YoTS January ~ 42!

CHAPTER 42

“La~a~adies and gentlemen! Welcome to the exhibition tournament, to honor the generous Lord January; he who provides for all! This event is sponsored in part by Big Betty’s Bakery, the premier bakery in Mid January.” The announcer called out to the excited crowd. Fists pumped the air and cheers erupted throughout the massed spectators. Grant stood gawping at the masses of people that had been gathered. In his mind, ‘thousands’ of people meant nothing, but looking at it was enough to make his palms sweaty.

“What are you waiting for? Put the appetizers on the belt and get some more. There is no time to dawdle!” Grant plonked the dishes down on the conveyor belt and watched as the dishes snaked their way towards grasping fat fingers. The first fingers to snatch greedily at the starters was Lord January’s, followed by his entourage and his obese former friend, Skinny. Grant could see his smug grin from here as he eagerly stuffed his face with the delicious treats. The betrayal stabbed deep into Grant’s heart. Still…

Not as deep as he planned to stab his sword in return.

“Get a move on! You’re holding everybody up.” An irate server stood behind Grant. “Why are you even out here? Chefs should be in the kitchen, cooking. The clue is in the name.”

“Would the competitors in the semi-final of the exhibition tournament please come forward and present their token to the panel of judges.”

“Winter’s bite, I should be down there now.” From where he was standing there was no clear path to the fighting pit, not in the oversized outfit at least.

“Get back in the kitchen!” A deep voice demanded. He recognised that it was Chef Gordon. “Don’t make me warn you again - what have you done to your uniform!”

Grant rushed back to the kitchen in the suffocating outfit. In the next moment, he was expected to squeeze in alongside the other chefs and get to work. Pots bubbles and pans sizzled. The smells of delicious aromas infused the air. Grant licked his lips behind the face mask. His stomach rumbled as a reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything today. He looked around, and when no one was looking, popped a few morsels from one of the starters into his mouth.

A shudder of pleasure shook his body, taste buds revelling in the unique combination of ingredients. He purposefully chose a healthy dish, not wanting to upset Sarge, but it was still delicious. Grant shook his head while savoring the flavors, he’d come to think of the mental construct as a real person that had real feelings.

Someone bumped into him and whispered, “I wouldn’t do that again if I was you. If caught, you’ll be severely punished. Wait till after the tournament is over. Chef Gordon will allow us to feast on the leftovers.”

All Grant could do was nod. The chef could have easily reported him for nibbling on the starter. Rather than preparing the next course, he picked up another starter and made a beeline for the conveyor belt. He placed the dish down. Looking up, many in the audience were grumbling and Grant could see why. The peasants in particular had to wait until the lords and ladies closest to Lord January had their fill before the dishes snaked their way to the lower classes in society.

“What are you doing out here again, chef?” Chef Gordon boomed across at Grant.

He glanced around and looked at the head chef. Chef Gordon’s fists were trembling and his face was beet red. Grant knew that he was in serious trouble for breaching the kitchen rules for a second time.

“We only have three competitors coming forward for the semi-final.” The announcer called out to the crowd. Dishes were finally making their way to the worst seats, calming the peasants. They were too busy stuffing their faces to complain about the poor view. “If the final competitor doesn’t come forward, then the remaining contestants will face each other, with the winner of two bouts being crowned the champion.”

A meaty fist clamped down on his shoulder. “You’re coming with me, boy. I will teach you how to show respect.

“Stop.” Grant’s feet barely touched the floor, as the powerful Chef Gordon dragged him back towards the kitchens and away from the arena. The head chef wouldn’t listen, and instead clamped down harder.

“As punishment… you’ll wash all the dishes after the tournament, by yourself!”

“What? That’ll take days!” He was surprised by the punishment, having expected to be beaten or imprisoned instead.

“Seven days if you do it efficiently and only take short naps.”

“Oh no! Look!” Grant didn’t have seven days to wait. “Over there. A giant rat!”

“Where? Not in my kitchen!” The fist loosened its grip as Chef Gordon’s eyes darted around, looking for the creepy crawly vermin.

Grant wriggled free and made a run for it. “My mistake; must have been a meatball rolling to the floor!”

“Hey, come back here!” Chef Gordon grabbed for Grant but he’d already darted away. “Chefs aren’t allowed to compete!”

“I’m not a chef,” he called back, showing a rude gesture to the fuming head chef. Grant barrelled into a Noble lady, struggling to move in the cumbersome suit. The lady’s head face planted into a bowl of soup, “I know it is delicious, but you should try using a spoon!”

Grant barrelled through the seated crowd, met with shouts and a shower of food tossed in his direction. He didn’t have time to worry about anyone’s hurt feelings or soiled clothes. In a flash, he stood on a table, tipping over a dish and catapulting the contents over startled front row spectators. Grant vaulted the low railing and attempted to land gracefully on the sand of the fighting pit… but instead crashed, then rolled, before finally coming to a halt against the wall.

“What is the meaning of this!” The announcer spat. “Chefs are not permitted inside the fighting pit. Present yourself to your superior immediately for disciplinary action!”

Grant, lying on his back, rocked his body back and forward and finally gained enough momentum to stand upright in the almost spherical fat suit.

“I’m not a chef!” He ripped off his face mask and threw the hat to the ground. Gasps went up in waves as the spectators realised who they were looking at.

“It’s Grant Friday! The murderer is here!” A House Tuesday Peacekeeper bellowed, struggling to stand as he waved a drumstick as though it was his personal weapon. The audience cheered, enjoying the entertainment that accompanied their meal. To them, it was all part of a well orchestrated show.

Grant looked around at the startled faces and over at Lord January’s table. By the massive monarch’s side, draped in chains, sat Sir Friday the Twenty-ninth; who had a grin on his face at the surprising turn of events. Grant wished he could save the man that had helped him, but right now there was nothing that he could do.

“I have a token!” Grant fished out the golden token and held it up high for all to see. This brought another wave of gasps from the onlookers. They had to fan themselves to stave off meat-sweats brought on from over excitement. “I earned my place here, and anyone who tries to stop me is breaking the law!”