Chapter 93: Beyond the Beef

Chapter 93: Beyond the Beef

For as clean and neat and fashionable as the public areas of the Ultra-Luxe looked... I gotta say, the kitchens were a completely different story. I'd managed to sneak inside the members only area of the casino, completely undetected thanks to the stealth boy, and the very moment I ventured underground, it was like I'd set foot inside an abattoir. It was dark, it was dank, it was dingy, and the smell of barbequed meat hung in the air like a thick veneer of... cooked... meat.

Okay, bad analogy, but still - you get the point. This was not a nice place to be, especially considering the whole "cannibalism" issue.

Even worse than the general feeling of dread clinging to the back of my skull like a malignant tumor was the fact that it got much harder to maneuver the deeper I went into the kitchen. I hadn't seen too many people - barring the White Gloves I'd seen roasting giant slabs of brahmin beef with flamethrowers near the entrance - but it felt like the hallways were getting narrower the further along I ventured into this maze of underground brickwork.

Of course, that was silly. Why would the hallways suddenly get narrower? I shook it off as simple paranoia, and focused on finding the head chef, Philippe. When I found him, I'd most likely find Ted, then I could get the fuck out of here.

I turned a corner, and was suddenly no longer in a hallway, but an actual kitchen. It was... slightly less dingy than the rest of the downstairs, but I think that was just because everything seemed to be made out of stainless steel. In the center of the room, surrounded by food, cooking implements, burners, and a few sinks was who I could only assume was Philippe. Unlike the rest of the white gloves, the man with the shaved head wasn't wearing a tux. Instead, he was wearing a button-up, short-sleeved white shirt that (judging from the stains) doubled as an apron.

I had to get rid of him somehow... I wonder... maybe if I talked to him? I had an idea. It was stupid, but it might work, and if it didn't, I could always go with Plan B: kill him, and stuff him in the fridge. I deactivated my stealth boy, and started walking over to him.

"Excuse me," I said with a smile. "Are you Philippe, head chef of the Gourmand?" I asked calmly, leaning on the counter. He wasn't calm when he spoke to me though.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He practically yelled, meat cleaver in hand. "Why are you standing still? Do you think that the whole fucking world waits for you while you stand there drooling like an inbred lunatic? Put your uniform back on, get back out there and fucking get to work!" As if to punctuate his thought, he buried the meat cleaver into the cutting board.

"Uh... I think you may have me confused with someone else." I said with a smile. His left eye twitched and he just snarled back at me.

"Oh, really? So, despite your filthy fucking face and your vacant expression and your complete lack of human fucking dignity, you're telling me you're NOT a server?"

"Not in the slightest," I said, refusing to stop smiling. That just seemed to aggravate him further. "I'm here to talk some business. I heard you're pretty handy with a cooktop and-" Before I could finish, he cut me off.

"Pretty handy? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? I'm not 'pretty handy,' I'm the fucking GOD of New Vegas brahmin fusion cuisine! No, no, that doesn't even give me the credit I deserve. I fucking invented edible food! Do you like eating? Good! You owe me your entire goddamned garbage existence!"

"Exactly," I said trying to keep my cool. "See, I'm from a publishing house, back in California. I'd heard about all the amazing things you've done with food here, and thought you might be interested in writing a cookbook."

"What?" He shook his head, looking confused for half a second. "A cookbook? Me? The supreme rule of the Nevada dining scene? Teach lowlife half-wits to make food that doesn't smell like burning excrement?" At first I thought he was insulted, but then: "Do you think it would sell?"

"Absolutely!" I said. "It'll be huge! Just one thing: as a sign of good faith, I'll need some recipes to bring back to the suits in Sac-Town." Philippe stared at me for a few seconds, obviously weighing the options I was giving him in his head. I could practically hear the grinding metal from the gears turning. Eventually, he grunted, and turned away from me, walking to a cabinet above one of refrigerators.

"You're pushing your luck... but fine. Here. I have a few recipes that I have written down..." He pulled out a small notebook, that looked like it was held together with duct tape and bailing twine. "This fucking thing had better be good enough. We're going to have a real problem if this thing isn't a hit."

"Thanks," I said, taking the notebook and flipping through the pages. "You know... I gotta ask - and, please, tell me if I'm overstepping my bounds here - but I couldn't help but notice..."

"What?" He yelled, leaning in at me over the counter. "Fucking spit it out man, I haven't got all goddamn day!"

"Well... I was just thinking that your predisposition towards anger suggests some... unresolved issues in your past..."

"WHAT?!" He looked at me like I'd gone insane, spittle flying out of his mouth everywhere. "What kind of harebrained fucking psychobabble bullshit is that? I yell at people because I like yelling at people and because they fucking deserve it! Not because Mumsy and Daddy-kins didn't fucking hug me enough!"

"You may be projecting," I shrugged. "Why else would you bring up your folks so quickly? Why don't you tell me more about your parents?" His eye twitched again.

"Oh, I see how it is. You think because my father walked out on us when I was five, now I have to yell at people! Or because my mother was a deranged chem fiend who regularly brought strange men home who told me to call them 'uncle!' Or because my sisters would lock me in a shipping crate when they didn't want me around... and my brother..." Philippe paused, and his expression fell. All the color and expression drained from his face, and his voice went soft. "God, I'd forgotten about that. How could they do that to me?"

"You alright?" I asked. He didn't say anything at first. His eyes just darted back and forth, and he ran his hands along the top of his head, clutching at his shaved scalp.

"I... I can't stay here. I need to be alone."

"Really?" I said with fake concern. "But what about the banquet?"Visit no(v)eLb(i)n.com for the best novel reading experience

"Forget about the fucking banquet!" He started to walk away, unbuttoning his apron-shirt. "You know what? You already have my recipes. You do it." He tossed the apron my way. "You be the fucking star chef! It won't fill the hole, though. Just remember that. You'll always feel empty..." Without another word, Philippe ran out of the room, sobbing hysterically. I just stood there, laughing quietly to myself.

"Wow," I started flipping through the notebook again. "I guess those psychology books Arcade let me borrow weren't completely full of shit after all!" In the middle of the book, I finally found what I was looking for: "Aha! Here we go... 'Imitation Strange Meat pie: for when you want to cook human flesh, but don't have the stomach for it. Or the spleen'." I thought about that title for a minute. "Is that a cannibalism joke? It is, isn't it..."

I clutched my head and groaned.

The dinner was surprisingly easy to make, even in the quantity I needed for the banquet. It was about 20 dishes in total that I needed, and once they were done I just had to make sure the food went into the oven to stay warm. The instructions were so easy to follow that I'd managed to make enough food for everyone with time to spare.

The best part? Nobody even came down to check on the progress of the food, which meant that nobody from the White Gloves caught me in the act. I had the sneaking suspicion that Philippe was given a wide berth by almost everyone here. And that gave me plenty of time to make myself scarce and look for Ted.

"Hmm..." I stopped in front of one of the freezers. "I wonder... why would a walk-in freezer have a deadbolt lock on the door?" I asked aloud. I pulled Roscoe out from behind me, and aimed it at the door. "Guess I'll have to find out." The lock practically exploded in a shower of sparks, and I kicked in the door. Sure enough, sitting on the floor and curled into a little ball at the end of the (surprisingly warm) freezer was a battered and bruised teenager, wearing a torn button up shirt, and a white Stetson on his head. When I kicked in the door, he looked up - and snarled at me.

"My daddy's gonna kill all you bastards once he finds out what you done to me!" I rolled my eyes and sighed.

"Really? Think about what you're suggesting, Hurricane Heck," He seemed surprised that I knew that name, and I continued. "Trying to starve The Strip? That's just want Mortimer would want. With the food supply cut off, people would be driven to cannibalism just to survive. You would be the one driving the city to eat each other. You really want to be responsible for that?"

"I don't care!" He shouted at me. "They've got to pay for what they tried to do to my boy! People've gotta learn not to cross Heck Gunderson!"

"The one who crossed you, Mortimer? He's already been dealt with. And besides... should I remind you who you're dealing with?" I crossed my arms over my chest, and made myself look as menacing as possible. "You take action against The Strip, and you have to deal with me. It won't matter how many mercenaries you hire. There will be nothing left when I'm finished with you."

A brief flash of fear crossed his eyes, but evaporated quickly. He shook his head and snarled.

"I don't like this place. Whole Strip, really! Ever since I got here, the stink of it... it's flooded my nostrils! But you got a point. They're already hell-bent on depravity here. All I'd be doing is helping them along. C'mon, Ted. Let's go back home." Ted, his father, and the mercenary turned and walked away. When they disappeared around the corner, well out of earshot, I lifted up my Pip Boy arm and scrolled through the radio functions.

"Yes Man, you reading me?" I said into the wrist computer. It crackled to life with a burst of static.

"Hi!" Yes Man's enthusiastic voice burbled out of the Pip Boy's speaker. "What can I do for you today?"

"In a few minutes, an old man in a black cowboy hat, and a teenager in a white cowboy hat, are going to walk out of the Ultra-Luxe, probably followed by a couple of hired guns. The old man's name is Heck Gunderson. I want you to scan their faces so their images are on file, and then I want you to send a couple of securitrons to make sure they leave The Strip as soon as possible. Think you can do that?"

"Absolutely, sir! I'll get right on that!"

"Oh, and one other thing," I continued. "If they ever try and come back to Vegas once they leave, shoot them on sight. Nobody is going to threaten Vegas while I'm around. Nobody."

"Understood!" Yes Man agreed cheerfully. "And can I just say sir - this secure channel April and Emily set up was a great idea! Now we can plan the future of New Vegas without you ever needing to bother coming back to the Lucky 38! It will save you so much time, and I'm not just saying that because I have to!"

"Right..." I sighed, and was just about to sever the connection when Yes Man spoke up again.

"Oh, I wanted to ask, before I forget - that is, if you're not too busy - how are things going with the White Gloves?"

"How are they going?" I couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, I still have a few details left to hammer out with Marjorie, but... I mean, there was a bit of a cannibalism problem. But I think I got everything sorted."

"A cannibalism problem? Wow!" For some reason, that 'wow' was the most unconvincingly enthusiastic thing Yes Man had ever said. "I'm just so glad you weren't eaten!"

It was well after dark when I finally got back to the Lucky 38, close to an hour and half later. Marjorie and I met in the Gourmand after the Gunderson's had left, to discuss her support for my plans of an independent Vegas. Even after everything I'd done tonight, I thought it was an excellent meal.

Of course, I admit, I had the vegetarian option. Just in case. I'd rather be paranoid than a cannibal. Even an accidental one.

With this agreement I'd managed to broker between myself and the White Gloves, that made three-for-three when it came to the Vegas Families I had to get on side. So, as you can imagine, I was feeling pretty good about myself when I stepped out of the elevator and back into the Lucky 38's suite.

I should've known it wouldn't last long.

"Oh, thank God!" Emily's voice was surprising - both because of her extremely relieved tone, and the fact that it came from my room. "I thought she might have found you first!"

"Emily?" I looked down at the red-headed scientist curiously. "The fuck? What are you doing in my room?" She rushed up to me as quick as she could, trying as hard as she could to push against me; it was like she wanted me to get back in the elevator. Of course, in hindsight, that's exactly what she wanted me to do.

"I've been looking for you everywhere! You've got to get out of here!" She practically pleaded, looking up at me.

"What are you-"

"There's no time!" She gave one last attempt at a shove, but it felt more like a stiff breeze trying to knock me over than someone shoving all their weight against me. "She's gone crazy! I think she's going to try and kill you!"

"...she?"

CRASH!

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

I instinctively reached for Roscoe and turned at the sound of splintering wood - but hesitated when I heard the voice. A female voice. A very familiar female voice.

"Veronica?" I couldn't help but stand there, dumbstruck. Veronica was standing at the threshold of her room, Oh, Baby! held in her right hand, armored in a power fist as well. Her left arm was extended in a fist that ended at the door... which was lying in two splintered, shattered pieces, hanging off the hinges by a thread.

What made it even more frightening? The door had been broken by the hand not wearing her power fist.

Her face was contorted into an expression of pure, unfiltered rage. I'd seen that kind of expression before, but never on Veronica - not even when we were fighting super mutants or Fiends or even Legion. The look on her face was that of someone out for blood. Someone whose every ounce and fiber of their being was set squarely on getting some killing done.

And she was coming straight for me.