Chapter Text
“WHERE’S THE LAMB SAUCE?!”
That was a sentence that young Guy Fieri knew all too well. Known all throughout Meteor City for his exquisite cooking talents, Fieri started working at Meteor City’s finest eatery, The Spider Shack, at the tender age of 6. The Spider Shack was closer to a fast food joint despite having an elegant 5-star menu, but the conditions were excellent by default, considering Meteor City could be described as a very big landfill. Guy also disagreed a lot with the proprietor, Gordon Ramsay. Still, Gordon was the only father that Guy ever knew. He never knew his biological parents, and Gordon had pulled him off the streets in his darkest hour. For over half his life now, Guy had been happily enslaved to his foster father’s iron will in the kitchen, if that made any sense at all. But still, as he got older, something about Gordon didn’t sit right with him.
“I TOLD YOU, THE CUSTOMER ASKED FOR EXTRA LAMB SAUCE ON THEIR TROUPE MAC! YOU STINKY GREMLIN!” It was lunchtime at the Spider Shack, the second busiest meal of the day.
“Well, they can just cry about it. It’s not my problem,” Guy said under his breath, flipping his bangs.
“I HEARD THAT!” Gordon leaned dangerously close to Guy’s face. “You’ve worked here for ten years of your pathetic life, you useless bozo! You should know by now that lamb sauce is our signature ingredient. Now GET OUT THERE AND COME BACK WHEN YOU DISAPPOINT THEM!"
Begrudgingly, Guy shoved open the kitchen door and marched to the table where the man who ordered the burger was waiting. He was tall, had flowing black hair and an unkempt beard, and wearing a somewhat conspicuous bathrobe. He gave off the air of a grumpy hobo, but something about him was more sinister. The katana strapped to his waist was just the first hint of this. With shaky hands, the young boy handed the man his tray, which had on it a double-decker Troupe Mac, Uvo-sized fries, and a Pain Packer, which combined the sourness of cider with the sting of a 90% alcohol concentration. The man took it without a word, or even a tip.
Guy was walking back to the kitchen when he heard the displeased shout of his customer.
“WHERE’S THE LAMB SAUCE!” All the chatter out in the dining room had suddenly ceased. The man stood up and stormed to the kitchen. Guy was used to angry customers, but something about this man was different. He felt that if this man so much as looked at him, he would drop dead on the spot. Before Guy could react properly, the man burst in and grabbed Gordon by the scruff of the neck.
"I asked for extra lamb sauce. You’ve never failed me before. Do you have a death wish, you fucking hack chef?” Gordon was angry that someone would dare to put his apprentice’s brainlessness on him, but he was still too intimidated by the man’s aura to speak up.
“And what’s more…” the man revealed his half-eaten burger patty was completely pink on the inside. With that, Gordon broke loose of his grip.
“IT’S FUCKING RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWW!” He screamed in the direction of his apprentice, who the man was already heading towards. As he watched, 16-year-old Guy Fieri listed all his regrets: never learning to drive, never finding true love, and most of all, never rising to the top of the food industry and discovering the ultimate flavor. As the last of these thoughts passed through his mind, he gulped back tears. The man in the bathrobe stood menacingly over his trembling form, drawing his sword. He felt an unpleasant prickling sensation along his spine, as if he felt the man's desire to kill him right where he sat.
“Don’t worry brat, I’m not going to kill you. Yet. I’ll let Chrollo decide whether or not I come back and finish the job.” And with that, he sheathed his blade and left, and conversation returned outside the kitchen. Guy was so scared that he didn’t even feel the warmth of the urine that was gathering inside his shorts, which had been decorated with flames.
“Dumb shit! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO THAT WAS?” Guy shook his head no. “THAT WAS ONE OF THE MEMBERS OF THE PHANTOM TROUPE! THEY’RE REGULARS HERE!” He gasped in shock.
“Why did you make me serve him then? You usually do these orders yourself!”
“I thought you’d be ready to serve someone as demanding as the Troupe. Of all my apprentices, your abilities are the most promising. BUT EVIDENTLY, I WAS WRONG!” The disgruntled chef threw his hands up in exasperation. “MASS MURDERING BAND OF THIEVES OR NO, YOU ALWAYS USE LAMB SAUCE!”
“I just wanted to experiment! I wanted to find the ultimate flavor!”
“TOUGH SHIT, KID! THE RESTAURANT BUSINESS DOESN’T WORK LIKE THAT!” Then, after Gordon took a few seconds to calm himself, he patted Guy on the shoulder. “You’re just lucky it wasn’t that fatass, Uvogin. He always orders big portions, and if we got it wrong, everyone in this restaurant would be dead now. Now, table 4 wants a Ceasar salad. EITHER GO TOSS THE SALAD OR TOSS YOURSELF!” Guy Fieri, in all his teenage rebellion, rolled his eyes and obliged.
“AND CLEAN UP THAT PISS STAIN YOU LEFT BEHIND TOO!”