When Life Gives You Mold

This post is part of the series The Color from Under the Oven

Other posts in this series:

  1. Local Eatery Under Investigation
  2. When Life Gives You Mold (Current)

A tear rolls down the cheek of Papa Whiskey and stains the official Snitchburgh city council letterhead.

His family had run this restaurant for generations, “It was fine enough when Great Great Great Great Granddad Whiskey opened this place, and now all of a sudden its too dirty!? Nobody has even touched this floor in decades!” Whiskey exclaimed stomping his foot for emphasis. His foot sinks a few inches into the gooey green mass which now extended the length of the restaurant. He had a big reservation for some hungry Beastmen that were just begging for a nice hot Slice, but that wasn’t going to happen now. The city had deemed his restaurant a health hazard.

Whiskey makes one last walk through his fine eatery establishment, as he approaches the door and flips the switch for the lights his eyes get caught by a shinny piece of metal on the wall. He makes his way off and brushes some dust off one of the many third place medals and it takes all he has to hold back tears as he reminisced on all the good times, heart breaks and dead rats it took to earn.

Just then he heard the door open, “I’m sorry but we’re closed”

“(hiccup) your restaurant might be, but why must your mind be also?” this strange new rat squeeked.

“…. What does that even mean? Are you drunk?! its 11:30 in the morning!” Whiskey shouted incredulously

“Whose asking!? (hiccup)” the rat shot back defensively “I’m here to help you! Consider myself your fairly rat mother, so cut the sass and listen up already (hiccup)” the rat takes a long swig from a mysterious bottle hidden in his cloak and hops up on an empty barstool. “I have a plan to keep this place in buisness, now do you want to hear it or are you gonna sit there judging me because I refuse to be a slave to your societal norms, maaaaaaaan”

“Eh, well i guess it couldn’t hurt to hear him out” Whiskey thought to himself and pulled a stool up. “Why are you interested in helping me?” Whiskey asked

“I’m…. a hacker, an agent of chaos, I just want to really stick it to the city… its not important. What IS important is that letter says this establishment can NOT operate as a restaurant, however it makes NO such ruling on if it can operate as a Blood Bowl stadium. Now grab some hammers, knock down some walls, cook all the food in separate tents in the parking lot and claim its ‘Third Party catering’ and go on serving the best most mediocre at best pie this dirty city has EVER seen.”

Papa Whiskey’s eyes lit up as he jumped off his stool and started to order some rats around to get to work on the plan this mysterious stranger had presented. “That’s brilliant! Thank you… what was your name again?”

The rat slowly slides on a pair of sweet shades and flips his hood up. “Rug Burn. Rug Burn 51.”

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