusions that it was full of symbolism and provided room for spiritual growth. The 'conflict of life or death' might be somewhat applicable, but 'the beauty of giving oneself in an ultimate and lasting way' is reaching for things that just aren't there. The 'Fantastic Chef' program in the story is reality TV, and that's about as shallow as it gets. There's nothing beautiful about it; it's just cheap entertainment, which is, I freely concede, what this story was.
If you read that entire, absurdly long-winded reply, I thank you. I appreciate the critique to no end, and I really hope that you, Ocean Sunset, and many others will feel free to skewer me at every opportunity. I want to become a great writer, so please be merciless. Nail me on grammar, pacing, style, anything you see fit.
And, if the story is good enough, please let me know that you liked it. 
--MagicianX
PS - In accordance with my promise, here is your offer of pie:
I hereby offer you your choice of chocolate cream or fruit pie. Said pie will be eaten by me, since the Internet has not yet produced a way to transmit solid matter, and it would be a shame to let good pie go to waste. Thank you for your patronage.
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IceCreamStand
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Posted: Thu Sep 4th, 2008 12:54 pm |
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| I really enjoyed the story. I clicked the link with the intent of skimming the first few lines and I wound up at the end of the tale before I knew it. You write characters and dialogue well; they really drew me in and held my interest.
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Ocean Sunset
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Posted: Mon Sep 15th, 2008 07:13 pm |
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| Fruit Pie please.
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traycon3
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Posted: Tue Sep 16th, 2008 12:14 am |
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I've been lurking and discovered your story a few weeks ago...However, I've only recently discovered that there are other cannibal lovers (um...can be taken either way, I guess...) out there and have been kinda...embarrassed about joining?
So, I feel bad for taking this long to say that I loved your story. And still do. It's one of those that I come back to and will probably continue to come back to.
I loved Rina's reaction to beating Molly. Very cool.
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