Cutthroat Chicken Read Free

be judged.
    “Good job, ADHD,” Sybil Lent whispered to him. She offered him a tight smile, the most emotion she had showed thus far.
    He gave her a double thumbs up.
    Sarah Bellam smiled sweetly as Chef Aire-Craft approached her table. She tilted her head coyly and even batted her fake eyelashes in an attempt at flirtation. Sadly, the judge didn’t seem to notice.
    Chef Aire-Craft went through his routine again. He looked the dish over, as if it were anything special about it, and carefully cut off a portion. This he studied also, going so far as to look at it from every angle. His eyebrows shot up. He looked straight into Chef Sarah Bellam’s eyes.
    The pretty young player was already shaking in her fancy saddle shoes.
    Tears couldn’t save her now.
    Chef Aire-Craft set down the fork, without tasting what was on it. “It’s beautiful,” he said, as if that mattered. He folded his hands in front of him. “It could be in a magazine with that color. Your plating is simple and elegant. The sauce smells great.”
    Sarah Bellam held her breath.
    “But I can’t taste it,” Chef Aire-Craft continued. He shook his head sadly.
    The player sniffled as she nodded.
    “It’s raw,” Chef Aire-Craft announced, as if he were reading her writ of execution. He shook his head in a pretense of mild disappointment. Only the gleam in his eyes gave away the fact that he was enjoying this as much as Abe Braun, who was watching over his shoulder at every move he made.
    Chef Aire-Craft sighed deeply, pityingly, and reached out to lift the fork artistically into the light before the chef’s tearing eyes. He shook his head again. “As you can see, it’s not just a little underdone. It’s completely raw. I can’t eat raw chicken.”
    Oliver Dye grinned widely before he could stop the impulse. His competitor had had no sabotages. If anyone should have won this round, it was Sarah Bellam. He felt safe, now that one of his comrades had committed a culinary cardinal sin.
    Raw chicken was impossible to ignore.
    The Viewer shifted eagerly.
    Very soon, no one would be smiling.
    Abe Braun went through the motions of introducing Chef Aire-Craft to Tim Burr. They shook hands. Chef Aire-Craft’s hand was swallowed up by the massive fist of the chef.
    “Damn, you’re a huge man,” he said, the first unscripted words that had passed through his lips all day. He shook his head in admiration.
    Tim Burr shrugged slightly, but behind his beard his cheeks turned rosy.
    Chef Aire-Craft shook his head again, and looked down at the plate in front of him. It wasn’t the ugliest plate he had seen all day, but it wasn’t the nicest looking one, either. “I love that you made your own pasta,” he said, “But I think you could have used the time more appropriately if you had focused on your other ingredients Your chicken parmigiana is overcooked, and your tomato sauce is far too spicy… I feel like I need an entire glass of milk, after eating that. I can’t imagine eating an entire serving. I’d be sweating.”
    “I like things hot,” Tim Burr said gruffly.
    Chef Aire-Craft gave the big man another admiring look and went to stand in his designated mark for announcing his results. Soon, three chefs would be discovering that they’d be moving forward. Soon, the last chef would be going home.
    It was a dramatic moment. The chefs held their breaths.
    Their Viewer didn’t care about those things.
    He had his first target.
    He’d already made his preparations. Now, he just needed the perfect moment. It didn’t matter to him whether the player he had selected had won or lost this round or even this competition. This had never been about the competition.
    This was about revenge.
    Abe Braun cleared his throat, announcing that it was time to pick the loser of this round. The Viewer stopped listening. While the judge and host were making much of their choices, the Viewer set to making his own preparations.
    It was show time.

Chapter Four
     
    Chef