Chapter 3

 

Chapter 3: The Culinary Corps

Chef Magnifico Deathwish had cooked for dictators, war criminals, and food network executives, but he'd never been asked to prepare a meal for a cosmic entity with the emotional maturity of a spoiled toddler. He stood in the hastily converted cafeteria at the BNBAAS facility, surrounded by ingredients that defied both physics and good taste.

"Okay, people," he addressed his team of volunteer chefs, most of whom had been recruited from the ranks of those who'd already given up on living anyway. "We've got forty-three minutes to prepare a meal that will either satisfy an interdimensional god or result in the consumption of our entire planet. No pressure."

His sous chef, a woman known only as Madame Guillotine, raised her cleaver. "Chef, I've managed to source the tears of the innocent from a nearby daycare center - I told them we were canceling Christmas. But I'm having trouble with the philosophers' hopes and dreams. Most of them seem to have given up hope years ago."

"Try the philosophy department at the local university," Chef Deathwish suggested. "There's bound to be at least one graduate student who still has delusions of academic relevance."

Meanwhile, Dr. Pestilence had been assigned to the "Existential Dread" course, which turned out to be surprisingly straightforward. She simply projected live footage of humanity's various self-destructive endeavors onto edible holograms. The dread was so thick you could cut it with a knife, which she did, arranging it artfully on plates made from crystallized despair.

Emperor Cannibalus had set up what he called his "dining chamber" in the main experimental hall, which now resembled the inside of a stomach designed by someone with delusions of grandeur. Tentacles hung from the ceiling like fleshy chandeliers, and the walls pulsed with the rhythm of cosmic digestion.

"THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG!" he shrieked every few minutes, causing nearby equipment to melt and researchers to reconsider their career choices. "I AM THE EMPEROR OF THE INFINITE REALM OF THE FAR FLUNG HUNGER! I DO NOT WAIT FOR FOOD! FOOD WAITS FOR ME!"

"Your Magnificence," Dr. Pestilence called out, having been designated as the official liaison due to her unique combination of scientific expertise and complete disregard for personal safety, "we're putting the finishing touches on your feast. Perhaps you could tell us a bit about yourself while we complete the preparations?"

Cannibalus preened, his tentacles arranging themselves into what might charitably be called a flattering pose. "FINALLY! SOMEONE WITH THE PROPER RESPECT FOR MY MAGNIFICENCE!"

He began to pace, or rather undulate, around the chamber. "I AM THE SUPREME RULER OF THE ELEVENTEENTH DIMENSION, WHERE ALL BEINGS EXIST SOLELY TO SERVE MY COSMIC APPETITE! I HAVE DEVOURED THE HOPES OF A THOUSAND CIVILIZATIONS! I HAVE FEASTED ON THE DREAMS OF ENTIRE GALAXIES! I HAVE -"

"That's fascinating," Dr. Pestilence interrupted, "but what exactly brings you to our humble dimension?"

Cannibalus stopped mid-rant, his eye stalks drooping slightly. "WELL... THE TRUTH IS... I WAS EXILED."

"Exiled?"

"THE OTHER COSMIC ENTITIES SAID I WAS 'IMMATURE' AND 'NEEDED TO LEARN RESPONSIBILITY' AND 'SHOULD STOP THROWING TANTRUMS EVERY TIME SOMEONE DISAGREED WITH ME.' SO THEY BANISHED ME TO FIND MY OWN FOOD UNTIL I 'GREW UP.'" He made air quotes with his tentacles, which was somehow even more pathetic than it sounds.

Dr. Pestilence blinked. "So you're essentially a cosmic teenager whose parents sent him out to get a job?"

"I AM NOT A TEENAGER! I AM ELEVENTY-SEVEN EONS OLD!"

"Riiiight."

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Chapter 4