MOUTHFUL
DREADFUL - EVENT #2
If a knock on a flimsy, uneven door were given human qualities, this one could be described as confident, assured, perhaps even cocky.
Positive traits depending upon the person in question.
We watch as the man opens the apartment door with sweat dripping freely from his armpits, not in nervousness though.
Anticipation.
The man inside asks a question. “Cad?”
The man outside responds. “Chef?”
The men nod.
Chef lives in The Amorphophallus, specifically in Apartment 333, which, to the surprise of no one, is on the third floor. Once parked in the visitor’s section, the guest can walk inside the nearest door, find the closest set of stairs, and when dumped out onto the third floor, the guest needs to only walk ten paces east to the correct apartment. Easy as pie. They are directions Chef has laid out for guests dozens of times before. As with the others, Cad had no issues finding the destination. Cad, like so many others on this dreadful night, slipped beneath the curtain before it sealed them off.
Chef is an unassuming man with a long face, droopy eyes, and a slender waist. His features mix into a concoction that bestowed no luck. Luck, though, has no place with the currency he deals in. Patience proves paramount, and Chef has a vast stockpile of it.
Cad, on the other hand, is intimidating in demeanor and stature. He’s built like a warhorse coming back to the English countryside after a successful battle. Someone said that exact thing to him at the gym once, and he has worn the comparison with honor ever since. Towering in the doorway, Cad steps inside the apartment and takes inventory. Nothing about Chef’s furnishings and layout impresses him, so he doesn’t comment. He removes his shoes out of courtesy and mostly because he’d expect any guest to do the same in his former apartment. The space is no longer his (as extrapolated by the word former in the previous sentence), given up in favor of spending time on the streets. To try something different, something not everyone could gab on about. Cad prided himself on having unique experiences because what else is the left shoe meant to talk about with the right one? The weather? Gas prices? Bah, not even the vultures would feast on such putrid carrion.
Cad sheds his backpack onto the couch and picks through the contents. Four items are removed, their involvement determined solely by Chef’s future actions.
For his part, Chef watches only briefly until he grows bored with Cad’s tedious exercise. Chef returns to sharpening his knives. Years back, he typed “knives” into the search bar on JEC and scouted the results. None appealed to him, as each option screamed of desperation and deception. Photoshopped pictures of peeled-back smiles and blurred faces chopping into onions or cutting into tender meat. They failed to capture the genuine pleasure of crafting a meal. The patience and planning and prep that encapsulated the process and made kitchens around the world hum with excellence. He found another site, Williams-Sonoma. The name meant nothing to him, except that when he typed in his fabled word again, the results were more promising. No pictures of props and pedestrians. No fake reviews touting false love riddled with grammatical errors. Williams-Sonoma showed him the product. Just knives. Pages and pages of them. With time, Chef found his ideal set. The Shun Kaji 20-Piece Knife Set, as listed on the website. Williams-Sonoma proclaimed the product to be a bestseller, although no purchaser left a review. Perfect. The multi-thousand-dollar price tag was further indication that his choice was correct. To this day, the set of knives has been the only constant companion in Chef’s life.
Cad slaps down a packet before Chef. It thuds with weight and information. Cad explains. “I’ve titled this ‘The Order of Operations.’”
Chef waits for more. There is none. He nods. “Any surprises?”
“No.”
Cad then places the bottle of wine next to the sharpened knives. “You have an aerator, correct?” Chef nods. “Let’s pair that with the main course.”
Chef says a mumbled word as the sweat prickles and falls down his side. He goes to wipe it away before realizing he’s holding a freshly sharpened knife. The edge jabs, ever so timidly, into the meat between two of his ribs. The shirt rips along with his skin, revealing the blood waiting underneath. Now unearthed, the blood bubbles and pops until the rivulet gains enough momentum to creep down toward Chef’s waist. Cad walks over, lifts Chef’s shirt, and runs a finger over the blood. Cad wipes it onto a napkin with several dabs. He laughs, and his striking aura slides away for something more childlike. Like when an old man dreams about the youth much forgotten to him.
“Need a Band-Aid?” Cad offers.
“No,” Chef says and places the knife back in the wooden block. He avoids eye contact with Cad as he fishes the can of Campbell’s from the cabinet. He squeezes the can opener handle with the required effort until the lid pops. Chef spins the dial until the lid sticks straight up with the jagged edges begging to draw more blood. He plucks away the useless lid and dumps the chunky, slimy contents into the pan.
They talk as the soup heats up.
“Do you believe in god?” Cad asks.
“No.”
“Me either. But I do believe in the Devil,” Cad says. “Human nature is the foundation for good, so why would a god or a battalion of them be necessary? People choose to go to work each day and pay their taxes. They are faithful to loved ones. They care for the needy. They laugh at sitcoms and call tip lines to catch criminals. But evil—” Cad whistles, a high pitch squeal that bounces off the empty walls. He winds himself up for a profound revelation. “That shit isn’t manmade. Temptation, envy, greed, disease, addiction, abuse, neglect, abandonment, assault, theft. On and on that shit goes. Countless problems plague people. And for what? I don’t know my toes from potatoes, but I know people aren’t born with an inclination to do evil. No, it’s an earworm that has burrowed deep within them, planted by some contagion that the Devil and his cavalry of cronies craft in their laboratory. Think of some heinous shit like . . . like, eh . . . murder. Yes. Yeah. Why would anyone knowingly want to murder another person? It’s the earworm, man. Wiggling, writhing, squirming with life. Waiting, waiting, waiting to find its host. Billions of those earworms are out in the world right now. Some get squashed before they do harm, but so many more inflict the suffering they were bred to. The Devil, man. Responsible for all of it. Powerful stuff, eh? Do you believe that? You have to. There’s no other choice. So many weak-minded individuals. So many corruptible sorts just begging to be indoctrinated with the Devil’s curse. Me, though, I am untouchable. The closest thing to pure that could exist in this dying light. I’m clearheaded and sane. And you know what? I’m more sure of this night than anything else in my life. Thirty-five years of knowledge crammed into this jar they call a skull, and now it’ll be tipped out for everyone else to consume. I’m the closest thing to god there is. You can bet the house on that. You can bet the block on that. Ah, man, you’re a great listener. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“You’re not the first,” Chef says.
Cad continues. He tries to expel all the thoughts he has. “Hey, did you catch that episode of Sidewalk Ramblers last night?”
“Never seen it,” Chef says.
“Never seen it? You’re shitting me! It’s required viewing. Oh man, I sat for an hour in the Starbucks over on Lemmon charging my phone and losing my absolute shit over that episode. I mean, if you aren’t interested in watching it, I guess I can recap the series for you. Quick. Real quick. High-level, too. None of that wading in the pond for hours and hours, you know? Yeah, so, the show is on its eighth season, but the main cast hasn’t rotated much except for Duncan, who got maimed in the third season by . . .”
Cad’s summary of Sidewalk Ramblers lasts longer than a summer day.
During his season one recap, Chef takes the bubbling soup off the burner and pours it into a bowl. He nods and affirms as Cad dissects motivations and plot twists and character developments that set the show into a category of prestige television. Chef lets the soup cool to a reasonable temperature and then scoops spoonfuls of the thick goo until he sits back wishing there was more.
Cad glides into season two as Chef makes himself two grilled cheese sandwiches. Each comprises three Kraft Singles American Cheese slices. He discards the plastic to a corner of the kitchen counter he forgets about. He toasts each side of the white bread smeared with fake butter for three minutes and thirty-five seconds to achieve the optimal sheen. Not too dark, not too light. A slight crunch is ideal, and it has taken Chef months (read: years) to discover the impeccable timing necessary to procure perfection.
Chef eats the sandwiches during Cad’s season three unraveling, saving the crusts for last. If only he had saved the dregs of the soup to dip the bread into. Maybe next time, he thinks. Chef offers the scraps to Cad, but he declines, saying that the wine is the only thing he needs. Chef cleans up the dishes and sprays the countertops. Better to do it now, he thinks.
To Chef’s surprise, season three of Sidewalk Ramblers was followed by a holiday special that delved into the backstory of Lady Luke. Consensus, as Cad describes, was not favorable. “Sometimes you gotta let the mystery be, yeah? If we filled in every crack, what work would there be left to do?” Chef doesn’t have an answer. Instead, he pulls the camera equipment from the closet. He interrupts long enough to question Cad on which location he wants to record the video. “Couch,” Cad says with impatience before lapsing into the first half of season four. Chef does as instructed and opts for a medium-length shot that should capture Cad’s impressive bulk and the empty wall behind him. Chef drapes the blue blanket across the couch cushions to add a splash of color.
Cad is discussing the season five premiere when he finally asks for a glass of water to clear his throat. He takes three small sips, just enough to grease the pipes and erase the scratchiness that had been clawing at him for the past fifteen minutes. He blitzes through as much information as possible as Chef directs him to the couch. “Do you remember your lines?” Chef asks. “Yes,” Cad says. “Am I allowed to improv at all?”
“No.” Everyone asks that question in some form, and Chef has never allowed an exception. To do so would disrupt the mosaic he is building.
Cad obeys and after four attempts, they get a clean take. Technically, Chef got what he needed the third time, but he requested Cad to do it again to sound more natural. That was the undeniable key to all this. Comfort and absolutely no coercion.
The remainder of season five is lost to Chef as he steps into the guest bathroom down the hall. He had no need for a 2BD/2BA apartment, but something spoke to him during the virtual tour he took last year. Clarity shifted into him as if he had just scratched off the winning number on a lotto ticket. And now, he couldn’t be happier. It’s the ideal separation of church and state, as his bombastic father would have said.
Chef hears the continued murmurs from Cad as he bends down to rummage through the cabinet for the clippers, razors, and shaving cream. He finds them buried in the back, pushed behind the bleach and hydrogen peroxide. He pulls out what he needs and places everything on the counter. Then, he turns on the shower, holding his hand under the flow until it reaches the optimal temperature. Chef prefers a skin-bubbling, blister-forming, grit-your-teeth type of shower. The raw feeling afterward is undeniable. He never understood the appeal of those who swear by a cold shower. They were the same ones buying iced coffees in winter and going outside after a snowstorm in shorts.
Seasons six, seven, and the available episodes of season eight are synopsized as Cad strips down and steps into the shower. With the curtain pushed all the way to the wall, Chef watches the water wash over his muscled body, falling down into the crevices of his bulging arms, flat stomach, and bony pelvis. A respectably sized penis hangs between his legs. Uncut—as Chef prefers, although not for sexual pleasure. In between his breathless recap, Cad reaches for the handle and twists it to the left, saying how he prefers cold showers. Chef recoils from the water as it turns frigid. He resists the urge to snap the handle back to its previous place. Instead, he reaches for the clippers. Cad’s hair is cropped short on the sides but running wild on top. Strands run down his left temple and sway with each movement.
Cad leans forward to dip his head into the freezing water.
“No,” Chef says, placing a hand against the man’s biceps. Chef’s hand is instantly overshadowed by the mass that’s easily triple its size. “This will be quicker with dry hair.”
Cad acknowledges the direction by returning to his previous position and reveals the twist involving Dunning and Pinnops in episode eight of season seven, otherwise known as the (already) infamous Stew Dinner episode. Cad then steps further away from the water to give Chef more space to work with. The only appendage that remains in contact with the water is Cad’s left leg as he opts for a staggered stance.
The clippers buzz to life. A dull, endless hum that blends into the thrumming from the showerhead. Chef reaches up and pulls at Cad’s head until he is facing him. Chef looks up and catches Cad’s stare for the briefest moment. A flash. A Polaroid. A millisecond of time that adds up to nothing because zero plus zero will always equal zero.
And yet.
Chef notices the green eyes. Clear and bright. Inviting and intimidating. They’ve seen things. They’ve lived a life that’s witnessed pain and sorrow and the triumphs that squeeze between.
Chef carries on with his task as his mind wanders. It shouldn’t be as easy as it is, he considers. The movies would prophesize that it takes a perverted individual to lure unsuspecting puppets in order to achieve his desires. No, no. They come to him. They flock to him. At first, he needed to build a reputation, so he targeted the weak-willed, the ones with nothing to lose. Their lives had ended long ago; Chef only helped to fulfill their last request. Once word spread, the chatroom expanded. People begged and offered him things he didn’t want. Chef was a legion. An idea that ballooned into a livelihood. And with that livelihood came a need to be selective in all matters. The process was followed. The guidelines were established.
And now, Chef is shaving the scalp of a meathead who has a mild obsession with a mediocre TV show. Not that he’d tell him that. Everyone deserves to love what they choose to.
Autopilot continues to navigate as Chef finishes the initial hair trimming. He places the clippers aside and grabs the razor and shaving cream. He squirts a dab onto his hand and rubs it against Cad’s head. He repeats this again until the buzzed scalp is properly covered. He instructs Cad to sit in the shower so he has a better operating angle. Cad busies himself by talking about the failed spin-offs and collecting the bundles of hair that haven’t washed down the drain.
An amazing thing happens halfway through the shaving process: Cad stops speaking.
Chef has nothing to offer, so they remain silent.
They continue in this manner as Chef finishes shaving Cad’s scalp, then moves to his arms, legs, cock, and finally, balls. The time slips by with no mandatory deadline. They could take all night if needed.
But they don’t, even with the extra surface area he had to account for. Chef has done this enough.
“Done,” Chef announces as he uncups Cad’s balls. They hardly move as they are so constricted from the deep cold that has penetrated the room.
“How do I look?”
“Like you’ve been reborn.”
“Maybe, man. Maybe. Hey, can I make one request?”
“Fine,” Chef says, discarding the used razor.
“Can I see the other videos? I’m curious.”
Nobody has asked him that before. His first instinct is to say no. Stick to the plot. The script is there for a reason.
But . . .
But . . .
But . . .
What would be the harm? He has shown the videos to others. As proof. As testimonials. As a way to get off.
Chef searches for a reason—any reason—to deny the request, but nothing returns.
“Why?” Chef asks.
Cad is standing now, using the unscented body wash and scrubbing hard to eliminate any grime. Just as they had discussed yesterday. “Uh . . . eh . . . curiosity. And to see how others handled it.”
“What’s the real reason?” Chef says.
Cad doesn’t hesitate: “I want to see the future.”
Ten minutes later, they are on the couch and watching the Blu-ray. The title card says #14 before it cuts to a static shot of an empty bathtub. Different from the one in Chef’s apartment, but the premise is the same. The lighting is sufficient, although no Hollywood production would look as shoddy. Muffled noises are heard in the background. Quick questions with faster answers. Eventually, Chef comes into frame and turns on the water. He runs a hand through it, nods to himself, and then walks around the camera. It shakes ever so slightly with the movement. Time passes as the recording cuts to the tub being three-quarters full. The camera shakes again as Chef and an unknown woman come to the tub carrying bags of ice. They rip them open and pour the contents into the water. Chef leaves the room again and returns with more ice. They repeat the process. Satisfied with everything, Chef turns off the water. “You can step in.” The woman unclasps her bra and tosses it aside. She shimmies out of her underwear, folds them, and likely places them on the sink, although the action is out of frame. She tests the water with her right foot before shivering and recoiling from the low temperature. “You can step in,” Chef repeats. This time, the woman removes any restraint and steps in. She grits her teeth and sits down in the ice water. After her buttocks hit the bottom, she loosens her hold against the side of the bathtub and drops her arms into the water. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. With folded arms, Chef stares down at her. Soon, he frees himself from the trance and retreats from the bathroom. The camera shakes and steadies as the footsteps fade away. The half of the woman’s face that’s visible relaxes. She pulls an arm from the water and runs it along her smooth scalp. Her eyes remain closed as she plucks an ice cube and brings it to her mouth. She sucks on it for ten seconds before biting down. A crunching sound is heard, as is the rough swallow that follows. The woman puts her arm down and sinks further into the water. It now covers her neck and tries to swim against her chin. The footsteps return. Out of frame, an item smacks down on the sink. The distinctive (and somewhat stereotypical) sound of a knife being pulled from a wooden block is heard. That same sound used to instill fear in countless horror movies. Chef, now in frame, stoops and rests the knife on the bathtub’s edge. His footsteps retreat from the room again. The woman remains frozen as the knife teeters before finding its balance. The tiles surrounding the bathtub are 12” x 12”. The grouting work is uninspired, slapped together by someone underpaid and tasked with repeating the process for dozens of apartments. Most likely. On the upside, the tiles are a cream color and do wonders in easily spotting any blood splatter. For the final time, footsteps are heard. Chef places a stainless-steel board across the width of the bathtub. He twists the knob until the undercarriage tightens against each side of the tub. It compares to a tray one would use to eat TV dinners. With no instruction and still with her eyes closed, the woman lifts her arm again and rests it against the board. She turns it so her wrist is facing the ceiling. She flexes her hand once, twice, and then makes a fist. Slowly, she uncoils her pointer finger and stretches it out as far as she can. Chef steps behind the camera, zooms in, and then adjusts the angle to get an unobstructed view of what will happen. Content with his camera positioning, Chef steps into frame and bends forward. Chef grabs her wrist with one hand and the knife with the other. He cuts into her finger. She opens her eyes and watches him work. She winces and blows out air through her teeth, but she doesn’t thrash. No one ever disturbs the process. It takes Chef four back-and-forth motions to cut through the bone and amputate the finger. He pulls it away and holds it up to the camera. Blood drips like leaking oil from the woman’s hand and spreads out across the board. Chef brings the finger to his lips and pushes it into his mouth. He holds it there, sucking on it like an elongated lollipop. The woman smiles. “Again,” she says and extends her middle finger. Chef repeats the mutilation and severs her four remaining fingers, each time placing the discarded digit in his mouth. The blood overflows and drips off the board, staining portions of the water. “Finish it,” the woman says as she lifts her useless hand. She laughs and weakly swings it, spraying blood across the walls like a priest anointing a crowd. With five fingers in his mouth, Chef gra—
Chef pauses the video. “That’s plenty.” His eyes are wide and bloodshot from not blinking.
Cad slaps a hand off his knee. He gets up from the couch and grabs his bottle of wine. “How do you think I’ll taste?”