A Cook, God and a Boat

On the first day of creation, God looked upon the face of the deep and muttered something about that being a lot of water. He had six days to open his new planet earth and needed someone to help him, so he created a cook from some leftover pizza boxes, a six-pack of Mexican Beer, cigarettes, weed, a little cocaine and a class-action lawsuit filed by both Gabriel and Lucifer for sexual harassment.

Cook awoke on the first day in dire need of a shave, shower, haircut and change of clothes. He did not have access to any of those things, so he settled for a cigarette that was conveniently lying nearby in a puddle of weird stardust and green shiny stuff. “Shit,” said the cook, conversationally scratching his balls and squinting about in the darkness upon the face of the deep. “That is a big-ass fish tank.” While he was wondering if there was sushi, or about to be some or if he could catch some (God accidently-kind-of-on-purpose gave him some innate abilities later to be mistaken as “talent” to cover up the bad smell) a big puff of blue smoke appeared. At least Cook thought it might be blue, but he was color blind, like all cooks are when they are hatched.

God said (from the blue smoke) “Sup Cookie?” Cook said, “Son of a bitch, who said that?” God said, “Get your hand out of your pants, for my sake.” Cook replied that if whoever was in that blue smoke was going to tease him about tacos and sake, regardless of the twist in Asian and Mexican cuisine, regardless of the fact that neither culture existed, then, by God, he’d better deliver on that cuisine because he felt hung-over and his crotch itched. “By the way, what are pants?” asked Cook.

After this conversation, God felt that perhaps he shouldn’t have created a cook after all, that he should have created a bisexual interior designer with an eye for outdoor spaces and thought of a potential name for the creature. “I shall call him….Adam!” bellowed the blue smoke.

Cook was irritated that the blue smoke had interrupted his very first joint rolling experience and said as much. God, irritated as well, materialized out of the smoke looking very much like Vin Diesel and Oprah all rolled into one with a little Sandra Bullock and wearing a pink Bobby Flay shirt. Cook’s expression really didn’t change, as he was still wondering about the tacos and sake but his opinion of a being that could a. create him and b. start an argument about sake with a hung-over cook jonesing for his next drink while not delivering started to plummet.

While Cook ruminated loudly over God’s hideous pink shirt as he scratched his nuts and smoked his joint, God tried to explain that he needed a planet up and running in six days. Cook only started paying attention when money was mentioned, which was good as until then God had been seriously contemplating turning Cook into a monkey, but Cook was clearly intelligent in a deeply unimpressed kind of way. God was a bit offended that Cook wasn’t taken aback by his pink Bobby Flay shirt and so switched it in midstream to an Emeril coat. He did forget to leave out the stomach that Emmy would one day have in a few million years or so, which made Cook laugh. “I can tell you don’t work the line, God.” Cook smirked. God pouted.

Cook squatted back on his haunches, which from God’s point of view, was not a good look for Cook. God used all his creative powers and declared, “Let it be dark!” “Hey,” yelled Cook, “who turned out the fucking lights? Very funny, mighty Creator. Now I can’t see to fish.” I’ll solve that, thought God, who promptly killed all the fish. “What about the sake, God?” There was a scramble in the darkness as Cook grabbed at God, who promptly created a strait jacket for Cook, but in the ruckus and darkness summoned it to the wrong spot, herby fastening it on both of them simultaneously. The stench coming off Cook, especially given that he was just created, was unbearable. He smelled like raw, decaying fish and something dead. “Hey, for God’s sake!” yelled God. “Let there be light!”

The ambiance revealed what God had, in his infinite wisdom, already suspected. Cook had managed to somehow stuff a dead fish in his mouth and was greedily sucking out the eyes and gnawing on the cheeks. Cook handed it to God. “Here. This is the best part.” There was a loud pop and sparkle of fluorescent purple dust as God made the straitjacket disappear and put pants on Cook at the same time. Cook inspected his new apparel with appreciation. “Now this is fucking cool, God!” God thought the baggy pinstriped paints were even more ludicrous than his own purple shirt, which he did actually remember buying from a Bobby Flay in another universe, and he wondered again just how much of himself he had imparted into this odd creature.

Cook stared around in open-mouthed amazement at the dimly lit world he and God were standing in. Everything was covered in water, and if not for the light, he would never have noticed that the place was kind of dreary. It looked like he imagined Kansas would look if it were covered in a giant lake with no fish other than the dead kind, which were rapidly becoming inedible.

With a sigh, Cook turned to God, ignoring his horrid purple shirt. “God, you need me.” “What? I need you? What in God’s name for?” Cook became deadly serious. After all, God had needed something done in six days. “It seems to me you need a space, a decorator and a lot of work that needs to be done NOW with no questions asked. When do you need to open this place?” God slowly thought about it. He hadn’t really thought all the way through what he would do when he flipped the last universe to the Chinese. He just took the cash and ran.

Cook watched him carefully. For a guy with some pretty incredible powers and ludicrous shirts, God seemed pretty slow. He was going to have to be careful. God explained that he needed a venue, was planning lots of guests and having a party in a garden. Chef nodded sagely. “What you need, God, is a head chef. That could be me. Trust me, I’ll get it all done.” God nodded slowly back, after what seemed to Cook to be a few million years. The fish was turning into a primordial soup. Jesus H. Christ this guy had trouble making up his mind. “How quick?” Cook rolled this question over in his mind. He knew a guy who was into planets, Hawkins or something like that, who also had mob connections. Check. He knew this chick (could be a dude, but who cares) who was killer with outdoor spaces and could pull together modelling gigs like no other…there was the other guy, with mob connections who knew how to make stuff grow, then the farmer who supplied rare organic meat, no questions asked. The dinosaurs would be tough, but with a proper brine…it might just work!

“Tell you what, God. Cash up front and I’ll have it done by Sunday.” God was thrilled. God rested on Sunday and they all had Gin and Tonics by Lake Tahoe. They threw a magnificent dinner party in the new garden hotspot, which they named Eden, but he had to ask two of the guests to leave the party when he caught them in a very awkward situation involving a tree, an apple, a snake, the gay guy Adam, some girl Eve and Cook.

Cook left with them and fed construction crews after he was over his hangover from the Eden fiasco. Try as he might he could never find the place again, but he was too involved with other stuff. There was this pal of God’s named Lucifer, hell of a guy, and he all kinds of ideas for new restaurants and other gigs that didn’t involve that strange Adam dude, but instead they focused on this cruise ship his cousin Noah was building. He was looking for a chef for some kind of voyage after something called rain started. Cook was pretty sure he was crazy, especially since the boat wasn’t designed for dinosaurs, but Noah had all kinds of cash and his sons had some strange Daddy complex, always trying to see the old man naked. Besides, Satan had some awesome ball cream that made him feel all tingly and shit. Eve was still looking pretty good too, for an old lady and Cook heard a couple of her daughters were going. It was too bad about the snake. Satan claimed all sorts of bullshit about actually “being” the snake for a while. Cook felt sorry for him and gave him some baggy pants and a tall hat and told him he looked cool, for a sous chef.

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