In Laymon's Terms

Rave fuckin’ reviews, man. The place was no big deal before I came on, but now it’s got a rep an’ a half. The reviews are even better than when I was at The Emerald. It’s a packed house every night. You wanna eat here, brother, you better make a reservation a month in advance, and I don’t mind telling you it’s all because of me, my expertise as a world-class master chef. They sure as shit ain’t filling the house every night because of the pretty tablecloths. They want the best food in the city and they know they can get it here. My menu, my specials.

And...you know the old saying.

What people don’t know won’t hurt ’em.

Shit, give me another sec. I gotta get this pot-au-fue of cured duck off the line, and this order of Michelangelo Peppers. Try ’em some time. Primo, chief. You’d write home about my Michelangelo Peppers.

Anyway, back to what I was saying before. When people put you down long enough, you just get sick of it. You just wanna rise up and take back what they’ve ripped off of you. But I’m just one grub—what can I do? What, start a secret militia? Start a grub revolution? Don’t make me laugh. They’d snuff my ass in two seconds if I even started talking shit like that.

Hey, pass me that little dish of thyme, will ya? And that bucket of mustard vinaigrette. Thanks.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. You get shit on long enough, you wanna do something about it. But one day I realized there was nothing I could do outside of myself. I ain’t gonna form some grub union. I ain’t gonna start some terrorist organization. They’d chuck us into the grub slam faster than it takes you to wipe your ass. I realized that if I wanted to rebel, I’d have to find a way to do it secretly, by myself...

That first fucker, let me tell ya. I’m walking to work one afternoon, crossing 1st Street, and this redneck motherfucker gets right up in my face. Shoving me, pointing his finger at me, shouting all kinds of shit, man. “Get your dead ass out of town, grub!” he yells at me. “You stink! You’re dirty! Nobody wants your kind here!” And there’s other people standing around him, and you know what they do? They start clapping, like this guy’s some kind of hero for breaking my chops. Then the fucker spits in my face, and I know I can’t fight back ’cos if I do, I’m in the joint just like that. If you’re a grub and you hit someone, your ass is grass. They have special cellblocks for us is what I heard. Anyway, this chump hocks the lunger in my face, laughs, and then he crosses the street and gets in his car and drives away. Just like that.

You wanna know what I did?

I got his fuckin’ tag number, that’s what I did.

I kill them, that’s right. You would too if you had to take the shit I take every fuckin’ day. Of course, I’m really careful about it, I’m no dumbbell. Some asshole gets on my case for being a grub, I’ll wait a week, then I’ll punch his ticket when the time is right. One day the resident manager of my apartment building stops by, says he’s gotta triple my rent ’cos me living there is making other residents move. Well, I let it slide. And a week later the guy disappears.

I walk into the gourmet shop on Wisconsin Avenue one day, and the fat shit behind the counter starts raising hell, tells me to get out of his shop, doesn’t want me stinking up the place. I’m gonna drive customers away if people see a grub shopping in his two-bit joint. I just smiled and left.

And about a week later the Jabba-the-Hut-looking fat fuck disappears.

I’ve checked out about a dozen of them so far. That’s right, my own little revolution.

Ooo-la-la. Waitress just gave me an order for Tartar Provencial. I serve it with Ossetra caviar, capers, green onions, and chopped egg whites. Stuff’ll make your mouth water, bub.

What was it I was saying?

No, no, and I don’t just leave the bodies there—I told you, they disappear. And I sure as shit don’t bury them, either.

I guess by now you’re figuring out exactly what I do with them, huh?

A good chef can make anything taste like something else. Out on the dining floor, we got our regular menu, but in my head, see, I got my own menu.

My vinegar-accented lamb vindaloo—it ain’t lamb, brother, I can tell ya that. Try my foi-gras pastry or my pate on toast points. Who needs goose liver? My spit-roasted chicken in tarragon jus? Guess where the jus comes from.

The muscle meats taste like pork, great for stews, stuffing stock and andouille sausage, flaming stir-fry. I’ll grind up some bicep and blend it with bay oysters and my special garlic croutons, and that’s the way to stuff braised duck, man. When people order my fabulous Lebanon Kabob, it ain’t no tender chunks of lamb on that spike, and I can tell you something else, too. The human abdominal wall makes for the best brisket of beef you ever had in your fuckin’ life.