Of course, I got new specials now.
’Scuse me again. My blackened prime rib is up.
Look, all I ask is you wait a minute before you judge me, okay? The way I see it is grubs got rights too. Just because we’re dead don’t mean we ain’t people. We got hopes and dreams just like you. We want the same things everyone wants, and we work just as hard as the next guy but we get the shit-end of the stick every time ’cos we’re grubs. If you were a grub you’d know what I’m talking about. Now I know what it’s like to be a minority. Never much thought about it back when I was alive, but now I can relate to what it feels like to be black, Hispanic, Vietnamese, gay, whatever. People are just so fuckin’ phony. They put laws on the books to protect our rights but it don’t mean shit. Try being a grub and just walk down the street. People gape at you, people get out of the way. They’ll cross the fuckin’ street so they don’t have to walk the same side, like we’re lepers or something. And there’re plenty of scumbag bigot bozos out there who just plain hate your guts because of what you are. They’ll spit on you, they’ll drag you in an alley and kick your ass, they’ll try to run you down if you’re hitching a ride. Sometimes you just get sick of it.
And you wanna do something about it.
I guess I got a little off track, huh? Back to what I was saying. I really lucked out, I gotta decent job again, cheffing at a good restaurant. I gotta come in and leave through the back door, but what the fuck, a job’s a job. The management is real good about keeping a lid on me—the customers don’t know I’m a grub. And this new joint I’m cheffing in?
Rave fuckin’ reviews, man. The place was no big deal before I came on, but now it’s got a rep an’ a half. The reviews are even better than when I was at The Emerald. It’s a packed house every night. You wanna eat here, brother, you better make a reservation a month in advance, and I don’t mind telling you it’s all because of me, my expertise as a world-class master chef. They sure as shit ain’t filling the house every night because of the pretty tablecloths. They want the best food in the city and they know they can get it here. My menu, my specials.
And...you know the old saying.
What people don’t know won’t hurt ’em.
Shit, give me another sec. I gotta get this pot-au-fue of cured duck off the line, and this order of Michelangelo Peppers. Try ’em some time. Primo, chief. You’d write home about my Michelangelo Peppers.
Anyway, back to what I was saying before. When people put you down long enough, you just get sick of it. You just wanna rise up and take back what they’ve ripped off of you. But I’m just one grub—what can I do? What, start a secret militia? Start a grub revolution? Don’t make me laugh. They’d snuff my ass in two seconds if I even started talking shit like that.
Hey, pass me that little dish of thyme, will ya? And that bucket of mustard vinaigrette. Thanks.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. You get shit on long enough, you wanna do something about it. But one day I realized there was nothing I could do outside of myself. I ain’t gonna form some grub union. I ain’t gonna start some terrorist organization. They’d chuck us into the grub slam faster than it takes you to wipe your ass. I realized that if I wanted to rebel, I’d have to find a way to do it secretly, by myself...
That first fucker, let me tell ya. I’m walking to work one afternoon, crossing 1st Street, and this redneck motherfucker gets right up in my face. Shoving me, pointing his finger at me, shouting all kinds of shit, man. “Get your dead ass out of town, grub!” he yells at me. “You stink! You’re dirty! Nobody wants your kind here!” And there’s other people standing around him, and you know what they do? They start clapping, like this guy’s some kind of hero for breaking my chops. Then the fucker spits in my face, and I know I can’t fight back ’cos if I do, I’m in the joint just like that. If you’re a grub and you hit someone, your ass is grass. They have special cellblocks for us is what I heard. Anyway, this chump hocks the lunger in my face, laughs, and then he crosses the street and gets in his car and drives away. Just like that.
You wanna know what I did?
I got his fuckin’ tag number, that’s what I did.
I kill them, that’s right. You would too if you had to take the shit I take every fuckin’ day. Of course, I’m really careful about it, I’m no dumbbell. Some asshole gets on my case for being a grub, I’ll wait a week, then I’ll punch his ticket when the time is right. One day the resident manager of my apartment building stops by, says he’s gotta triple my rent ’cos me living there is making other residents move. Well, I let it slide. And a week later the guy disappears.
I walk into the gourmet shop on Wisconsin Avenue one day, and the fat shit behind the counter starts raising hell, tells me to get out of his shop, doesn’t want me stinking up the place. I’m gonna drive customers away if people see a grub shopping in his two-bit joint. I just smiled and left.
And about a week later the Jabba-the-Hut-looking fat fuck disappears.
I’ve checked out about a dozen of them so far. That’s right, my own little revolution.
Ooo-la-la. Waitress just gave me an order for Tartar Provencial. I serve it with Ossetra caviar, capers, green onions, and chopped egg whites. Stuff’ll make your mouth water, bub.
What was it I was saying?
No, no, and I don’t just leave the bodies there—I told you, they disappear. And I sure as shit don’t bury them, either.
I guess by now you’re figuring out exactly what I do with them, huh?
A good chef can make anything taste like something else. Out on the dining floor, we got our regular menu, but in my head, see, I got my own menu.
My vinegar-accented lamb vindaloo—it ain’t lamb, brother, I can tell ya that. Try my foi-gras pastry or my pate on toast points. Who needs goose liver? My spit-roasted chicken in tarragon jus? Guess where the jus comes from.
The muscle meats taste like pork, great for stews, stuffing stock and andouille sausage, flaming stir-fry. I’ll grind up some bicep and blend it with bay oysters and my special garlic croutons, and that’s the way to stuff braised duck, man. When people order my fabulous Lebanon Kabob, it ain’t no tender chunks of lamb on that spike, and I can tell you something else, too. The human abdominal wall makes for the best brisket of beef you ever had in your fuckin’ life.
So you see what I mean when I said I’m doing my own little revolution. I’m feeding these assholes to the assholes out there, and they’re loving it. You should see them coming in every night with their $800 suits and their smug faces and distinguished gray temples. When these fuckers order the Roast Tenderloin of Lamb, they’re really getting my Roast Tenderloin of Scumbag. And the Crusted Flaky Baguette of Rabbit? Try Crusted Flaky Baguette of Clyde. And my dry-baked ribs? I’ll bet you’d swear they were the best ribs you ever had.