Mutated rats with a taste for gourmet food escape from a laboratory in New York. While fast food chains remain untouched by the rats, restaurants like Pasta Heaven are getting overrun. Time for it's owner, Vincent, and his employees to grab a gun and go to war.
At two o'clock Michael appeared, announced that he had good news and pulled a small metal object out of the pocket of his jacket. It resembled a toy gun for kids.
"What's that?" asked Vincent, even though he knew the answer.
"A weapon. Since we can't afford to wait three days, I bought it last night on the Dark Net. I sent a guy named 'Heisenberg22' Bitcoins worth 80 dollars and this morning it was already in the mailbox, express delivery. We can shoot the rats with it."
Michael smiled from ear to ear, and Lenny seemed enthusiastic as well, which immediately passed on to Jack, who started wiggling his tail. Only Vincent had his doubts.
"We can't just go around shooting guns in the city, and this thing looks an awful lot like a converted gas pistol. It will probably blow your hand off if you use real bullets."
The enthusiasm left the room.
"But when the rats overrun us," Michael defended his nocturnal shopping, "it would be better if we could shoot, right?"
"Well, I don't know, maybe as a last resort, yes, we could use it," said Vincent.
"It was going to be a surprise," Lenny said with his head down, "but I have dug up the shotgun after I was at the hardware store."
Vincent tried not to be angry so he wouldn't hurt Lenny.
"Didn't you hear the news? Several people have already died because of stray bullets, some have even managed to shoot themselves. I want to defend the restaurant, but I won't pay with my or your life for it."
"Yes," Michael said, "but they also said on the news that the rats go for an easier target if people are defending their kitchen. Just like last night, at some point they had enough and went to the Potato Box. But tonight anyone who cares about his or her restaurant will be on his feet with a bat in his hand, at the very least. We cant' be one of the weaker ones, especially not with all the cheese from Mama Finelli's. I just thought that maybe all we have to do is fire a few shots into the alley."
"I must admit that you have thought the situation through," said Vincent, "but we have to make sure to only shoot when all three of us are on the roof. And I still believe that this is a converted gas pistol, which can explode from the pressure of a real bullet. I would actually prefer the shotgun."
"The guy assured me that it is safe to use it, and he had good reviews in his profile."
"Heisenberg22?"
"Yes, they all have strange names like that since they obviously can't use their real ones, and it was a damn good show. Anyhow, I didn't know that Lenny had organized a shotgun. It's probably the better choice."
Lenny beamed with pride, and again Jack began to wiggle his tail.
"We should start with the dough," Vincent ended the war planning, "if we don't cook, we don't have anything to defend."
Michael turned on the radio, a drummer was delivering a brilliant solo, while Vincent began weighing the durum wheat semolina.
"Do you think that today we'll have more or less customers?" asked Vincent his sous chef.
"Hard to say, there are certainly many who are afraid, did you hear the story of Quattro Flori?"
"No, what happened there?"
"They had rats in the kitchen and didn't notice, and you know how they always serve the food under silver cloches, and somehow a rat makes it under there, and the waiter puts it on the table of this old rich couple, lifts it and this fat rat is sitting there and munching away. Allegedly, the woman fainted."
Vincent began to laugh, but the schadenfreude didn't last too long. After all, it reminded him of what was awaiting him.
"I've heard that more than a hundred restaurants had to close," Michael continued, "and I can imagine that some people are afraid that there won't be any good food around soon, so they will come out tonight because it might be the last chance."
"Somehow I don't believe it," Vincent said, and decided to prepare the usual amount of 24 pounds of pasta dough. "There will always be good food. Even during the war, people managed to eat as good as possible. Perhaps it won't be as easy and casual to go eat at a decent restaurant, but people are still going to be able to get good food."
"Hopefully, we will still be the ones standing at the stove," Michael said and chopped mushrooms into thin slices.
"Yes, but a real stove. Just imagine all the good cooks have no choice but to fry burgers at McFunnel's."
"I passed by one of their places earlier, packed with people," Michael said, giving the first load of mushrooms into the pan with hot olive oil, not too many of course, so they would become golden brown instead of watery mud.
"One would actually think," Vincent said, turning on the kneading machine, "that people get a bit suspicious that the rats don't touch McFunnel's and alike."
"You can give the people many reasons to be suspicious, but they thankfully refuse to be so."
"You're right about that, unfortunately," sighed Vincent and started cracking eggs with one hand each into a separate bowl. Not that there were ever shell fragments, but just to be safe.
Lenny appeared at the door with his new companion.
"This is the kitchen, the most important room." Jack sniffed around with his nose hovering over the ground and picked up a trail that lead him to the pantry.
"Oh no, he smells something, we might have a rat in there," Lenny said.
"Does he even know that he is supposed to look for rats?" asked Vincent and started added spoons of cold water to the dough. "Maybe he's just smelling all the food."
"That could be it," Lenny admitted. "But I thought, I show him the kitchen, so he knows this is his territory."
"As long as he doesn't mark it...," said Michael.
"Don't worry, he won't do that. But wouldn't it be a good idea to have him pee outside, like at the front door? Then the rats will know that there's a dog in the restaurant."
"It couldn't hurt, though maybe not the door," Vincent said, "but let me guess, he has already done that?"
"Yes, I'm really sorry."
"Never mind. I'm sure that dogs pee at the door all day long, and at night people probably do too. But please make sure that people don't see you letting our own dog pee at our own door. Just walk around the block."
"Can we change the subject?" suggested Michael with a grimaced expression.
"Good idea," said Vincent. "Where is the cat, Lenny?"
"Upstairs, sleeping. But she gets along well with Jack, or at last they aren't interested in each other, they just look at each other. I'll go back upstairs."
"Okay, see you later."
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
About the author: From riches to ragz: The story of a gambling nomad
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