A Recipe for Disaster

Look at this fucker, sitting there with his horse-faced wife, stuffing my art into his face like its cheap cereal and he is lying on the couch with the munchies. Does this fuck knuckle have any idea what it is like to sweat life and death over a potato? His wife is taller than him. I saw her when they arrived. The kid is shooting above his station. He is bald, and I want to use it against him.

Fuck, I have to calm down. This fucking heat makes me want to kill. I feel like one of those bastards in the middle east. It’s no wonder they are always fighting; it’s the fucking heat. Fuck - that’s fucking hot. Why the fuck would you pick that up with your hand you fucking amateur? What are you, some apprentice working in a burger restaurant? Shit, that’s a bad one. God, I’m going to need some fucking water asap.

Damn, that’s cold. Feels good though. OK, enough, there’s no time for this. Table fifteen are bitching again. Yes, thanks Joel, can you tell them to get fucked, please? No, seriously, tell them to get fucked.

OK, where was I? Yes, test the duck - feels good. Mop up that bit of juice from the spinach - done. Now, the sauce. Where’s the fucking sauce? Which FUCKER has stolen my sau - Oh, there it is. I really mustn’t leave it out in this heat. It’s separated, the bastard. OK, it will be fine - just shake it. Shake it you fucker - that’s it.

She is looking at me shaking the sauce - the woman from table eight. She must be at least sixty - that is definitely a sexy look. I’ll give her a subtle wanking face. Let’s see how she likes that. OK, so she didn’t like that. Still, no need to look at me like I just shat in her food. I’m a Michelin star chef you bitch - I deserve better than that. Shit, I hope this doesn’t become a #metoo thing. I can see the papers now - Top chef disgraced for being a sauce wanker. I don’t want to be defined as a sauce wanker. I’m better than that. Anyway, shut the fuck up, it’s just the stress talking.

OK, let’s get the stew out of the oven. I need a spoon. Is this one clean? Looks fucking clean. Yes, that meat is fucking tender. The window of opportunity on a stew is short. Pull up too soon, and you eat rubber - too long, and you are in dog food territory. This is perfect. I’m a god damn fucking genius. Shit, the pan is hot. What is going on with you today? Get it together, man. Stop fucking burning yourself.

Right, I need a cigarette. These pricks can take care of everything for ten minutes. I feel fucking sick and need to deal with this fucking reflux. Where is the Gaviscon for fuck’s sake? I hate this minty shite. Must get this door fixed. OK, fuck me it’s hot out here. Hey, its Aran. Damn, I wish you spoke English. I’ll just mime how hot it is. Yes, that’s right, it’s hot. Of course, you know, you have lived on this bloody humid island your whole life. You’d feel different if you were a Welsh bastard like me. Fucking wish I was back there now. No doubt I’d be pissing and moaning about the rain. Still, the lamb back home. I could do with some o’ that. Fuck this ciggy tastes like menthol thanks to the damn Gaviscon. Anyway, if I gave the world’s most delicate lamb to Aran, he’d probably make a Green Curry wouldn’t you eh, eh? Oh, he’s off then. Suppose there’s no point sticking around when all we can do is nod and mime at each other like we are posh fuckers playing charades.

Oh shit, the carrots. I left the fucking carrots. Why won’t this fucking door open - ah. Where are the carrots? Who has moved my fucking carrots? What’s that? Oh, you served them. I hope they were right. Nothing worse than a fucking stiff carrot except for a frozen carrot. To regular humans, they are just a carrot, to me, they are a tricky assassin. Assassins, right - going to play Assassins Creed tonight. Must remember to pick up some shit from Max. Must get something to mix it with. I should put that in my phone - mustn’t forget to put it in my phone.

Table six - soup, olive oil, coriander, smoked chilli - go.
Table eight - Rib Eye - Seasoning, potato, kale, sauce - go.
I should write a note to table eight telling her I wasn’t making a wanking face, I’m just tired from this heat. What am I thinking? - it’s insane. She probably doesn’t give a fuck at all. Why are you feeling so guilty, then? You fucking idiot feeling guilty about nothing. Fuck off guilt, would ya? I’m sick of this fucking shit.
Table four - ice cream, popcorn, popping candy, drizzle - go. Wait, let me taste that ice cream. Fuck that’s good shit. Damn, I’m a genius, but fuck I’m tired.

Damn, what the fuck? A power cut again. One of the hottest tourist destinations in the world and they can’t manage their fucking resources. Can we get that generator fired up please asap? I’ve got to - fuck, my fucking finger. Oh fuck I’ve cut it clean off. OK, I need to get a bag and some ice. The fucking blood is spraying everywhere. Stop screaming you fucking nannies. Haven’t you seen blood before? Fuck its a lot of blood. Maybe, someone can someone get a big and… OK, I feel a little fucked now. Why is everyone freaking out? Can you get me a bag and it will be fine. Can someone get me something, but I? I feel pretty sleepy. A wave? What is that? Some wave? What do you mean by a wave? This is not time to talk surfing, I’m bleeding out. What’s that noise? Why is everyone screaming? What’s that FUCKING noise?

What the fuck is going on. Am I dreaming? Why is my restaurant filled with water? Where is the surface? I can’t believe this is happening. I need to check the fish. Don’t want the skin to burn. I think it’s this way. Must swim over and turn the fish. Oh, fuck, my head, what the fuck was that? Something hit me hard. My head is bleeding. I can’t fucking see. The water is salty - its the sea. Why is the fucking sea in my restaurant? Ah fuck, I can breathe, but I’m getting sucked out. Fuck, must hold on. Oh, fuck I’m under again. My leg is trapped. What the fuck is that? My leg is trapped. Someone help me, please. Where are my fucking staff? OK, calm down, you can do this. Oh, it’s cut. I can’t see for all the blood. I’m in a pool of blood. Wait, is this a dream? Oh fuck, I shouldn’t have left Wales. I can’t believe it’s happening. God, if you are there, I’m sorry I stopped going to church, please save me now, and I will go every week. Please look after my wife and my Son. I’m sorry I left you. Please forgive me. I’m sorry. I don’t want to die. I can’t fucking breathe. Could you help me? PLEASE.

What the fuck, Aran is that you? Aran, yes my leg is...yes that’s it. OK pull, yes, please. Fuck that hurts. Fuck it’s loose. Yes, Aran, grab me. I can’t breathe. I can’t believe it. OK, yep we are on the roof. I’m still fucking bleeding, but I can breathe. There is water everywhere and bodies everywhere. What happened? What’s that, Aran? Aran saved my life. What is he saying? One word - Soo-Na-Mi. Is that Thai? What does it mean? It seems like some tidal wave. I can’t believe this is happening. Ah, I’m alive. I made a promise to God. Was that you, God? Did you send Aran? Anyway, about the church thing - it’s just not going to happen. Is there something else I can do instead? It’s quite cool now. I think I want to go home to Wales.

Collection of space particles endowed with a few jokes and sounds.

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