The Chef of Allegan
His cleaver made its way through the table as it did meat. He didn't do "refunds". Once you eat something, you can't get it back, was what he thought.
"Got an unhappy customer for ya' sir!" The thug said as he dragged along a frightened, weak figure
"Oh really?" Boomed the Chef.
His collection of chins and guinea-pig style food storage on the face made his British thug voice more penetrating than the edge of Samantha, his cleaver.
"Well, sir, how could I *ahem* "improve" your experience?* Smiled Chef
"ah um well..."
"I asked you a question!"
"All I said was I thought the meat tasted funny!"
"Oh really? You're THAT kind of unsatisfied customer."
Chef smiled and made his way to where Samantha lay, the Sequoia table he prepared his meat upon. Well, one would think it was a naturally red table but, unknown to all but the Chef, it was actually an oak piece he had found on his first visit to the fairgrounds. The previous owners of the table were "helpers" in the creation of the Chef's first batch of meatballs.
"You know, I thought I was tending to the local population's culinary choices in my selection of ingredients", he said simply as he polished his cleaver with his Sequoia apron.
"You know, most people appreciate my culinary skills. Before this whole "apocalypse" thing, I was one of the best chefs in this country, and I'm not even from here!"
He paced the kitchen up and down, waving his cleaver around like a wand. With every one of his unhappy customers, (totalling 5 now after someone spoke of the screaming coming from the store cupboard) his speech changed. He had one of the longest serving lines in Detroit, something that had caused him to be one of the most powerful people in Detroit.
"And you know what I don't like?"
"Umm no?" Whimpered the now-sorry man
"People that don't appreciate the effort I go through!" He bellowed, increasing the boom at every third word.
"Na' don't you have something to say to the boss 'ere?" inquired the thug
"Sorry!" the weakling screamed
The Chef smiled. He liked to scare them beforehand. It made him feel even more powerful. And satisfied.
"Go to the store cupboard and prepare the meat for preparing" Ordered Chef
"But... but I"
"Don't. Argue. With. The boss." The thug said as if in a mind-controlled trance
"Me and Sammy will be through in a minute"
Chef waited until he was sure the thug was away.
Chef stumbled to his office, locked the door and fell on his couch, sobbing silently into the remains of a pillow. He hated his job. He hated that people thought he was a cannibal. There were only so many deer one could hunt. All of that non-human meat was reserved for him. He would NEVER eat the s*** he gave his customers. In his dreams, all he heard were the ATN warriors screaming "Wendigo! Burn the Wendigo!". He wanted to tell them the truth. That he wasn't a "Wendigo" and such but they wouldn't listen to him, let alone believe him.
"Customer's ready for ya' boss!"
"*sniff* Yeah, be through in a minute!"
"You okay, sir?"
"Yeah. 'Think I'm getting a cold or somethin', that's all"
"Want me to get some antibiotics, sir?"
"No, just go take your break"
"Ugh" thought Chef. He picked up his cleaver, walked to the store room, (making a point of making the other guards see him) and entered the cupboard where his customer lay. He closed the door, locked it and simply said:
"Don't scream. It'll make it easier on us both"
Samantha made her way through meat as it did the table.