The Blue Tick In Red Sauce

The second kitchen was Jeff’s responsibility and nothing saddened or disgusted him more. The dead dog was two weeks gone and recently excavated. It was a very old labrador and tonight’s special, right next to the whiskey burger on the chalkboard. He recognized it as being the closest friend of Manuel the dishwasher, who got a hefty compensation for the violation of Argos.

Jeff sharpened his boning knife and got to work carving. He was two hours ahead of the lunch rush and working fast. He had eight more dogs to harvest bones from before eleven, then he’d start baking them with barbecue sauce. It was disgusting and had the notion of being slightly immoral. The substance was of course that these dogs all died incidentally but the ick factor made it feel all the more like a moral problem.

Jeffrey’s clientelle was an odd lot.  He was mostly annoyed at their scavenger nature. They liked their food dead, long dead. Very few humans could stomach a morty kitchen and Jeff was barely in that minority. Still, there was work to be done. Every one else was busy seasoning the meat for the dinner crowd. Jeff pulled seniority and was relatively happy with that choice. Still, he took a break as was his prerogative.

Jeff looked out the kitchen door remembering a time back when all you had to serve were humans. If anyone else wanted something they’d get it under the table. Then came first contact and then morties. Gaunt and long, they had black droopy skin, four legs and two arms. In their seating area, they all congregated around communal bowls. Their hair hung over their faces, giving the illusion that a pair of arms was feeding it’s own groin. The chattering masses filled the air with talk, both man and morty had the horrendous habit of talking while eating.

It was 11:45 and people were already packing the place. The morties had practically filled their area and tables were being cleared for more room. The Blue Tick In The Red Sauce was always a hit. Hell, even some of the humans acquired a taste for it. The special was gone within an hour, every bone picked clean and crunched. Those who were unlucky enough to come in after 12:55 made due with an over ripe chicken ala king.

Jeff made care to observe the waiters, easily visible above the customers. If a morty were to see a waiter hover around them, they might get displeased. Jeff was careful to signal the waiters when he noticed them hovering. From a rougher crowd than this, Jeff had received a deep claw wound going from the top of his right hip to his knee. He learned the hard way, either join or leave, lurkers are not appreciated.

A waiter approached Jeff puzzled.

“The gentleman at bowl 7 says ‘Scrig Saw.’”

“Tell him I said thank you, and then buy yourself a dictionary tonight. You really need to know these phrases.”

Kind words always made Jeff’s day. He went back to the kitchen to prepare for dinner.


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