First Web Serial Rights-2002 Miscellany Online
As the Stomach Turns
Whakum
	Jessica awoke in a cold sweat.  Her boyfriend
Timon had been engaged in a furious cook-off against
his arch-nemesis Pedro.  The battle had raged on,
point for point.  The standstill was so dull that
Pedro's boss Don Perignon had thrown several cloves of
garlic into Timon's pie filling.  Timon had lost the
contest, the $5 million prize, and any chance he might
have had to save his sister.  Fortunately, it was only
a dream.  As far as Jessica knew, Timon was an only
child, and hosting his own prime-time cooking show had
not made him any significant enemies.  Jessica was
still a bit spooked, so she called Timon for comfort.
               *	*	*
	Tiramisu "Timon" Natsumi was promptly awakened
by the telephone.  "Dammit," he muttered, "Just when
things were getting interesting."  He reluctantly
picked up the receiver after the third ring.  "It's
1:26 in the morning and you have my undivided
attention,"
	"Timon?" said Jessica, her voice wavering.
Timon had gone through things like this many times
before.
	Timon groaned.  "I'll be there in ten
minutes," he said.  Timon dressed hastily before
pulling a Ziploc bag from the freezer.  He snagged his
car keys and headed for his red Cadillac convertible.
He popped the Ziploc bag into a small microwave,
started the car, turned on the microwave for five
minutes, and drove on.  The microwave was connected to
the car's battery via a $5.99 converter from
AudioShed.  The bag contained a small assortment of
cookies.  Jessica made these distress calls more
frequently these days, and Timon preferred being
prepared over making her wait for 30 minutes to let
the oven heat.
	The crimson Cadillac drove on toward Jessica's
condo two miles away.  The time went by more slowly
than usual, partly because this was the earliest call
Jessica had made in months.  Running on twenty minutes
of sleep was not something Timon hoped to do,
particularly when he had a show to do the next day
	As he arrived at Jessica's home, Timon let the
cookies finish their remaining thirty seconds before
shutting off the car.  Popping open the microwave, he
grabbed the bag carefully, slid it out, emptied its
contents onto a paper plate, and walked up to the
door.  The portal opened before he had the chance to
knock.  "Thank god," Jessica whispered, "Comfort food."
	"We must stop meeting like this," Timon
responded, "If you keep this up, you just might lose
your girlish figure."  Jessica grabbed him, pulled him
inside, and shut the door before kicking him lightly
in the shin.  "Ow!" Timon muttered, rubbing his
leg, "What was that for?"
	"I lose the weight fast, you know that.  I've
known you for three years now, and I'm still just as
slim as when we first met."  Jessica said between
mouthfuls of cookies.  Timon had to admit that she was
indeed right.  He had never once seen her sell, give
away, burn, or otherwise dispose of an article of
clothing.
	As Jessica told him about the dream, Timon
thought how strange it is that the dream defied all
laws of common sense.  He didn't know anyone Hispanic,
apart from Vasquez, his producer.  He did, however,
have a sister, but she did not possess any life-
threatening illnesses.
	Later that day, around three a.m., Timon
returned to his home to sleep until morning.
Fortunately, Timon was not an early riser in any
case.  Lying down, he looked sideways at a photograph
from his younger years.  It was strange, seeing a
young Caucasian boy with two Japanese parents.  The
adoption agency was indeed an odd thing.  It had
caused him to be not only adopted, but given a
Japanese name as well.  Timon was the name his
biological parents had originally given him, and
everyone thought it to be easier to market than
calling a brown haired, fair-skinned man Tiramisu.
	His background, on reflection, gave him an
interesting approach to cuisine.  He had spent the
earlier half of his life in Japan, the later half in
Boston, so his unique recipes were well loved.  It was
with fond memories of his parents that Timon drifted
off to sleep.
	Seven hours later Timon awoke once again to
the phone's ringing.  At least he was a man with
common sense, he thought, who didn't buy phones that
played classical music when called.  He picked up the
receiver on the third ring, slightly more cheerfully
than the last time.  "Good morning," he said, drawing
out the first O.  "Timon speaking, what can I do for
you?"  There was no response.  "Hello?  Is anyone
there?" he said.
	"Timon!" said Vasquez, the producer, "Great
news!  The ratings after the Peach Melba incident went
sky high!  We're going to have to do a few additional
cook-off specials to help calm the masses.  Isn't this
great?"  The Peach Melba incident was one for the
books, to be certain.  Lighting your opponent's dish
on fire as well as your own was indeed something to be
proud of.  The brandy wasn't supposed to have gone
dripping over the side like that...
	"Vas, do you ever sleep?" Timon replied.
	"No!  I don't have a social life either, but
that's okay!" Vasquez replied, almost too cheerfully.
	"You pay too much attention to ratings.  I can
only do one cooking special a month.  The rest of them
have to be regular episodes."
	"No can do, man.  Everyone's geared up.
You're doing one cook-off a week for the rest of the
month.  The ads are already airing."
	"Damn you, Vas," Timon said cordially, "Do you
know how long it takes to invent recipes on the spot
for a cook off, then document them?  It's nearly
impossible!"
	"Use a tape recorder like everyone else!  It's
so much easier to do it that way!"
	"I may be a chef, but I still have my
integrity."
	"You have integrity?  Hold on, let me call the
presses."
	"I admit I was asking for that one, but please
don't make me do this.  I'm serious Vas, don't do it."
	"Too late.  I've been getting calls like crazy
from CHN.  They're going up the wall at this much
publicity.  Please do this, Timon.  Do it for me, if
not for anyone else."
	"I'll think about it.  For now, however, I'm
sticking to regular episodes on weekdays."
	"Of course you are.  Well, see you at noon." Said Vasquez, hanging up.  It was currently 10:19,
leaving Timon roughly two hours to prepare.  Timon
fixed himself a small snack before climbing into the
shower.  Just as he was fully relaxed, he heard the
door open.  Jessica had apparently decided to stop
by.  Timon finished showering, clambered out, and
grabbed a towel.  Hastily getting dressed, he opened
his bedroom door to find Jessica lounging on the
sofa.  Hearing his footsteps, she rose, turning. 
Silently, Timon grabbed his car keys from the counter
and left, followed by Jessica.  There was still an
hour or so to get from the house to the studio,
leaving them plenty of time to grab some brunch. 
Timon may have been a chef, but everyone deserves a
break on occasion
	"Where shall we go today?" Timon asked as he
started the car.
	"How about Raoul's?"  One of Timon's friends
ran a small café three blocks from the studios.  The
food was high quality and moderately priced.  Raoul
had been unable to come up with a name for the place,
so he had used his initials and called it the R&B
Café.  The music was fed through a near-perpetual loop
of B.B. King, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Eric Clapton. 
Upon arrival, Raoul himself greeted them and served
their meals.  Timon had the usual BLT on rye, while
Jessica decided to be adventurous and ordered the
chicken.  Raoul's chicken was two parts chicken, one
part turkey, and one part duck.  It was, in essence, a
rather unique sensation, once you got past the sauce.
	After lunch, the two headed to the studio.
Timon changed into his apron, and walked down the
aisles just as the music started playing.  Another
episode passed, but after the show, Vasquez called him
over to one side.  A gray-haired, heavyset man was
standing nearby, in the type of black suit that
clearly says 'hired thug'.  "Great show, man," said
Vasquez, "Listen, I'd like you to meet Pedro.  Pedro,
this is Timon."
	The heavyset man nodded and smiled, displaying
a set of dull gray false teeth.  "A pleasure to meet
you," he said, his voice spontaneously pausing in
places where pauses shouldn't be.  Timon didn't like
him, right off the bat.
	"Pedro is going to be your new co-host!  He
has, according to his résumé, a lifetime of experience
in the kitchen.  He's Mexican, you know."
	Timon grabbed Vasquez's collar and dragged him
behind the sets.  "A co-host?" he said, "What the hell
do you think you're doing?  Are you trying to ruin
me?  The show is not about two people in the kitchen,
collaborating on recipes!  It's about the independence, the ease, the beauty of a guy cooking
for the sake of cooking."
	"I thought Pedro could-"
	"You thought?  Ha!  The kitchen isn't big
enough for the two of us."
	"I'll tell you what," said Pedro, ambling
over, "If the kitchen's not big enough for the two of
us, what do you say we have a little...competition for
it.  A cook-off.  An all or nothing bet.  What do you
say?"
	Normally Timon, being his cool, calculating
self, would've taken some time to think it over.
Enraged, however, by Vasquez's lack of courtesy, Timon
simply couldn't help it.  "You're on," he said, and
then looked at Vasquez, "If nothing else, you can use
this one as a cook-off special." He turned back to the
large man; "I'll see you on Saturday." He then strode
over to his Cadillac, untying his apron as he went.
Hanging it onto a camera, he popped the door on his
convertible, threw on his sunglasses, and drove away.
The effect would've been great had he not poked
himself in the nose with his sunglasses.
	When Timon recited the afternoon's events over
a candlelight dinner with Jessica, she didn't react
the way most people would think.  "I'm glad you have
morals," she said warmly, "Even if your producer
doesn't."  The days came and went.  Saturday grew
nearer and nearer.  On Friday, Vasquez called,
determined to force Timon's hand. 
	"Maybe you should reconsider," the producer
said nervously, "God knows you've got enough money
stashed away to last the rest of your life.  Let Pedro
take the show."
	"No," Timon said, "This is something I have to
do.  Make it big.  Make it live.  Make it worldwide.
I want the folks back home to see this one as it
happens."
		*	*	*
	Inside Vasquez's office, a slim man sat,
smoking a cigar.  "Very good," he said, in a voice
that sounded like the rolling of gravel on sheet
metal.  "Very good.  Do as he wishes.  The people of
Mexico will be happy to see Pedro again.  They will be
happy to see him from far away."
		*	*	*
	The next morning was greeted in the usual
manner.  Timon stayed in bed until ten, woke up at
10:30 after three pots of black coffee strong enough
to wake the dead, and then called his parents long
distance.  "Hi Mom," Timon said
	"Tiramisu!  You call your parents from
California?  What is going on?  Should I call your
therapist?"
	"There's going to be a big cook-off in about
two hours.  They're broadcasting it online, off of
chn.com."
	"You're in it?  I hope you win!  Good luck!
I'll wake up your father so that he can watch!  Your
sister wants to talk to you."
	"Legume?  Put her on."  Timon's little sister
was currently ten years old.
	"Hi Tiramisu!" Legume's English was good, but
she always spoke in exclamations.  "You're going to
beat some chef badly again?"
	"I hope so."
	"Great!  I'll be watching, so don't forget!
Record the recipes!"
	"I'll send them to you express just as soon as
I can."
	"Thanks!  I'll be waiting!  Here's Mom!"
	"Tiramisu," said Timon's mother, "Please be
careful, and remember..."
	"Beef is better than fruit." Timon joined
in.  "Don't worry about me.  Just have fun, and invite
the neighbors.  I'll talk to you later, Mom."  With
that said, Timon hung up the phone.  "Beef is better
than fruit," he muttered.  Twenty minutes later he was
in the studio, on the right side of the counters,
ready for action.  Pedro was on the left side, ready
and waiting.  Twelve o'clock rolled around.  Jessica
sat next to a slim gentleman, with little hair on top
and a bushy moustache.  He was nibbling an unlit cigar
with a vengeance.  It was getting annoying, so Jessica
snatched the cigar from the man's lips, threw it to
the ground, and stomped on it repeatedly.
	"I beg your pardon," said the man, his voice scratchy and deep, dripping a Spanish accent.  He did
not take out another cigar.  The announcer's voice
came out over the speakers.
	"This is a cook-off unlike any other.  It is
being broadcast internationally over the Internet.  It
is a battle of culinary titans.  It will determine the
fate of this very show.  Welcome, ladies and
gentlemen, to Timon's latest cook-off.  Today's match
will be a full-course battle.  The two competitors
will have two hours to create a full-course meal,
dessert included.  The time will commence in five
minutes.  Are you ready, chefs?  I bid each of you
good luck."
	The battle began five minutes later.  A
running commentary went through the show, pointing
everything out.  Timon polished off the salad quickly
in the course, deciding to go with baby spinach
instead of the usual tried-and-true Caesar salad.  He
then proceeded to slice some beef very thinly.  Once
he had sliced a half-pound or so, he began to rapidly
chop herbs.  He added the herbs to a little bit of
melted chocolate, a little bit of 50 year old vinegar,
and a lot of beef juice, and set the beef aside to
marinate.
	The soup, however, presented some difficulty. 
A nice clam chowder was something everyone liked, but
it wouldn't work with the beef and salad.  Instead, he
set some rice to cooking, sliced a few vegetables into
strips, cooked them, and tossed it all together.  It
wasn't exactly soup, but then, not much was.  Sneaking
a glance at Pedro's workspace, there was a whole lot
of gumbo going on.  With an hour and eleven minutes
remaining, Timon needed to make the best of it.  The
beef was already marinating, the soup and the salad
were done, leaving dessert and beverages next.  Timon
flipped a coin in his head, and whipped up a pitcher
of light, fruity sangria from a magnum of white wine. 
Fifty-seven minutes was just enough time to whip up
the finisher: a cheesecake.  Timon whipped the eggs
into a meringue, added the cream cheese, and a few
other things.  Thirty-three minutes remained when the
crust went into the oven above the beef.  Nineteen
when it came out.  Timon poured the warm sauce into a
bowl, covered both with plastic wrap, and set them in
the refrigerator.  The beef needed about ten more
minutes.  Timon sipped a bit of the sangria and found
it lacking.  Very definitely lacking.  It was, in
essence, terrible.  He scrapped the whole pitcher,
then added club soda, red raspberry syrup, and some
confectioner's sugar.
	Stirring it around in the pitcher, he took a
quick sip.  It was good, but it needed something.  It
needed a little more body.  Six minutes to beef, Timon
decided to add something daring.  Pouring it from the
pitcher into long fluted glasses, he topped each with
a scoop of ice cream and stuck the red raspberry syrup
in the freezer.  After the beef was out there were
seven minutes left.  Timon put plastic wrap on all the
food, to avoid contamination, and waited.  At the two
minute mark he removed the cheesecake, sauce, and
syrup from their confines, adding sauce to cheesecake,
syrup to drinks.  And then, he waited.
		*	*	*
	Pedro was having a slightly tougher time of
it.  A full-course confront includes, of course, soup,
salad, dessert, beverages, and entrée.  Pedro decided
to go with a traditional leaf lettuce salad with red
wine vinaigrette.  He also whipped up what the folks
down south thought of as a pretty mean gumbo.  That
left dessert, beverage, and entrée.  The dessert is
covered with a traditional light and fluffy coconut
cream pie.  Forty-three minutes.  He whips up a
quick "Pedro Jerk" marinade, and adds top-of-the-line
steak to it for twenty minutes.  The beverage problem
is solved via the traditional Dom Perignon cooler,
only to realize upon tasting that this won't do at
all.  Frantically, Pedro looks around the kitchen to
see if any other beverages exist.  Pedro utilizes the
only remaining ingredients:  a two-liter bottle of
Diet Coke, some vanilla ice cream, and a little bit of
sugar on top.  Pedro grills his steaks, puts them into
the warm oven next to the gumbo to stay that way, and
waits.
		*	*	*
	Both contestants waited nervously for the
results.  Vasquez waited anxiously for the results. 
He's only on the staff because Timon pays him. 
Jessica waits calmly for the results.  She'll stand by
Timon no matter what happens.  The slim man waits
confidently for the results.  He is certain of Pedro's
victory.  He will dominate the culinary television
industry and force millions of people to purchase only
products Pedro endorses, all of which come from his
company.  Everyone awaits the results.  They just want
to know who won.
	"The judges have reached a decision."  says
the announcer over the speakers.
	One of the judges comes to the microphone.  He
pushes his glasses up on his nose, but they slide back
down almost immediately.  "We, the judges, being
completely impartial in this Food Court matter, have
reached a decision.  We find Pedro Muñoz's food filled
with body, spice, and flavor.  We hereby award him
forty-eight points out of a possible fifty.
	Pedro is grinning now.  He knows that he has
won.  He gives a visible wink to his boss, the slim
man in the crowd.  Timon grimaces at his unsporting
behavior.
	"We find that Timon Natsumi's food is filled
with zest, vim, vigor, finesse, texture, taste, and
body.  We therefore award him..." The entire room, as
one, held its breath.  Miles away, the Natsumi family
and everyone on the block held their breaths.  The
world held its breath.
	"F-" stammered the judge, before coughing and
clearing his throat.  "Fifty points out of a possible
fifty.  Congratulations, Mr. Natsumi.  You are today's
winner, and reigning champion."  Timon stood there in
shock, not moving an inch.  Then he grinned, slightly,
and bowed, in turn, to each one of the judges.	He
turned, and bowed to Pedro.  Then he sat down, and
began to write.