A Malodorous Meal

“Uggghhhhh…” Fence moaned in pain, loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear it. “Dude, how come you never told me your sister was a pro at [REDACTED]ing [REDACTED]s?”

“Tell you the truth, I didn’t actually know she was that good at it.” I gave him another once over. He’d been done, alright. Done good. Done weller than Al’s medium-rare steak. Replica had really [REDACTED] Fence’s [REDACTED], and it looked like she’d even [REDACTED] all his [REDACTED]s too. [REDACTED]ally.

Poor guy. I mean, it was mostly his fault. But still. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t have some sympathy now of all times?

I rubbed his probably — no, redact that: definitely — [REDACTED]ing back through the layer of [REDACTED]s, hoping to soothe the pain.

He sniffled. “I guess I’m just lucky we had a doctor back here.”

“Good point, man.” But also, wasn’t it kind of weird? “Hey, Rachel?” I called across the kitchen. “What’s a licensed surgeon doing working as a line cook at a fifth-rate restaurant?”

Rachel just shrugged. “Why do you think my food’s so bad?”

“Speaking of bad food,” Lou chimed in. “Order’s up.” He hiked a thumb over his shoulder and I followed it to the back door. There stood a guy holding a couple to-go boxes and looking kind of like how Fence looked whenever he had something stuck between his teeth: irritated, confused, and unsure of his name, date of birth, or country of origin.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“DoorDash,” said Lou.

“Seriously? You guys just ordered food in for their main dish?” What the hell kind of restaurant were we, I had to wonder. Oh, right. The non-functioning kind. I knew that.

“Well we weren’t gonna make it ourselves, were we?” Lou grumbled. “We’re trying to make the guy laugh, not kill him where he sits. Yeah, we’ve upped our skills in the past week, but only to the point where the smell doesn’t knock you out with one whiff.”

Damn. Maybe I had overestimated my coworkers’ ability not to suck.

Maybe I’d underestimated mine, considering the circumstances.

“Yeah,” I agreed — couldn’t do much else at this point — “we are trying to make him laugh. So? What’s you guys’s plan for doing that with these, uh…?”

I looked at the DoorDash guy. He looked back. “Coelacanth belly à la median, pre-masticated, with a side of pommes de bathwater.”

“Oh. Well, that sounds… pleasant.”

Tonight was continuing to fall apart faster than a china shop in a goddam earthquake. And here I thought it was already in shambles, ruins, and/or little tiny pieces. Shows how much I know, I guess.

“So? How are you two planning on making Don laugh with these two, err… ‘delectable’ dishes?” I kept badgering Lou and Fence, hoping to get the details of their supposedly ingenious plan out of them. I was pretty sure Fence thought “ingenious” meant “not genius," but I didn’t have time to press that issue. “Couple of hiccups aside, I actually had him chuckling out there earlier, so I’d say he’s on the up, in terms of his mood and counting us funny. How is this plan you two whipped up on your own gonna keep him that way?” And, just as importantly for me, how were we gonna make it so that Don got his laughs while my sister got to live out her perfectly imagined date?

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Lou, worryingly. “We spent two whole minutes coming up with this plan. It’s practically foolproof — which is a good thing, considering Fence is involved. No offense, Fence.”

“None taken.”

Lou went on, sounding more and more proud of himself by the second: “We’ll make McRonald laugh so hard he’ll be begging to pass us by the time we’re through, and with flying colors!”

“Uh, you do realize he doesn’t have to beg, right? Whether we pass or fail is completely up to him.”

But by this point Lou wasn’t even paying me any mind, hardly. He was caught up in his own sense of grandeur, and growing more maniacal by the minute. “Hahaha! By the time we’re through with him, McRonald’ll be handing us our first Michelin star! Mwahaha! Mwahahahaha!!”

Maybe murdering his mustache with a single rip after he’d spent six months meticulously growing it out had driven him off the edge or something. I was pretty sure health inspectors weren’t the ones who handed out Michelin stars. And even if they were, we sure wouldn’t be earning one any time soon. I eyed the food that Fence was dishing out of the to-go boxes and onto plates. It didn’t look great to start with, but by the time he had it all plated it looked, and smelled, a little like cat vomit.

Meanwhile, Lou was tipping the DoorDash guy for his hard work. “We really appreciate the rush delivery. Thanks again. Have a wonderful rest of your evening.” He must have meant it too, cause I caught him slipping the guy a literal 10.

“Don’t tell me what to do, dillweed.” DoorDash guy pocketed the money and left.

Me, Lou, and Fence stumbled out of the trenches and made our way back to the battleground with the main courses. I was holding both dishes while they were both empty handed. Classic. “Remind me why the so-called ‘plan’ requires all three of us if I’m the one doing all the heavy lifting?” I whispered as we walked so as not to start a commotion, but it was hard to keep my voice down when I was being done so dirty. “What are you guys, the moral freaking support?”

“Relaaaaaaaaaax.” Lou’s usual rasp had morphed into an annoying sing-song. “Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

“Heavy lifting” wasn’t even the half of it, by the way. By the time we reached the table, I had inhaled so much… what was this stuff supposed to be again? Seasoned coelacanth? It just looked like a bunch of mulched mush to me. Anyway, point is: I had inhaled so much Coelacanth fume that by the time we reached the table I was halfway to passing out where I stood. It didn't help that we had all changed into tight, stuffy, fancy waiter outfits this time — butler-esque, almost — that, according to Lou, were integral to the plan. I just hoped Don appreciated our donning of specialized outfits for the occasion. Or better yet, found it laugh-out-loud hilarious.

“And now presenting…” Lou began dramatically. Was this the “flourish” thing that Replica was talking about before? Either way, he had both her and Don’s rapt attention as he rapped me on the back twice, a sign I should put the plates down. “... the main course! Coelacanth belly à la median, pre-masticated, with a side of pommes de bathwater.”

Replica looked like she was about to be sick. Like she was about to chuck her guts right onto the plate in front of her.

Which may have actually looked better than what was already on there, truth be told.

“Th-this looks d… d…”

“Delicious?” Don offered. “Delectable? Oh, wait, I know! Delightful!”

Worst. Guesser. Ever. Anyone with half a brain cell would know she was about to say “disgusting.”

“Y-yep!”Replica forced her jaw into a stiff approximation of a smile. “You got it! That’s exactly what I was gonna say.”

“Which one?” Don cocked his head to the side.

“All of the above! Haha…”

“Anyway, thanks, waiter. Hats off to you.” Don made to tip his hat to me, but ended up grabbing thin air. “Oh, wait. Silly me. I’m not wearing a hat!”

Everyone except me doubled over in laughter.

Once it died down, Don’s gaze started bouncing back and forth between Lou, to my left, and Fence, to my right. “But wait a minute… If you’re the waiter, what are they here for? Is there something else?”

Yes, please, tell us just what the heck we’re even doing. That was what I wanted to know.

To be continued!