Fortune's Fool

When the young cook Malcolm Scott is given the opportunity to finally pursue the career he's dreamed of, though he receives much more than what he bargained for.
Getting caught in entanglements he never thought he'd see himself get into, Malcolm is not only forced to do things never believed he had to do, but he becomes another man entirely.
From Drugs to Murder you're invited to join this young chefs pursuit of glory and riches, with a slew of strange characters on the way.

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1. What a piece of work is a man?

"Good sleeping weather," that's what my grandfather would always call these these rainy nights. I suppose it's not much different here in the diner, you get the occasional homeless guy coming in for a cup of coffee, just so he can get a dry place to sleep, but not tonight. No, tonight is one of those lovely nights where I'm left all to my thoughts, trying to find the point where it all went wrong.

It makes me smile when I think of people talking about how they had dreams and how society ripped it all away from them. It's never their fault, because they knew where they wanted to be. How in the world is that supposed to get you anywhere? Sure, it'd be awesome to be rich, hell, I still dream of that every single day. Now, this is something I thought to myself since I was a kid, envisioning where one wants to end up, is not the key, it's exactly how you get there and that I had  planed.

First things first was punching my way through the cruel, judgemental place everybody knows as high-school, so my parents would get off my back about education and what not. Then I'd grab my college money and head off to culinary school, where upon graduating, the first job offered to me would simply be a steady wait until I could afford to run my own kitchen. I had it all figured out, is what I at least thought, before I was kicked out of culinary school because they told me, I couldn't cook. The one thing, probably the most essential part to my plan I hadn't considered was, if I actually had talent or simply a passion. That's how I realised I wasn't any better than all those idiots screaming at the TV, asking themselves why they weren't famous millionaires. A sudden loud roar rips me out of my thoughts.

The lovely waitress, who's calves were big enough to end world hunger, had finally reached her deepest state of sleep, most recognisable by the earth shattering snores. I could almost see the shockwaves knocking mugs and plates out their shelves. Before I can think of ways to bring down this retched beast, the eye burning headlights of a car pulling up in front of the diner brings me back to reality. As the lights go off I can vaguely see two men sitting in the front of a Mustang, bickering, but the endless poring water on the windows makes it hard to see what's going on. One of the back seat doors opens up as a bright flash of lightning illuminates the character who exits the car. In a quick flickering flash I can see that the man making his way to enter the diner is covered in tattoos and piercings, all the way to his scalp.

He enters whilst still talking on the phone, "Child, I'm telling you he told us we'd meet again in the morning. Uhm, at The Heath? Are you kidding me? Look outside it's nasty! We'll take care of his wife afterwards." The thunder accompanying this conversation from outside, as the front door shuts, has me standing there in glee, as I cannot grasp this most controversial being, who could have just as well landed in a spaceship from Transylvania. Tattoos on every inch of skin visible, biker boots, leather pants and red nail-polish, not even mentioning the fit for wrestling physic accompanied by the voice of Prince.

"What you looking at," he snapped at me, as I awkwardly look to the ground.

"I gotta hang up," he puts away the phone. "Boy, you better start making something delicious, you do not wanna see me when I'm hungry!" Holding myself back from laughing, because this guy could literally rip me in two pieces, I silently slide over the double sided menu. For a brief moment I can see him grin at the piece of paper, before he grabs me by the collar staring at me with his moonlike eyes.

"I'm sorry, I've must have misspoken, I do not want to read your white trash, 50 cent coffee, 1960s print shit. I want you to get in that kitchen and cook me a meal, before I…"

"Wallace" a voice screamed, slamming the front door open, another one of the men from the car had entered the diner, "I highly doubt, this is any way to treat service. What did we talk about?"

"Temper…" the psycho brute mutters as he slowly releases me from his hulk-like grip. Barely comprehending the situation as it was, what now stood before me next to my gothic Mexican wrestler, was a guy dressed in black tweed and skin, pale as milk. He spoke in an over-exaggerated German accent, as if he were some sort of psycho Nazi professor. The blond hair didn't help him either.   "Now listen up my good boy", he says stepping closer, lighting a pipe, "my better half here seems to be a bit tightly strung today, you see, he hasn't eaten in a while."

"B…Better half?" I ask.

"Partners in life, whatever you'd like to call it," at this point my head can't even follow, so I simply nod. "The main point being, I wouldn't want such a good looking young man like yourself, to be hurt in any way, so please, just whip us up something nice, yes?"

I smile, walking backwards into the kitchen. As the door swings shut I can hear my heart pounding in my ears like a drum. What am I supposed to do? Is this a joke? Turning in circles I look for a hidden camera. What are these guys going to do to me? There's only one plausible thing I can do. I try to calm down by taking a few deep breaths as everything around me finally begins to quiet down. Everything around me vanishes, the only thing I can now hear is the clock on the wall ticking, with each second passing my body starts finding its rhythm, planning every next move. The sound of thunder striking, echoes and I begin to cook. All in one flow I grab the ingredients, place the pans, stir up the batter, soak the bread, coat the turkey, fry, deep-fry, stack, syrup, done. French toast sandwich with almond flaked turkey covered in maple syrup, one of my classics. The thing was, I knew exactly how to cook, just not to what would be considered chef-like. My passion was greasy diner food with a twist. With a twist, I can still see my mother laughing at me for using those words. Admittedly I hated calling it that, but there was no better way of putting it.

Storming through the kitchen door with the two plates in one hand and a bag in the other, there's a proud smile on my face as if I just returned from battle. I place the plates in front of the strange couple like a warrior presenting his gift, victory. Wallace, with his cutlery already in hand, begins devouring the sandwich as if it was his first meal in days. The other man who's name I still didn't know pulls up a chair for me to sit.

"What's in the bag?" he asks me.

"I thought there was another guy in the car, chances are he hadn't eaten yet either, so I made him one too."

Inspecting the food in front of him, he sceptically takes a bite before asking me, "Is everything on your menu so peculiar as this?"

"No, it's my own creation," I answer, "they won't let me put dishes like this on the menu. All I make is hash-browns, pancakes and the other usual suspects."

While further eating, he begins to ask me more questions, "So is this your main occupation, mister…?"

"Scott, my name is Malcolm Scott and yes it is, sadly. May I ask what your name is?"

"Oh, where are my manors? Wally! Chew or your going to choke. Well, this is Wallace, but I guess you know this by now and my name is Walter Hecate," he reaches out to shake my hand. For a man with such a light build, his handshake feels firm and strong as if he was a sailor.

"Listen Boy," Wallace said, dropping his cutlery and wiping his face from finishing his meal, "give us a sec, ok?"

I don't know what to make of the situation so I step back into the kitchen. The door is quite thick so I can't hear much of the conversation between the two, but by the tone of their voices I can make out that the tension has definitely mellowed. To pass the time I start scrubbing the hot plate, when suddenly the door swings open. It seems the person standing before me is the third man form the car. He has a clean cut look to him, trimmed beard, clean suit and tie, but fire read dread locks, down to his thighs. Needless to say, this is the least shocking of the three to walk in to this place. He puts a card on the counter next to the door.

"My name's Bill," he staid with a strong deep voice, "you're getting the kitchen you need."

Baffled and intrigued by what he said, I pick up the card which reads "Mc Cawdor's" with a phone-number printed underneath. The sound of the engine starting outside pressures me to run out front, just in time to see the three men to drive off in the Mustang. The sun blinds my eyes as it breaks through the clouds in the distance, the rain had stopped, my shift is over.

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