gildedguru

[gildedguru]

Necrocookicon

Propane hissed and tongs clicked, lips lisped and fire licked; the grill flared to life. Chicken hit the searing hot rods and sizzled against the gentle midday breeze. Lewis closed the case on the next savory delight, letting the meat bask in the building heat. 

Ron raised an eyebrow at the assortment of spices laid out before him. “Seems kinda overkill.”

Lewis stood by the grill, waiting to flip the chicken–no timer needed. “Seven spices, just like your pops wrote. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Ron shook his head and mixed the bowl of seasoning. His grandfather seemed to have a unique style of grilling, going as far as seasoning the meat only after it was cooked. The spices were so potent that Ron could already feel the heat crawling along the wooden spoon, up his arms, and down his spine in spicy chills. The five decorative candles arranged  around the bowl weren't helping. 

Sweating from his brow, he looked down at the crimson concoction.It was a sight to behold. Just like the book described, the smell alone was painful, but captivating. Its deep red dunes began to swirl and a small cloud of the mixture blew away on the rising winds. Bless the poor fellow who breathed in that deadly haze.

Lewis closed the grill and lifted a plate piled high with delectable chicken. “Ron, we better get that stuff on here before this weather takes it all away.”

Determination in their eyes and chicken in their hands, the pair set to work, rolling the legs through seasoning that bit at their skin. As the unholy flavors of the seven deadly spices filled every crevice of the chicken’s scarred flesh, the winds began to lash across the yard. The pair’s aprons billowed in the tempest, but defiant to nature’s upheaval, they pressed on. 

Once the last of the seasoning was whisked in the pandemonium, the whole world seemed to stand still. Ten legs sat on a messy plate.Beside them sat a leather book, untouched by the chaos.

Ron picked up the book and read from the recipe’s description, “Razing Caine’s Fiery Chicken! Wicked dark meat seared with fire and brimstone; tainted by seven deadly spices, this dish guarantees a flavor so sinful it’ll damn you straight to hell.”

Lewis grabbed two paper plates and tossed one to his friend, “Your great-grandpa wrote one hell of a cookbook that’s for sure.”

“Definitely, especially if all the recipes are that unique. Though the title Necrocookicon is still a little odd,” Ron said.

“I don’t care what he named it, as long as it helps us beat that hibachi chef, L.J. Dickens. We can’t let the new guy on the block take our champion title. Alright, dig in.”

Ron and Lewis were willing to take any measure to beat their new neighbor in the annual neighborhood grill off, but little did they know where that tome of unspeakable flavor would lead them. 

When they bit into that chicken, the sheer malefic energy of the uncooked seven deadly spices would have torn their mortal flesh asunder and scattered what remained throughout the cosmos. Their souls, no longer chained to the earth, would take in the vast grandeur of the heavens and endless woes of the depths of Hell, momentarily recognizing their own insignificance before unspeakable abominations consumed every trace of their previous existence, consigning what may remain of their souls to an unknown purgatory beyond the reaches of any being–mortal, demon, or god. However, thanks to Ron and Lewis’ proper completion of the demonic ritual written by Ron’s grandfather, H.P. Lovecook, the moment they tasted the spice they instead found themselves in an unfamiliar landscape. 

Surrounded on every side by gray skies and lifeless forest, only a towering stone gate stood before them. Inscribed on the arch above were the words, “Abandon all delights, ye who cook in here.”

Lewis glanced around, wondering how just a moment earlier he had been eating chicken on his porch. “Ron, we seem to have been transported.”

“Yep,” Ron agreed, “Let's see if we can’t find our way back now.”

A voice called to them from behind, “Many a traveler have I guided, ‘cross Hell’s long paths and winding trails of fire, yet now the strangest I've been entrusted.”

“Hello, stranger!” Ron turned and replied, “We were just looking for a way back home if you could help us?”

Clad in white and blue robes, the man cocked his head quizzically.

“Thine quest must lead thee through the gate of fire, and down the twisted path of wretched sins. For you, the deceiver shall spare his ire.”

Lewis headed for the stone gate, “Thanks for the tip, sir. We’ll be back home before dinner for sure.”

The two dads slipped through the gates before Vergil could offer his guidance. He thought to himself, be blessed strange men, your journey now begins. The Adversary lays this trap for thee, and now the horsemen bear their wicked grins.

The journey through nine circles of Hell was long and arduous, but through every challenge Ron and Lewis persevered. After hiking the fields of people who don’t click tongs twice in the first layer, escaping the ravenous souls of gluttony in the third, crossing the river of grease in the fifth, and even besting the four sous chef’s of the apocalypse in the frozen ninth layer, the two friends now stood before the gate to the tenth layer, Hell’s Kitchen.

Still wearing their aprons from home, but now armed with the tools of the trade, Ron and Lewis stepped towards the final gate. Ron raised his cast iron pan, but before he could knock on the gate, the doors slid open, revealing a spiral staircase made of stainless steel. 

Lewis put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This is it, Ron. One last hurdle before we can get back home to our wives and kids.”

Ron smiled as he looked at Lewis. “L.J. and his hibachi don’t stand a chance against us now. We’ve grown a lot as chefs on this journey,” 

“And soon we’ll grill a meat even L.J. Dickens can’t beat,” Lewis added.

The two fist bumped, then began the last of a journey of a thousand steps, plunging bravely into Hell’s Kitchen.

The countless spirals eventually spilled out onto a black and white tiled floor surrounded by walls made of ice; souls damned for not giving compliments to the chef stared blankly through their frozen prison. Marble counters and islands littered the floor and kitchen appliances circled around them; cooking ware of gold, silver, and iron hung from the ceiling on steel chains.

At the end of the colossal room stood a simple looking man, wearing a red button up shirt and jet black apron which read “Kiss The Cook”. Atop the man’s messy black hair sat a pillar of a chef’s toque. The white hat was nearly as tall as the man himself.

Ron raised his pan towards the man and shouted, “Lucifer! The arch chef, the Morning Meal, The Father of Pies!”

Satan placed down his mixing bowl and looked at Ron and Lewis. “Welcome! I’ve been waiting for you.”

Lewis quickly interjected, “Your toque; the number of folds represents the number of ways a chef can prepare an egg. Your hat only has one fold; how do you cook eggs?”

Satan unfurled leathery, purple wings from his back and spread his arms with flare, a wide smile on his face. “Deviled, of course.” 

He slid out from behind a counter and began to walk towards Ron and Lewis, talking as he strode through the room, “I admired your great-grandfather, Ron. Lovecook was a dear friend of mine. And now I admire you and Lewis’ passion for this craft. Now you’ve embarked on this journey, all because of your conviction to best your neighbor L.J. Dickens.”

Lewis stepped forward, “So why have you brought us here?”

“To offer you an ultimatum, of course! One I offered to Lovecook as well. See, Lovecook was willing to stretch the reaches of mortality to improve his cooking. I happened to have one recipe that he wanted more than any other for his book, but, alas, he could not win the prize,” the devil shook his head.

With Satan only a few strides away, Ron stepped forward, next to Lewis. “What recipe, and what challenge?”

“Well, just like I challenged Lovecook, I now challenge you. Defeat me in a grill-off, and you can have the recipe to my very own… Diablo Sauce!” Satan stopped just before Ron and Lewis. “And, of course, it’s your only way home. As if you lose, your souls are mine to do with as I please.”

Lewis tightened his apron, ready to refute the challenge, but stopped when he looked at his friend. Ron was down on one knee, holding the Necrocookicon. The tome shook violently in his hands.

Satan chuckled. “Old H.P. not happy ‘eh? Well, he was always a  sore loser. He should just be glad I didn’t rename his book to the Necro-nom-nom-nomicon.”

The Necrocookicon began to shake with even more vigor, then it lept from Ron’s hands, pages fluttering through the air. As it soared it began to glow; a look of bewilderment crossed Satan’s face and everything disappeared in a flash of light.

When the light faded, Ron and Lewis were back on the patio, standing in front of Lewis’ grill. People lined the fence, chatting excitedly. At the back of the yard a banner waved, proclaiming, “4th Annual Neighborhood Grill Off!!!” Around the yard, seven more grills completed the circle of competitors.

Directly across from Lewis and Ron stood L.J. Dickens, new guy on the block and professional hibachi chef, dressed in a red button up shirt, a black “Kiss The Cook” Apron, and a towering chef’s hat with a single fold.

L.J. Dickens waved across the circle. “The challenge still stands, neighbors!”

Lewis looked around at their prep station. All they had to work with was…

“Ron!” Lewis exclaimed, “All we have is chicken and the seven deadly spices!”

Ron whipped around. “What! We can’t send the judges to hell!”

Crackling over a megaphone one of the judges shouted, “Contestants! Ready…

Set… Grill!” 

“Lewis, what are we going to do?” Ron said, shaking his head in panic.

Lewis scrambled to come up with a solution, then he commanded,“Ron, get out the Necrocookicon!”

The book leapt onto the table beside the grill of Lovecook’s own accord. The tome hummed for a minute, then began leafing through his own pages. 

At the same time, a wicked spray of fire erupted across the lawn. Lucifer’s hibachi skills were on full display as he cooked. Fire danced from his fingertips and across the grill. He dealt meats onto the flames like cards, then began to juggle his knives. The blades twirled through the air until they dropped to grill, adding cut after cut to the Devil’s smorgasbord of meat, then bounced back into his hands. Satan laughed as he performed his show.

The Necrocookicon shook slightly, and the pages fell onto the recipe for Razing Caine’s Fiery Chicken.

“Grandpa, we can’t make that!” Ron sunk his head into his hands.

Lewis studied the page for a moment. It clicked.

Lewis slapped his friend on the back. “Ron Rockefeller, we’ve got this! Think back to when we made the chicken; what was so strange about the recipe?”

Ron perked up and considered the thought. “Wait… why would you rub the chicken with the seasoning after cooking it?”

“Exactly, it’s backwards. Is that right H.P.?”

The book bounced up into the air and slammed closed. The pair set to work.

Now well accustomed with hellish cuisine, the seven deadly spices didn’t hurt as they tossed the seasoning and rubbed the chicken. Clouds began to gather as the spices mixed and a puff of the unholy dust twirled into the sky. Lewis whipped open the grill and tossed four of the chicken legs into the heat. 

The crowd was enthralled by Lucifer’s showmanship. With a snap, one of the kebabs on his grill erupted into flame. He held the torch out in front of him and spewed out a mouthful of alcohol. The fire swirled in mesmerizing patterns with the rising wind.

When the time felt right Lewis opened the grill and plated three golden chicken legs speckled with crimson flakes. The air around the yard began to shimmer with malice from each side of the competition. Ron grabbed the final leg in his tongs, not a speck of crimson on its skin.

The judge then called over the megaphone, “Contestants, the judges will now come to test your dishes. Please plate them and step aside.”

Satan tossed each kebab into the air and caught them on a plate. He handed the plate to the head judge. One bite and the judges’ eyes went wide, they quickly jotted down notes about L.J.’s incredible kebabs.

The judges came before Ron and Lewis last. They each grabbed one of the three speckled legs and chewed slowly. One judge almost immediately went for the fridge inside covering her mouth as she ran. Another judge’s face turned a unique shade of scarlet and his eyes began to tear up as leaned on the table. The final judge outright fell over backwards.

Satan laughed from across the yard. Knowing his victory close at hand. Then to his surprise the judges recovered. Within moments they went from writhing in pain to  calmly discussing the dish they had tasted.

“Family and friends,” The head judge shouted, “we have a winner! Our reigning champions–and gracious host–Ron and Lewis!”

The crowd gave their applause. Lucifer began to seethe with anger. He flew across the yard in one leap and landed before the Neighborhood Cookoff Champions.

With fire on his tongue he spat, “Impossible! How did you do it!”

Ron grabbed the plate with the final chicken leg, now with crimson seasoning in every crevice. “Try it for yourself, Dickens. It's a family recipe.”

The Devil grabbed the chicken and bit in, but before he could taste the seven deadly spices, he vanished without a trace.