BY JON WESICK
Copyright is held by the author.
SING, GODDESS, of the wrath of Peleus’ son Wayne, of avocados brown with corruption that gave their flesh not to tacos but to vultures and wild dogs, and of how the will of Zuck was accomplished by the bitter rancour between Atreus’ son and swift-footed Wayne, pacifier of picky diners.
Nine long hours the waitstaff toiled at Persephone’s quinceañera. Clad in thick-soled shoes and knee-length aprons the colour of the screensaver sacred to Zuck, Doug son of Tydeus, Michael stacker of chairs, wily Oliver son of Laertes, and blameless Pat Roklus could not equal swift-footed Wayne in carrying plates of enchiladas in green pumpkinseed mole, conchinita pibil marinaded in annatto and orange juice, ceviche, empanadas golden fried, tortas, and Milanesas. After the guests left well sated, after the plates were ferried away, after the tablecloths folded, and after sweat-stained bow ties loosened, swift-footed Wayne, pacifier of picky diners, strode forward to claim the spoils from the tip jar that were justly his.
“Not so fast, son of Peleus.” Al Fresco, son of Atreus and purveyor of the three-martini lunch, intercepted him. “These riches go for overhead.”
Swift-footed Wayne looked darkly on him. “O shameless grifter, how shall any of the waitstaff follow you who never ferried beer to drunken frat boys, wiped a table, nor returned an overcooked steak? I did not come here for the honour of carrying your trays, but for the prizes won by my sweat and endurance.”
“Arrogant son of Peleus,” the purveyor of the three-martini lunch replied. “What do you know of health inspectors, filing forms Omega-2, and filling out Schedule Gammas at the end of the fiscal year? If you feel so wronged, take these avocados. When mashed with sea salt from the wine-dark Aegean, lime from the sunny slopes of Mount Tláloc, and onions from rich, red soil of Vidalia, you will feast like Zuck, son of Kronos and gatherer of Yelps.”
Swift-footed Wayne halved an avocado with his bronze blade expecting flesh green as the olive fields of Lemnos. Instead, he found it black as the deepest pit of Tartarus.
“These are worthless!” The pacifier of picky diners tossed them to the carpet.
“Can it be that heroic Wayne, who boasts of back-to-back shifts on the feast of Saint Valentine, trembles at a little oxidation?” said the son of Atreus. “They’re perfectly fine.”
“Vile Al Fresco, who never felt the weight of an apron nor the yoke of a bow tie, you so dishonour me with these contemptable vegetables. I shall withdraw to my studio apartment near Normandie and not return until you apologize at my knees.”
“Go then! There are plenty others who aspire to the grandeur of my two-for-one specials. And they’re fruits, not vegetables!”
***
“What troubles you, my son?” Thetis, hair-dresser of the gods asked. “It weighs heavy on my heart to see one destined to toil under a mound of college debt the size of Sisyphus’ boulder so unhappy.”
“Scheming Al Fresco has withheld tips that are rightfully mine,” swift-footed Wayne said to his mother. “I entreat you to intervene with Zuck, gatherer of Yelps, on my behalf. If the gods of cooking book a feast so immense that the son of Atreus begs for my return, the stain on my honour will be removed.”
***
Thetis did not forget Wayne’s entreaties so she flew to Mount Baldy to sit beside Zuck, son of Kronos, and take his knees.
“Lord Zuck, gatherer of Yelps, if ever you have looked on me with favour, restore honour to my son, so burdened by bitter college debt, who has been wronged. Ask the Linear B Cafe to hold a feast so taxing that scheming Al Fresco pleads with swift-footed Wayne to return.”
Zuck, gatherer of Yelps, pondered for as long as it takes to prepare a proper Bolognese before nodding his shaggy head to accede to Thetis’ plea.
“I shall summon winners of Bronze Chef to a week of feasts on the rocky slopes of Mount Baldy where Al Fresco’s Linear B Cafe will compete against Priam’s Kitchen, breakers of diets, to determine whose cuisine reigns supreme.”
Thus fleet-fingered Hermes emailed invitations to the gods of cooking: Hades of the infernal kitchen, Emeril lord of the rerun, grey-eyed Alton, Wolfgang feeder of airports, and Roger mocker of Jamie.
***
On Al Fresco’s behalf, wily Oliver equal to Zuck in gastronomy and Doug pourer of refills called upon swift-footed Wayne to beseech him to return for the feast. He bid them recline on the Naugahyde couch while he poured libations, sacrificed a bag of tortilla chips, and set out a steaming cauldron of queso dip. After all were satisfied, Oliver, son of Laertes, spoke.
“Zuck, son of Kronos, has set us a challenge to cater a feast for the gods of cooking. Without your stamina, we will be well pressed to best the breakers of diets. Abandon your quarrel and all leftovers will belong to you. Antipasto, rumaki, shrimp toast, spring rolls, arugula, asparagus in Hollandaise sauce, roast duck, beef Wellington, and cheesecake will stock your larder if only you lend your manly vigour to this contest.”
The son of Peleus denied the request, saying, “I would rather eat packaged ramen than grilled aji and truffle risotto seasoned with Al Fresco’s contempt.”
***
Ever watchful for the breakers of diets, Michael, stacker of chairs, carried a bronze tray of lamb, pine nut dolma and yuzu aioli toward the stairs. A marble slab formed the base of Zuck’s pleasure palace while a peaked roof supported by Doric columns shaded the diners inside. As Mother Nature would never dare displease Zuck, son of Kronos, the weather atop Mount Baldy was spring like and carried the scent of jasmine. Both kitchens occupied separate outbuildings. Despite what cooking dramas portray, the real battle took place between the outbuildings and dining pavilion.
“Coming through!” Paris, plunderer of girlfriends, body checked Michael from behind, sending his platter of dolma cartwheeling into the milk thistles.
Aioli soaked into the earth as grape leaves spilled their contents onto the dirt like hoplites with bellies pierced by javelins. Delight vanished from Michael’s eyes as Charon escorted the fallen to the compost pit.
Enraged by this affront, Doug, pourer of refills, led a phalanx from the Linear B Cafe to Priam’s Kitchen.
“Take one step outside and Charon will ferry your appetizers, salads, and entrees to the compost for no one besmirches the honour of the Linear B Café,” the pourer of refills taunted.
“Save your boasts for the busboys,” Glaucus of the thick glasses replied. “We of Priam’s Kitchen are well skilled in the ways of culinary warfare.”
Clad in warlike aprons, he, Paris, Aeneus grater of parm, Agenor dropper of forks, and Polydamas of the many girlfriends streamed forth from Priam’s Kitchen with platters of antipasto, bruschetta, caprese, arancini, and carpaccio held high.
“Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!” Bellowing the battle cry of the Stooges of Cerberus, the Linear B Café’s waitstaff attacked with streams of seltzer to the eyes, tongs to the nose, and spanakopita to the face.
Olives spewed their pimentos when crushed under the heels of thick-soled shoes. Mortadella, prosciutto, salami, basil, mozzarella, rice, artichoke hearts, pepperoncini, provolone, and sopressata fell to their doom soaking the earth with extra-virgin olive oil. As Charon escorted the fallen to the compost pit, the Linear B Café’s waitstaff returned in triumph to their kitchen to ferry their next course to the banquet hall.
There, blameless Pat Roklus hoisted swift-footed Wayne’s bronze platter topped with green mussels, Kumamoto oysters, charcoal grilled wagyu, miso-caramel mousse, a cheese board, buttermilk fried chicken, Neapolitan icebox cake, lobster mac and cheese, tea-smoked duck, grilled scallops, and Parmesan with balsamic.
Guarded by the Linear B Café’s waitstaff, Pat Roklus carried this feast toward the banquet hall. Priam’s Kitchen’s waitstaff set on them immediately. Aeneas, wielder of the peppermill, flung burning powder into the eyes of Michael, stacker of chairs. The Linear B Café’s waitstaff hurled fusillades of spanakopita, clearing the way for Pat Roklus to enter the banquet hall. With victory in sight, he approached the dining table where Zuck gatherer of Yelps, Hades of the infernal kitchen, Emeril lord of the rerun, grey-eyed Alton, Wolfgang feeder of airports, and Roger mocker of Jamie raised their eyes from their Assyrtiko wine.
So intent was he on nourishing the gods of cooking that he failed to see Hector, of the two-and-a-half acres, stick out his foot. Pat Roklus pitched forward and twelve courses splatted the son of Kronos’ tunic. Miso smeared the gatherer of Yelp’s chest, balsamic pooled at his crotch, and macaroni clung from his mighty eyebrow. The light vanished from Pat Roklus’s eyes as Charon escorted him from the land of the living wage to the unemployment office.
***
Al Fresco, son of Atreus, visited swift-footed Wayne in his studio apartment where the son of Peleus bade him recline on his Naugahyde couch. After setting out libations (chips, and artichoke dip), Wayne bade Al Fresco speak.
“Just as fake news persuades the middle class to vote against their interests so Zuck bewitched my mind with arrogance that caused me to take what is rightfully yours.” Al Fresco returned the tip jar to swift-footed Wayne. “Following a false prophecy that came in a dream, I led the Linear B Cafe to near defeat. Our green mussels, Kumamoto oysters, charcoal grilled wagyu, miso-caramel mousse, cheese board, buttermilk fried chicken, Neapolitan icebox cake, lobster mac and cheese, tea-smoked duck, grilled scallops, and Parmesan with balsamic feed vultures and wild dogs while the gods of cooking feast on bucatini, eggplant parm, watermelon Fattoush, lamb phyllo pie, snap pea salad, lobster fra diavalo with Calabrian chilis, gado-gado salad, tuna steak, and roast pork with peaches from the breakers of diets. Worst of all, Hector, of the two-and-a-half acres, sent blameless Pat Roklus to the unemployment office and only the pacifier of picky diners can avenge his loss.”
“Bring me my bronze platter!” Swift-footed Wayne stood. “I shall not eat, nor bathe, nor sleep until Hector, breaker of diets, pays for what he’s done.”
“Maybe you should reconsider the not bathing part,” Al Fresco added.
***
When they heard the son of Peleus had returned, the breakers of diets cowered in their kitchen behind giant wheels of Parmesan lest they meet the same fate as blameless Pat Roklus. Only Hector, of the two-and-a-half acres, dared face Linear B’s champion.
“Fetch the shield of Perseus. On it place grilled octopus with aioli, patatas bravas, tagliatelle au pistou, caponata, saffron cavatelli with calamari, moules frites, tiramisu, monkfish, koji marinated duck breast with blackberry barbecue sauce, duck fat carrots, and scallops with harissa and I shall ferry this feast past the pacifier of picky diners to delight the table of Zuck, gatherer of Yelps.”
Before Hector could leave, old Priam, his eyebrows grizzled from decades of flambés, stepped from behind the deep fryer.
“Do not go, my son. I have already lost olives, mortadella, prosciutto, salami, basil, mozzarella, rice, artichoke hearts, pepperoncini, provolone, and sopressata and I cannot bear to lose another entrée. Though you may be quick with the grated Parmesan and credit card reader, you are no match for the son of Peleus.”
To which Hector, of the two-and-a-half acres replied, “Nah. It’ll be fine.”
Swift-footed Wayne, his hair cut in a mohawk and sporting a “We Are the People” campaign button, waited in ambush with a platter of burnished bronze topped with avocado varieties spelling death. There were Del Rio, Ettinger, Anaheim, Teague, and Hass as well as Bacon of bloodlust, Brogden of butchery, Choquette of calamity, Cleopatra of carnage, Fuerte of fear, Gwen of the grave, Holiday of horror, Joey of judgement, Lamb Hass of loss, Lula of liquidation, Maluma of massacre, Mexicola of mortification, Monroe of malevolence, Pinkerton of panic, Reed of ruin, Russell of revenge, Sharwill of slaughter, Stewart of subjugation, Stir Prize of spite, Winter Mexican of waste, Wurtz of worry, and Zutano of Zuck’s retribution.
When Hector saw the son of Peleus effortlessly balancing the round fruits, he fled but swift-footed Wayne stuck to his heels like a burr from a Geum canadense. A handful of ground squirrels dodged out of Hector’s path, barely escaping his heavy boots, and chittered complaints as he passed. Once the coast was clear, they regathered only to be crushed into squirrel patties under the pacifier of picky diner’s soles. Hector’s patatas bravas were first to fall. Their plate shattered against a stone and spicy paprika sauce soaked the earth. Two mountain chickadees dropped from a bristlecone pine to pick at the remains. A Pinkerton, hurled by Wayne, whistled past Hector’s ear. He scrambled to keep the grilled octopus from sliding into the stinging nettles, losing only a handful of tentacles. Then, a Fuerte caught him in the shoulder. Hector’s right hand went numb and he switched the platter to his left.
After rounding a corner, he cowered behind a Douglass fir to rest. Hector turned to look and a Del Rio smashed into the bark, and showered him with green flesh. He flung a plate of carrots like a discus but it sailed wide of the son of Peleus and clunked against a ponderosa pine. Lungs burning in the thin air, Hector stumbled over a tree root, barely keeping his tray from toppling. A Lamb Hass caught him in the leg. Wincing with pain, he limped up the trail with swift-footed Wayne following, inexorably as a Labrador chasing a cheese curl.
Then, just as fake news persuades the middle class to vote against their interests so Zuck bewitched Hector’s mind with the thought, “If my throw is accurate, I just might vanquish this guy.” Hector turned to hurl a tiramisu. A Hass beaned him between the eyes and the platter tumbled from his hands. Octopus, aioli, tagliatelle, caponata, cavatelli, calamari, mussels, tiramisu, monkfish, duck breast, barbecue sauce, scallops and harissa stained the earth like an abstract-expressionist painting of food waste perpetrated by a demonic Jackson Pollack.
Thus ended the funeral of Hector’s career in the food industry.
***
Jon Wesick has written over a million words in poems, short stories, and novels. Hundreds of his works have appeared in journals such as the I-70 Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, and Unlikely Stories Mark V. He is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual and host of the Gelato East Fiction Open Mic. His latest book, Reductio Ad Absurdum, is a collection of parodies. He lives in Manchester, New Hampshire, U.S., and longs for gene editing to bring giant wombats back from extinction. http://jonwesick.com
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