The Show Must Go On

A chef for a television show promises to put every single ingredient requested into his recipes- but discovers that maybe giving that much power to his audience can come up with unlikely results.

A dash of cinnamon, a sprinking of brown sugar... maybe even throw in a dollop of whipped cream, more for a fluffy look than for its practically bland flavor. Mike Ginhern had a very strategic process of creating recipes, and that process was "There Isn't A Process." He throw whatever was nearest by and looked the tastiest relative to whatever else he had thrown in the mixing bowl. He had begun a blog about his homemade foods, which began to garner national attention, and eventually lead to him being given a television show that specialized in recipes on the spot. The audience members would each receive a piece of paper upon entry to the set, where they would write down a random food object of their choice and then put the paper into a big bowl, where Mike would later have to scoop out as many as he pleased and create a recipe from it. He never failed to use whatever ended up on the pieces of paper that were given to him- one recipe called for lobster, chocolate chips, asparagus, and apple juice. It was a hit.

He prided himself on practically having magic hands- anything he threw together himself would taste fantastic, no matter what. He challenged the audience to give him that hardest combinations they could think of, and he could further prove his superiority in the food business. 

One afternoon, a few months into the syndication of his television show, a very dark, angry looking couple entered the set, with a small child that seemed only slightly less unattached to reality. The man and woman each wore entirely black and had dark, unrevealing eyes. They didn't look around at any of the other audience members, and showed no interest in interacting with others or even amongst themselves. Usually Mike didn't take notice of the people who came to watch his show- there were hundreds every day, and they all begin to look the same (strange how technically all seven billion people are different but in reality have barely any difference from each other). The family gave him the chills- they stared directly at him from the moment they came in, unabashedly and without hesitation. Even the child, though the boy's wispy blonde locks made him seem less intimidating, not mention his stature- if only a little. 

Cameras began to roll, and the voiceover announced Mike Ginhern's name and the show's ritual process. He ran out onto the kitchen set and reintroduced himself, trying to show himself upbeat and powerful as usual, though watching the couple in the sea of people gave him an unnerving sensation. He strutted over to the big bowl that had been placed near the end of the set, smiling confidently the whole time, and making small talk to the audience and the camera, that he had been taught to do over the past few months by the "television people" in order to get people to "know" his personality and feel like he inviting himself into the homes of viewers, and not just talking from their television. At first it had felt unnatural, but now he practically liked to walk-and-talk when he was out in public just as himself- there was something so cool about casually discussing meaningless things to a group of people latching onto each and every word. 

He fished out the first piece of paper, which read "Elbow pasta" in swirly, girlish handwriting. He held up the paper and announced it to everyone listening, then stuck the paper on the fridge with a magnet- the fridge had been redecorated to have a large "INGREDIENTS" sign on the top. Part of his shtick was to put each paper onto the fridge to "create" the recipe. He walked to the bowl for the second ingredient. "Chocolate eclairs" was written in a chicken-scratch font, probably by a middle aged man hoping to mess with him. He nodded and read it aloud, even more excited and confident than when he had read the first one. "Don't you think I'm backing down! I never back down from a challenge. Each ingredient can and will be used." He stuck the second paper on the fridge right beneath the first one, and then walked back proudly to the bowl for the next ingredient.

There were hundreds of little papers inside the bowl- he decided to stall inside the bowl for a bit, and build up the excitement over what he would pull out next. But at that moment he also saw the strange black-dressed couple in the audience, three pairs of eyes staring at him icily. It looked strange compared to the other people in the audience, looking at him expectantly with desire. To get the awkward-for-him moment over with, he pulled out the next piece of paper.

"Human flesh" was written in perfect handwriting- like Times New Roman written in pen. Instead of announcing it, he stared at it. There was no doubt who had been the writer of this request. He stared back up into the sea of people before him, and sure enough, the Addams family now all had smiles on their face. Slowly he started to put the paper back and retrieve another one, but an uproar began in the audience- Mike Ginhern doesn't back down. Could he risk his career with this? Would it hurt him more use it, or to not use it and prove he wouldn't use every ingredient?

A chant began as he stood there motionless "EVERY INGREDIENT! EVERY INGREDIENT! EVERY INGREDIENT!" A producer came out onto the stage and shushed everyone, until it was eerily silent on the set, with Mike's stage persona gone and he struggled to say the words on the paper.

"Hu-. Uh, human, um. Flesh." This time there was no uproar- everyone was silent with him, mulling over what in the world they were supposed to do with this situation. Yet somehow, after a few minutes, a few voices began to chant again. It got louder and louder- "EVERY INGREDIENT! EVERY INGREDIENT!" Mike Ginhern listened, and stared at the family in black. They looked very happy now.

"Well, I don't have any access to human flesh- so I don't know how to-"

"Take him." The woman dressed in black stood up and grabbed the boy sitting next to her. He looked unimpressed with the entire situation. The man on the child's other side stood up as well.

"Yes- he is human flesh. And willing." Mike Ginhern stared at the small boy- whose eyes were blue, unlike the dark, blackish brown of the two adults he came with. Mike tried to see an inkling of fright in the boy, or something that would indicate for him to stop, but the man seemed to be right- the boy was willing. Mike froze staring at the couple, realizing he should have had the three of them kicked out the moment they came in- but then the chanting began again. "EVERY INGREDIENT! EVERY INGREDIENT! EVERY INGREDIENT!"  

It took a couple of minutes for Mike to gain the courage and audacity to say his next words. "Okay." The boy was then carried, like a crowd surfer, up to the stage and then placed, standing, next to the table of ingredients. Awkwardly, all of his stage presence gone, Mike took the slip of paper and walked robotically to his fridge, and stuck a magnet onto the words "Human Flesh." The man and woman in the audience, still much more subdued then the rest of the audience, smile at him with new interest. Then, shaking, he prepared to say his memorable catch phrase to the audience, where he would then begin to make his impromptu recipe.

"Let's get Mixin' with Mike!" 

Author's Note

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