Georgette

August 30, 2017 by Patrick Starks

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Strawberries, cherries, and a dash of sugar were my ingredients, but there was always something missing—something that would give it a kick. I’d try lemon, but it made it slightly sour, I’d try lime, but it only made it bitter—my tongue never appreciated such taste, but I was chef, and for that, it was my tongues fate—fate to be my sacrificial lamb of experiments, of my special ingredients.

But wait, I got it!  Chocolate! Everyone loves chocolate, especially families—although, it would seem their pets, more so their dogs that would not. I won’t talk about it, but it was an honest mistake. I felt awful, out of all the people in the world, it had to be Gordan Ramsay’s dog that would be the one to suffer behind my ignorance.

I can still hear him now, “You fucking idiot, you fucking cunt, you’re a fucking disgrace, I’m going to blow fucking blood vessel, ” he said, and the rampage continued. I felt my career was coming to an end as I stood in the saliva Ramsay would spray upon me—and as pissed as he was, I only hoped his saliva didn’t go in the food—I was a fan of the man, but not that much.

As the years went on, I would spend my time around nothing but dusty silverware and expired ingredients, it was obvious I had lost motivation of what I felt so passionately about. And there I laid, in my bed as always, watching my favorite show. “Stranger Things,” as if I had nothing better to do—although, my sub conscious would tell me otherwise. Driven by the fact I had a belly full of pizza and a blue moon in hand, I would fall asleep one way or another.

I dreamed of food, obviously, but sadly in horrific ways for that I was the food. Dad always said watching to many zombie movies would give me nightmares, but I never thought it would be like this. The zombies wouldn’t eat me right away, but prep me as if I was to be a four-star meal. I was flattered, at least I wasn’t on their shitty food list, I would probably be already ripped to shreds if that was the case.

Some zombies would use hot sauce, some would use a little paprika, and oddly some would use turmeric powder—I’m guessing it was for their eyes—some of them were health conscious, the organic ingredients would tell one that. But what shocked me the most was Georgette, whom I would name after the famous George A. Romero—it was woman, and surely there had to be a female version of the name. I’d try Georgia, but she didn’t seem as all that much of a Georgia Peach, at least not anymore. I’d try Georgina, but I wasn’t fond of the combining of the two names—George and Gina, and so I settled with what I originally chose, what I liked.

Georgette was different than all the other zombies, she had decent hair, but smelt like dove shampoo mixed in with a clogged sewage disposal. She had blood shot eye’s, but what zombie didn’t. Georgette would try to use Opticure, but as you probably know, didn’t work. “Georgette… No, that’s for the living, you’re a zombie now, you don’t need those things anymore,” I said, but Georgette would continue to empty the bottle, as the liquid from it would flow through her eyes, through her mouth—what was left of it, only to spew through the torn pieces of skin upon her neck.

But there was more, this wasn’t all that surprised me about Georgette. The real shocker was when Georgette would use my own ingredients to eat me—Strawberries, cherries, and dash of sugar. She took one of my fingers as test—one chop of the index and into the pot of boiling sweetness. Georgette was at first excited, but when she took a taste, all excitement was erased. I smiled, and Georgette became angry, so angry she’d bite off my lip—and no way was it at all pleasurable, sexual.

And there I sat, with a missing index finger, and a missing bottom lip, only to show what a woman can do to a man if crossed, and as funny as it seemed, it wasn’t at all, for that smile was now broken. Georgette would pace around the cold-dark room for hours, trying to figure out the next ingredient, and as she became more frustrated, she tore more pieces of me—to ease her frustration.

But then she stopped, she walked over and buried her head into a pile of corpses she’d left lying around, for the winter it would seem her attentions were of it. Bones, intestines, bloody clothes, even gigantic rats, were all that was being thrown in the air as she dug. Once she reached the bottom, she turned her head back to me in exorcist ways, she had cynical grin—I could tell she found something, and knew that this would be the end.

She then pulled out what appeared to be a man’s head and old can of tomato sauce. I thought to myself, what the hell could she be thinking, but instantly had it revealed. In the boiling pot of my special ingredients she would then add her own. She open the spoiled can of tomato sauce and poured it in the pot. She stirred for approximately one minute, took a few sip, and as her eyes rolled back one could tell she was pleased by the results. Then the head, the final piece—I was thinking she was just going to lob into the pot until all that was left of it was the skull and the brain—some of the zombies would call not gumbo, but gumball, for that it was hard on the outside, chewy in the middle.

But no, this wasn’t at all what she did. Georgette would lean the head over the pot and start scratching the scalp of the anonymous victim, as nothing but dandruff fell into the rest of the ingredients. She gave it a stir and then a taste. “Umm… S-aaa-ltt-yy,” she said. I was amazed, who’d ever though that dandruff and a can of spoiled tomato sauce would do the job. As the dream went on, I’m sure you know that I was eventually eaten—the visuals are way too graphic to describe—although, I didn’t care, Georgette was happy. I started to think that maybe, just maybe, Georgette was a Chef before she became one of the dead, after all she was talented, at least she was to me.

A couple hours later I awakened, with a new idea, an addition to my special ingredients—dandruff and expired tomato sauce. Although, for the living that wouldn’t be at all appropriate, plus I’d fear I would piss of Ramsay again. “This is your last chance, you hear me! Don’t fuck this up!” he yelled. And I surely wasn’t going to.

My special ingredients were now—Strawberries, cherries, a dash of a sugar, a dash of salt, poured in with a fresh boiling pot of tomato sauce, and in addition I would cook my mom’s famous homemade noodles as its completion.

“Slightly sweet, slightly salty, and the fruit definitely adds a nice touch. Adding all of this to the tomato sauce was absolutely genius. What brought you to this idea?” Ramsay asked. I smiled, and said only one word “Georgette.”

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