"Civilian approaching! Please cease any and all knife throwing, because I'm suscepible to knives," Chuck warned as he approached, holding up both hands, palms out. He'd caught sight of Morgan behind his grill about a hundred times since he'd gotten it as a creepy island present, but he usually didn't approach.
"That was a one time thing, Chuck," Morgan sighed, hands on his hips and red scarf tied around his head as if he was somewhere between sweat jockey and thrift-shop ninja. "I didn't know the knife was going to go through the wall and I didn't know your head was on the other side. Sadly my ninja skills are bound to this altar of deliciousness." He skimmed a hand over the grill... and pulled it back immediately when he remembered that he had just turned it on.
The throbbing only lasted a second.
"Come to try out BeniMorgan's cuisine?" He gestured widley at his surroundings. He'd never told anyone of his secret desire to be a Benihana chef in Hawaii, not even his best friend, and here he was, literally living the dream.
"BeniMorgan's?" Chuck asked, a little incredulous, "There's a name for it now?"
He wasn't about to bedruge his little bearded friend his happiness, but Chuck couldn't help but be a little bit skeptical. After all, he didn't think he'd ever seen Morgan cook much of anything before now. Usually, he just came over and ate whatever Ellie had made.
Or gone for one of the hundred awesome little take out places that he'd discovered in L.A.
"Come on, Chuck!" Morgan said, abandoning all calm in the face of his oldest and greatest confidante. "Like I tell any sorority girl before their first drunken lesbian fiasco, don't knock it til you try it!" Actually, what he usually said was something more along the lines of almost-words, as sorority girls freaked him out to the point of silence. They were only ideal in porn, it seemed.
He pulled out a chair for Chuck. "Sit down. Partake in the fruits of my labor!" The last time Morgan had said that, they had both ended up in the emergency room, but that was his fault. He should have known a garage sale Easy Bake Oven couldn't be trusted to make a decent quesadilla.
Jen's noticed the little shelter-type building before, but this is the first time she's seen it open, and she smiles when she sees Morgan inside. He seems like a really nice guy, and they've only had a few opportunities to talk, but she wants to get to know him better.
As she steps inside and gets a good look at what's there, her eyes widen in pleased surprise. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is this a set up for teppanyaki?" she asked, a little excited by the prospect.
Jen. What a nice girl. And so hot in that understated, She's All That kind of way. He's certain that with some stockings and a tiny little skirt, she could be every bit the Baptist Minister's Daughter Hottie she had every right to be. He liked the squinty eyes too, always like it was too bring or she was a little skeptical. Morgan liked skeptical. Especially when it wasn't directed at him by an authority figure.
"There is no deception," he said, adjusting his little ninja-scarf on his head. "Welcome --" He paused for effect, "--to BeniMorgan."
Jen's smile brightens even as she lets out a soft, amused laugh. "BeniMorgan, I like that," she says, nodding as she looks around. "Wow, this - this is awesome! Did you do all this yourself?"
Patrick had been wandering the island - and came upon the shelter quite by accident. He walked all around the building first, curiosity coming over any other feelings he was having at the moment.
He poked his head inside, and then smiled as he recognized the man behind the grill. "Well hello there, odd bearded man! Long time, no see."
"I answer to many names," Morgan replied, calm as a disciplined Buddhist as he inclined his head at the overly curious almost-stranger who has once asked him about the whereabouts of Roger Davies. He'd assumed 'Davis' and pointed him in the direction of the skinny hairball, and he couldn't help but wonder how it went with that guy.
But ninja chefs didn't wonder -- they simply were.
He gestured in one slow, sweeping way to the chairs that were set up before him, inviting the man in if he chose to share a dining experience. Some simply were not ready for such a thing.
"Really? Will you answer to Mortimer?" Patrick asked, his mouth quirking up around the edges before he went to go find a seat, looking around with an eager sort of curiosity, before looking around for a menu. "I don't suppose you serve tea here, do you?"
"I said 'many,'" Morgan clarified, assuming the uppity, annoyed air of a learned man in many disciplines. "Not 'any.' Mortimer is such a... graceless name." He tripped over a wheel of his cart right then, but managed to catch himself on the edge of the countered table and push himself upright.
"We have no ascended to tea, yet. But I do have some refreshing water." He held up the pitcher. "Would you care to partake in nature's own soft drink?"
Of all the many unexpected things I have come across in my years spent walking this bloody island, this ranks perhaps higher on the list than one would have anticipated. There is an almost palpable and somewhat disturbing feeling of expectation generating forth from what appears to be a teppanyaki guarded by a gnome.
I may, however, just be a bit tired.
Absently slipping my hunting knife into my boot, so it isn't spinning on my knuckle when I approach the also, technically, armed chef, I deviate course and meander over. The gentle rippling of foliage to my left tells me Ulixes is at my flank and also curious.
"I'd no idea we'd reached a level of civilization that necessitated Japanese restaurants," I say in place of a greeting, dropping one hand to my hip and tilting my head to one side.
He knew she was there. He'd heard murmurings of it, but the way Morgan saw it was that you didn't find Lara Croft, she found you. Like a really hot, less hairy Chuck Norris.
Speaking of hairy, he was so glad his beard had mostly grown back. He'd have no chance without the thick layer of armor on his chinny chin chin.
A bit like Chuck Norris, if he said so himself.
"Perhaps it is society that dictates its own needs," Morgan answered, doing his level best to keep his hand steady and adopting a sophisticated (read: Morgan-sophisticated, so it looked somewhat constipated with a bit of a duck waddle thrown in) stroll. "Or perhaps it should." Whatever he'd said, it sounded good, he decided, as he leaned against the marble of the table.
She said something, Morgan was sure of it. The sound was there, only the comprehension was not because - much like often happened whilst playing any of the Tomb Raiders, watching any of the movies, or generally catching a whiff of any Tomb Raider conversation - those shorts.
Ah, yes, the shorts, a symbol of sexy tomb raiding from the dawn of time. It was said that the ancient forefathers had carved those booty shorts upon stone walls as a tribute to their gods. Please, they would cry in their guttural tones, please take from us our wives who are ugly and scarred from hunting and the wears and tears of east cavewoman living, and bring us the one who raids tombs, that gilded goddess of the gold-seekers, that temptress of the tanned talismans, that awesome-assed architect of the ample planes.
"Wha?" Morgan snapped to. "Uh, it was built for me. Think of it as a shrine to my culinary prowess."
Sure Chuck knew Morgan better than Devon did, but the guy was around enough that he knew when something was going on. He'd just been distracted by other things - like, say, getting married and going on his honeymoon, not to mention school and baseball and clinic hours - to actually investigate.
Not that he'd planned on figuring out Morgan's little secret today; Devon just happened to be passing by and was drawn in.
"Dude," he said, staring at everything. So thats where all the strange food smells had been coming from.
Devon wasn't the only one that could fashion sand and magic into awesome. It seemed the island had its own backstore of awesome with Morgan's name on it, and that was BeniMorgan, the tsunami of the tastebuds, the whirlwind of--
Okay, Morgan was still working on that one.
"Hello, Devon," Morgan said, skimming a hand over the marble countering. "Would you care to elaborate?" Morgan was in full-on sensei mode. All he needed was longer sleeves and a long, pointy mustache.
It was the sort of eyebrow raise he was practiced in when it came to conversations with Morgan -- one might even call it the Morgan Brow.
"Dude...what's going on? Since when are you a chef?" Actually, Devon's real question was how long Morgan had been doing this without burning everything down, but he did like the guy.
Comments 31
Today, he was feeling adventurous.
Reply
The throbbing only lasted a second.
"Come to try out BeniMorgan's cuisine?" He gestured widley at his surroundings. He'd never told anyone of his secret desire to be a Benihana chef in Hawaii, not even his best friend, and here he was, literally living the dream.
Reply
He wasn't about to bedruge his little bearded friend his happiness, but Chuck couldn't help but be a little bit skeptical. After all, he didn't think he'd ever seen Morgan cook much of anything before now. Usually, he just came over and ate whatever Ellie had made.
Or gone for one of the hundred awesome little take out places that he'd discovered in L.A.
Reply
He pulled out a chair for Chuck. "Sit down. Partake in the fruits of my labor!" The last time Morgan had said that, they had both ended up in the emergency room, but that was his fault. He should have known a garage sale Easy Bake Oven couldn't be trusted to make a decent quesadilla.
Reply
As she steps inside and gets a good look at what's there, her eyes widen in pleased surprise. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is this a set up for teppanyaki?" she asked, a little excited by the prospect.
Reply
"There is no deception," he said, adjusting his little ninja-scarf on his head. "Welcome --" He paused for effect, "--to BeniMorgan."
Reply
Reply
He poked his head inside, and then smiled as he recognized the man behind the grill. "Well hello there, odd bearded man! Long time, no see."
Reply
But ninja chefs didn't wonder -- they simply were.
He gestured in one slow, sweeping way to the chairs that were set up before him, inviting the man in if he chose to share a dining experience. Some simply were not ready for such a thing.
Reply
Reply
"We have no ascended to tea, yet. But I do have some refreshing water." He held up the pitcher. "Would you care to partake in nature's own soft drink?"
Reply
I may, however, just be a bit tired.
Absently slipping my hunting knife into my boot, so it isn't spinning on my knuckle when I approach the also, technically, armed chef, I deviate course and meander over. The gentle rippling of foliage to my left tells me Ulixes is at my flank and also curious.
"I'd no idea we'd reached a level of civilization that necessitated Japanese restaurants," I say in place of a greeting, dropping one hand to my hip and tilting my head to one side.
Given the circumstances, it's really not bad.
Reply
He knew she was there. He'd heard murmurings of it, but the way Morgan saw it was that you didn't find Lara Croft, she found you. Like a really hot, less hairy Chuck Norris.
Speaking of hairy, he was so glad his beard had mostly grown back. He'd have no chance without the thick layer of armor on his chinny chin chin.
A bit like Chuck Norris, if he said so himself.
"Perhaps it is society that dictates its own needs," Morgan answered, doing his level best to keep his hand steady and adopting a sophisticated (read: Morgan-sophisticated, so it looked somewhat constipated with a bit of a duck waddle thrown in) stroll. "Or perhaps it should." Whatever he'd said, it sounded good, he decided, as he leaned against the marble of the table.
Reply
"Well, those who try to do the dictating for society usually end up in a bad way, anyhow. Did you build this?"
Reply
Ah, yes, the shorts, a symbol of sexy tomb raiding from the dawn of time. It was said that the ancient forefathers had carved those booty shorts upon stone walls as a tribute to their gods. Please, they would cry in their guttural tones, please take from us our wives who are ugly and scarred from hunting and the wears and tears of east cavewoman living, and bring us the one who raids tombs, that gilded goddess of the gold-seekers, that temptress of the tanned talismans, that awesome-assed architect of the ample planes.
"Wha?" Morgan snapped to. "Uh, it was built for me. Think of it as a shrine to my culinary prowess."
Reply
Sure Chuck knew Morgan better than Devon did, but the guy was around enough that he knew when something was going on. He'd just been distracted by other things - like, say, getting married and going on his honeymoon, not to mention school and baseball and clinic hours - to actually investigate.
Not that he'd planned on figuring out Morgan's little secret today; Devon just happened to be passing by and was drawn in.
"Dude," he said, staring at everything. So thats where all the strange food smells had been coming from.
Reply
Okay, Morgan was still working on that one.
"Hello, Devon," Morgan said, skimming a hand over the marble countering. "Would you care to elaborate?" Morgan was in full-on sensei mode. All he needed was longer sleeves and a long, pointy mustache.
Reply
It was the sort of eyebrow raise he was practiced in when it came to conversations with Morgan -- one might even call it the Morgan Brow.
"Dude...what's going on? Since when are you a chef?" Actually, Devon's real question was how long Morgan had been doing this without burning everything down, but he did like the guy.
Reply
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