Iron Chef 3085: After The Armageddon
(for annechen67...)
* * *
I had to admit that it was a startlingly good reproduction.
The Rebulons really had spared no expense. Everything from the violet-and-black paneling on the sides of the counters to the inexplicable Botticcelli prints to the oversized portraits of the various Chefs on the far wall was picture-perfect, almost as though my captors had reached back in time a thousand years and plucked the decor directly out of FujiTV's Studio V4 instead of fabbing it from prototypes developed from hours and hours of study of the ancient, scratchy magnetic tapes they had salvaged from the wreckage of Old Earth.
The Iron Chefs were Rebulon, of course, which was the only thing spoiling their perfect verisimilitude. Their images -- and now that the battle was about to begin, the Rebulons themselves -- stared down at me with their implacable reptilian eyes, their scales glittering under the hot studio lights. I tried my best to meet their gaze. I knew what was at stake, knew the horrors of what I was about to undergo, and yet I was calm. I considered myself uniquely qualified to meet the Rebulon challenge, and the leaders -- if I could even call them that -- of the tattered Post-Terran Confederacy agreed. Time and time again in our twisted and apocalyptic world, I had shown equal facility in cooking Mexican, Greek, German, Italian, the entire gamut.
The Rebulon Chairman came to me, speaking in the liquid and gutteral Rebulon tongue and gesturing grandly at the steaming and redolent studio audience. I understood little, but there was little to understand. He was following a script I had memorized by heart over a thousand viewings of those same scratchy magnetic tapes. If only it were different, like it had been back then. If only it were like it used to be...
Snap. No. Must focus.
I removed a cleaver from the table in front of me and gestured, dramatically, toward the red-clad Rebulon on my left, the one holding what was in reality a Zanzagonian Hyik-yik fruit but that resembled nothing less than a tiny Old Earth pear. "Sakai Hiroyuki!" I cried out. It was only his stage name, of course. His real name was something I couldn't pronounce. I knew that it was translated "Rends-Flesh-From-The-Wicked", but all the Rebulons had taken appropriate Old Earth names because of their great respect for the program.
"HIROYUKI!" gargled the Rebulon Chairman. The air became heady with the scent of Rebulon excitement. All that was left now was to present the secret ingredient. I steeled my constitution as more Rebulon gibberish filled the air.
And now, the Chairman was slithering up to the elevator platform, gazing down at it like some sacred altar. And the piston beneath was rising and --
Shit, I thought to myself.
The kids were still in their little blue uniforms, their gold neckerchiefs in disarray. Some of their caps had come off in the probable struggles that had taken place as they had been overpowered and subdued.
I had cooked Mexican before. I had cooked Greek, Italian, German and Frenchman. All of these I had prepared for.
I was not prepared for Americans.
"CUB SCOUT BATTLE!" cried the Chairman.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and readied my cleaver. Ah well, I thought to myself. At the very least, they'll be tender yet.
* * *
I had to admit that it was a startlingly good reproduction.
The Rebulons really had spared no expense. Everything from the violet-and-black paneling on the sides of the counters to the inexplicable Botticcelli prints to the oversized portraits of the various Chefs on the far wall was picture-perfect, almost as though my captors had reached back in time a thousand years and plucked the decor directly out of FujiTV's Studio V4 instead of fabbing it from prototypes developed from hours and hours of study of the ancient, scratchy magnetic tapes they had salvaged from the wreckage of Old Earth.
The Iron Chefs were Rebulon, of course, which was the only thing spoiling their perfect verisimilitude. Their images -- and now that the battle was about to begin, the Rebulons themselves -- stared down at me with their implacable reptilian eyes, their scales glittering under the hot studio lights. I tried my best to meet their gaze. I knew what was at stake, knew the horrors of what I was about to undergo, and yet I was calm. I considered myself uniquely qualified to meet the Rebulon challenge, and the leaders -- if I could even call them that -- of the tattered Post-Terran Confederacy agreed. Time and time again in our twisted and apocalyptic world, I had shown equal facility in cooking Mexican, Greek, German, Italian, the entire gamut.
The Rebulon Chairman came to me, speaking in the liquid and gutteral Rebulon tongue and gesturing grandly at the steaming and redolent studio audience. I understood little, but there was little to understand. He was following a script I had memorized by heart over a thousand viewings of those same scratchy magnetic tapes. If only it were different, like it had been back then. If only it were like it used to be...
Snap. No. Must focus.
I removed a cleaver from the table in front of me and gestured, dramatically, toward the red-clad Rebulon on my left, the one holding what was in reality a Zanzagonian Hyik-yik fruit but that resembled nothing less than a tiny Old Earth pear. "Sakai Hiroyuki!" I cried out. It was only his stage name, of course. His real name was something I couldn't pronounce. I knew that it was translated "Rends-Flesh-From-The-Wicked", but all the Rebulons had taken appropriate Old Earth names because of their great respect for the program.
"HIROYUKI!" gargled the Rebulon Chairman. The air became heady with the scent of Rebulon excitement. All that was left now was to present the secret ingredient. I steeled my constitution as more Rebulon gibberish filled the air.
And now, the Chairman was slithering up to the elevator platform, gazing down at it like some sacred altar. And the piston beneath was rising and --
Shit, I thought to myself.
The kids were still in their little blue uniforms, their gold neckerchiefs in disarray. Some of their caps had come off in the probable struggles that had taken place as they had been overpowered and subdued.
I had cooked Mexican before. I had cooked Greek, Italian, German and Frenchman. All of these I had prepared for.
I was not prepared for Americans.
"CUB SCOUT BATTLE!" cried the Chairman.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and readied my cleaver. Ah well, I thought to myself. At the very least, they'll be tender yet.