[MiSTing] "In The Beginning..."
David Rust
Writer's block can be a long, painful process. It deprives a creative
artist of ideas, outlet and expression. Luckily, it also shields the
public from their mindless drivel. However, "drivel" is not a word I
would use to describe Leigh Ann Hussey's "In the Beginning...". Once
again, I managed to find a fan-fic that's rather good. I guess the only
reason I decided to ask for Ms. Hussey's permission to MiST it is that I'm
a big fan of "Iron Chef" myself and this kind of good-natured ribbing is
the sort of thing I've grown to expect in fanish circles. Yep, it's an
"Iron Chef" fanfic; and it's on that basis alone that I decided to run it
through a processor and make fanfic pate... I hope you enjoy it! And,
please, check out Ms. Hussey's other works ... they're quite good too!
And again, Thank You, Leigh-Ann... You really are a good sport!
(Archived at http://www.visi.com/~phantos/mst3k.html - towards the bottom
of the page.)
=========================================================
Allez Cuisine!
Categories: PROSE
Original Title: "In the beginning..."
Original Author: Leigh Ann Hussey
=========================================================
(Opening Credits - Mike/Pearl/Bots)
(.....1.....)
(.....2.....)
(.....3.....)
(.....4.....)
(.....5.....)
(.....6.....)
(Scene: SOL Interior. CROW is talking to a guy on the hexfield
viewscreen who looks a lot like SLASH from "Guns-n-Roses". SLASH's face
and shoulders are completely covered with long, black hair, cascading down
from beneath his stove-pipe hat.)
CROW: (in an annoyed tone) Listen, all I did was make some MP3s from
"Appetite For Destruction" so I wouldn't wear out the CD! I didn't cheat
you out of a copyright...
(SLASH wobbles to and fro, making small, Cousin It noises.)
CROW: (more annoyed) Commie? Listen, I'll forget you said that if you
just drop this! I didn't give away your music; I just made a copy for myself!
(SLASH wobbles again, making more Cousin It noises.)
CROW: (sighing) Well, be that as it may... HEY! Look there! Floyd the barber!
(SLASH looks around, startled; his hair flailing while he makes more
strained sounds.)
(CROW taps the lights with his beak and the hexfield closes upon SLASH's protests.)
CROW: (muttering) Good riddance.
(MIKE enters from stage left, looking towards the hexfield viewscreen.)
MIKE: Uh, Crow... Who was that?
CROW: (evasively) Uh, who was what?
MIKE: That... On the hexfield.
CROW: Oh, uh. A telemarketer. (switching to a good-little-boy voice) He
wanted me to use your credit card to buy aluminum siding; but I said "no".
MIKE: (blinking) Really? (he pauses and then continues slowly.) Well,
uh, I guess you did the right thing, Crow. (nodding) Good for you!
(The commercial sign lights start to flash as TOM bobs into the console room.)
TOM: Hey guys, just thought I'd let you know that Gypsy's detected about
six dozen small missiles on a collision course with the satellite. They
seem to be homing in on our hexfield signal...
(MIKE slowly looks at CROW and signs, tapping the lights.)
CROW: (indignantly) What?!!
MIKE: Great. We'll be right back...
(----------go to commercial----------)
(--------back from commercial--------)
(SOL Interior. The console room is bathed in red, mood lighting and the
set is shaking as if the SOL is under bombardment. We hear muffled booms
in the distance. MIKE and the bots are being shaken as the attack continues.)
CROW: Geez; maybe I shoulda picked on Metallica...
TOM: (to CROW) Hunh?
MIKE: Cambot! Give us Rocket Number Nine!
(Switch view to exterior of the SOL where we see it being pelted with roses.)
(Cut back to MIKE and the BOTs looking on, bemused.)
TOM: Well, *that's* something you don't see everyday...
MIKE: (spreading his arms and looking confused) But who would...?
(The hexfield viewscreen opens revealing Paul Corbett dressed up like AXL ROSE.)
CROW: (looking at the hexfield) Oh no...
TOM: What th'...?
MIKE: Axl Rose?
AXL_ROSE: (in a slow, deliberate tone ala Khan from "Star Trek II") Ahhh,
you still remember me, my old friend...
MIKE: (bemused) "Old friend"?
CROW: Hey, what's with the rose barrage? I told you guys, I didn't do
anything wrong!
AXL_ROSE: That's what *you* think! When was the last time you bought one
of our albums?!!
TOM: Uh, never?
CROW: Tom! Shhhh!
AXL_ROSE: (nodding) You exiled us; marooned us on the doomed and dying
world of low sales and ebbing popularity... You taunted us; *mocked* us
with your "Sonic Youth", "Ricky Martin" and "Puff Daddy". (pausing
wistfully) In our home decade, we were *Gods*...!
MIKE: Uh, be that as it may, it hardly excuses...
AXL_ROSE: (interrupting) *Enough*!!! (in a low, casual tone) You will
hand over all MP3 files concerning the rock band ... "Genesis".
ALL: Hunh?!!
AXL_ROSE: (stammering) Uh, I mean, the rock band, "Guns-n-Roses"; yeah...
(MIKE nods slowly, backing towards the console. He reaches behind it,
pulling up a laptop computer.)
MIKE: Ok, Axl. Just give me a moment to call up the files from the
satellite's computers.
AXL_ROSE: (magnanimously) I give you two minutes; for you and your
valiant crew...
(MIKE types rapidly on the keyboard.)
TOM: (whispering to MIKE) What are you doing?
MIKE: Every rock star has a built-in expiration date assigned by Billboard
Magazine; it's designed to prevent just the kind of abuse Axl, here, is using...
CROW: Yeah, but how does that explain "The Rolling Stones"?
TOM: And "Paul Simon"?
MIKE: (flustered) Look, this is our one chance; so let's not screw it up!
(MIKE looks up at the hexfield. AXL_ROSE has a laptop set up.)
AXL_ROSE: (triumphantly) Time's up!
MIKE: Ok, Axl... Here it comes...
(MIKE taps a key and we hear "You've got Mail" from AXL's laptop.)
AXL_ROSE: (staring in shock at his laptop) No! Napster! It...it's
sharing all my ill-gotten MP3s! Nooooooo....! Must ... shut down ... system...!
(AXL_ROSE takes a baseball bat to his laptop, destroying it in seconds.)
TOM: (looking out the window) Hey, the missiles stopped!
AXL_ROSE: (barely containing his fury) Well, you've won *this* round,
Nelson... But you can't keep me at bay forever! I shall return!
(The hexfield viewscreen closes as the Mad's light starts flashing.)
MIKE: Great, now we've got Pearl to deal with. (he taps the lights) Yes,
oh evil-one?
(Castle Forrester. To one side, we see PEARL laid up in a hospital bed
with BOBO tending her dressed in a nurse's uniform. The OBSERVER stands
in the foreground, shaking his head gravely and addressing the camera.)
OBSERVER: Ahhh, good day Mike ... Robots. (he glances back at PEARL who
moans painfully) I'm afraid that Madam Forrester is a wee-bit "under the
weather" and has asked me to introduce today's experiment.
(PEARL moans painfully and BOBO dabs her forehead with a damp cloth.)
(SOL. The guys look on, concerned.)
MIKE: Geez, Brain Guy; what's wrong with her?
(Castle.)
OBSERVER: Well, apparently, three days ago was the annual celebration
marking Pearl's auspicious incarnation into this time-space continuum.
Apparently, this celebration involves the repeated and excessive ingestion
of massive quantities of a fluid called "Jack Daniels"...
(PEARL moans again and struggles to rise.)
PEARL: That's not the half of it, space-toys! (She pouts, looking
pained.) Here I had my -uh- thirtieth birthday party and *you* never
bothered to stop by and say "congratulations"... How's *that* for insensitivity?
(SOL.)
TOM: Pearl's thirty?
CROW: At least...
MIKE: But ... but we didn't know; we weren't invited...
(Castle. PEARL is now standing, holding herself up by leaning on OBSERVER.)
PEARL: (waving a hand dismissively) That's no excuse... You missed my
once-in-a-lifetime thirtieth birthday and now you have to pay!
BOBO: (walking up, checking PEARL's medical chart from her bed) Actually,
Lawgiver, according to your records, your thirtieth birthday was at least
ten years ago...(he's interrupted with an *OOF* of pain as PEARL elbows him)
PEARL: Still, since I'm still a bit inebriated, I'll send you something
not bad, not poorly written, but so ...*unusual*... it could curdle fresh
cream at sixty paces...
OBSERVER: (nodding) It's a fan-fic written in an area of interest
heretofore unknown in Internet writing; but -if Ms. Forrester is correct-
could soon start a new trend!
PEARL: So here's your birthday present from me to you: Leigh Ann Hussey's
"In the beginning..."
(SOL. The movie sign lights are flashing.)
TOM/CROW: (singing as fast as he can) Happy Birthday, to you... Happy
Birthday, to you...!
MIKE: (interrupting frantically) It's too late guys; we have fan-fic sign!
CROW: But it's not *fair*!!!
(The guys run off-camera to the theater.)
(.....6.....)
(.....5.....)
(.....4.....)
(.....3.....)
(.....2.....)
(.....1.....)
(Theater Interior. MIKE carries TOM to his seat as he and CROW sit down.)
>
> Iron Chef - In the Beginning...
>
TOM: (in a deep, Charlton-Heston-like voice) And, In the Beginning, Kaga
created the Heavens and the Earth! And the Earth was without form, and
darkness was upon the Kitchen Stadium...
CROW: (in disbelief) "Iron Chef"? As in the cooking show?
MIKE: I guess so, Crow...
CROW: (still bemused) As in "an 'Iron Chef' fan-fic"?
MIKE: (nodding) Looks like...
> Outside, the countryside surrounding the huge manor house was
> beginning to quicken.
TOM: Mother Nature was getting on in years; it took her a while to get up
to speed.
> Soon the cherry blossom would burst from its
> protective bud, and everyone would celebrate the return of life and
> fertility to the land.
MIKE: Those who hadn't been killed by the exploding cherry blossoms, that is...
CROW: Man, I hate it when my plants explode!
TOM: You added too much nitrate, didn't you?
CROW: Yeah, and I'm pretty sure the C-4 potting soil didn't help.
> But inside of him, it was always winter.
MIKE: Prozac hadn't been invented yet.
> His
> spirit would not explode from its shell into beauty; his heart would
> never prove a nurturing field for any seed of love.
TOM: The Whitman Sampler of his spirit would be devoid of mints, leaving
only those crummy little orange creames that no one likes...
>
> By day, he manipulated his investments
CROW: By night, he was a grim-faced Avenger of Justice.
> - more from force of habit than
> from any real need or enthusiasm for the financial game - or he would
> walk aimlessly and soundlessly through his halls and grand rooms, each
> one empty and oppressively silent.
MIKE: Man, Ebeneezer Scrooge should *really* lay off the depressants...
> By night, he went to his cold,
> solitary bed and a dreamless sleep from which he would arise as weary
> as he had lain down.
TOM: He probably just needs a Comfo-rest Mattress.
>
> He was never seen to walk his extensive grounds - in fact, there was
> only rare evidence of his presence in the manor ever visible from
> outside of it
MIKE: This probably had something to do with his twelve-foot high
retaining wall.
> - and his tenants went from wondering what had made him
> into such a man, to wondering if he were still alive, to wondering if
> he had ever existed at all or was simply a character that the true
> owners of the estate (presuming there were any) had invented for some
> inscrutable reason.
TOM: Then they went on to wondering about their 401K plans. Were they
sufficient for the economic forecasts of the mid-21st century? What about
the price of Gold?
CROW: (chiming in) Still wondering, they pondered the futures market.
Would it remain volatile or would Alan Greenspan smooth the way for
international trade with a swipe of his magic pen?
TOM/CROW: (in unison) And what about Scarecrow's Brain?!
MIKE: Hunh?
(the two bots chuckle.)
CROW: Man, it's been too long since we did one of those...
TOM: Yeah. We should do it more often.
> Their second guess was closer to truth than they
> could ever know; he often wondered himself if he were still alive.
CROW: Although the presence of a pulse had provided a hint...
>
> Some months past, he had dressed himself in formal white kimono and
> knelt before the ornate suit of his ancestor's armor, wakizashi blade
> laid bare and glinting on the mat in front of him.
TOM: (in a bad Japanese accent) Tell me honestly, ancestors... Does this
thing make me look fat?
> The cold invitation
> of the steel warred with the equally cold and disapproving grimace of
> his ancestor's facemask, and in the end he knew he was too cold to do
> it.
MIKE: (wiping his brow) Phew! For a second there, I was having visions
of an "Iron Chef" snuff-story...
CROW: Well, it *would* pave the way for the secret ingredient being "Long Pork".
> To be fierce enough, proud enough, required warmth; even in the
> calm resignation of the chushingura there had been the satisfying heat
> of vengeance fulfilled, honor satisfied, of having done right.
TOM: The rush of blood: poured out before him like a Marinara Sauce!
CROW/MIKE: Ewwwwww!
TOM: Hey, I'm just trying to stay with the culinary theme here...
> But he
> was too cold to feel pride, too cold to feel despair, too cold even to
> feel afraid of dying. He was too cold to feel at all.
MIKE: It was about this time that he decided to turn up the thermostat...
TOM: D'oh!
>
> One cannot kill what is already dead;
CROW: George Romero was called in for an emergency consultation...
> he wore his funeral clothes day
> and night for many days after that, and it was only after his
> majordomo found him passed out in one of the interior courtyards that
> he permitted that faithful man to spoon a little warm broth past his
> lips.
MIKE: Chicken Soup for the Suicidal Soul.
> The dead, after all, do not eat.
TOM/CROW: (in a zombie-like chant) Brains...! Must ... have ... brains!
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
CROW: Ok, contestants, today's puzzle is one word and has 42 letters...
> Hattori slid the knife over the stone again.
TOM: Having already failed to *squeeze* blood from it, the knife was
-likewise- performing poorer than desired.
> He had actually reached a
> razor-sharp edge many strokes ago, but he continued, rather like the
> master, automatically, in a task as basic to him as breathing.
CROW: Hours later, he looks down; realizing he's only got a metal
toothpick left...
> There
> was an important difference, though, between him and the master: he
> was not cold, and his inattention was not from apathy.
MIKE: By contrast, it sprung from a dismal malaise.
> Rather, freed
> as they were from minding his body, his thoughts were occupied with
> the master's health -- mental as much as physical.
TOM: Wow! Mental *and* physical coverage?
CROW: As long as you don't mind being cured with soup broth and knife sharpening.
MIKE: (shrugging) Well, it sure beats *my* HMO...
>
> He remembered that day, seeing the master crumpled on the stones, the
> kimono's silk puddled around him.
CROW: Liquid silk?
> Hattori's heart clenched with the
> memory, as it had then with the seeing,
CROW: Great; Hattori's suffering palpitations...
MIKE: Yep! Attempted suicide and cardiac arrest; this story's got it all!
> for although age had given him
> restraint along with his white hairs, it had not taken away one
> particle of the passion that had spurred him as much toward trouble as
> toward knowledge.
TOM: He was like a modern-day Renaissance Man; hanging with the Hell's
Angels while taking a Wok on the Wild Side...
>
> It could have been either his knowledge or his knack for getting into
> and out of trouble that had gotten him his position here.
CROW: Or it *could* have been the job application; he wasn't sure...
> His younger
> sister had made a great show of exasperation when first Hattori told
> her his intent, but even she had to admit she was not surprised.
TOM: There had been signs for years... The pin-ups of Rock Hudson, the
collection of Barbara Streisand tapes, the Judy Garland calendars...
>
> "Nii-chan,"
ALL: Gerzundheit!
> she had said, "when have I ever been able to talk you out
> of any of your mad positions?"
MIKE: (as Hattori) Oh, come on, sis; this yoga class has really helped me!
> The years had done their work on
> Tsukiko, too, polishing away her abrasiveness; now she was smooth but
> hard, like a grain of rice.
TOM: But if she stayed in hot water for more than fifteen minutes, she
tended to puff up, get all sticky and clump to everyone around her.
> "It's for the best, I suppose. You'd never
> be a proper grandmaster here. You are a boat with no sail or anchor,
> going where the winds of your whimsy blow you, not the kind of vessel
> this school needs to carry it forward.
CROW: Sailing in circles!
MIKE: Set adrift; rudderless and lost!
TOM: Up a creek without a paddle!
> This is no different than
> catching snails in the park and putting them all on different diets to
> see which ones would make better escargots, or buying all those
> grapefruits, or haring off to the Sorbonne after Father forbade it."
CROW: (as Hattori) Hey, if Dad has a problem with my grapefruit diet for
overweight snails at the Sorbonne clinic, he can say it to my face!
>
> When he was a young man, an opening feint like that from her would
> have turned into an hour-long shouting match, stony silences over the
> dinner table, days of clenched teeth and fists whenever they passed
> each other.
TOM: I guess even Japan has dysfunctional families.
CROW: (to TOM) You mean even after all those Gamera films, you still had doubts?
> But he was no longer a young man.
MIKE: (in a mock, crotchety voice) Young whipper-snappers; get off my lawn!
> "As I recall," he
> remarked thoughtfully, "you liked the ones I raised on beer and sweet
> potatoes best."
TOM/CROW: Ewwwww!
MIKE: (nonplused) I dunno guys; that kinda sounds pretty good!
TOM: Mike, they're talkin' about snails. *Snails*, Mike!
CROW: Doesn't matter what ya feed 'em, they're still snails!
>
> She had softened then, with a sigh. "They were good, weren't they."
MIKE: (...continuing...) Well, I kinda *like* escargot...
TOM/CROW: Ewwwww!
TOM: Sheesh, Mike! First fruitcake, and now this.
CROW: (looking over to TOM) I just don't feel like I know him anymore,
Servo... (to MIKE) I have no son!
MIKE: (looking at CROW and sounding confused) "Son"?
> She had smiled a little, remembering, then embraced him quickly. "Go
> on then, big brother. Go conquer the world."
CROW: Have fun stormin' th' castle!
> She turned away then,
> already feeling, perhaps, the grandmaster's mantle settling on her
> and not wanting him to see her weep.
TOM: On the other hand, it may have been out of deep, deep shame...
>
> Perhaps one day he would conquer the world. For now, though, Hattori
> thought ruefully to himself, testing the edge for the umpteenth time,
> I must first conquer one man's madness.
MIKE: He has to convince Carl Pohlad to build a new Twins stadium without
public money?
> He set the knife down and
> rose, feeling his knees creak slightly as he did so. "Am I too old for
> this?" he asked himself as he bent down to retrieve knife and stone.
CROW: The small chorus of voices in his head assured him that he wasn't...
> Surely not, though Hattori often wondered himself what had turned the
> master, a man in his prime who should have been out conquering the
> world himself, into a cold and spiritless shadow.
TOM: Reading the Strom Thurmond biography couldn't have been *that* bad,
could it?
> It must have been
> something terrible. Or maybe it was that the master had already gone
> into the world to conquer it, had glutted himself on all that that
> world had to offer him, and having so done discovered that he could
> not conquer it -
MIKE: How poignant...
CROW: How ironic...
TOM: How Machiavellian...
> that rather, it had mastered him, found him wanting,
> and turned away like a girl wanting a new lover.
CROW: (like a jilted lover) Oh; I'm not good enough for you anymore, am
I, World? Who is it now? Mars? Saturn?!!
>
> No matter; Hattori had warmth enough for two or three men,
TOM: He'd supplement his income by renting himself out as a life-support
shelter during the Winter.
> and the
> past three years in the master's house had focussed all the heat of
> his multiple passions into a single, white-hot flame of fidelity.
CROW: Hey! Hattori's got Kryptonian heat vision!
> For
> even as a shadow, the master had the charisma that had made him so
> powerful in the first place. That he could not only induce Hattori to
> stay in one place for three solid years, but could succeed where his
> father and sister had failed...
TOM: He was like a mother to him!
> It was not that Hattori had no sense
> of duty, rather that no single thing or person had ever so challenged
> and captivated him.
MIKE: (dismissively) Yeah, that's what *every* Gen-X slacker says...
>
> Once he had discovered -- to his immense relief -- that the master
> lived,
TOM: And there was great rejoicing.
ALL: (in a Monty Python monotone) Yayyyyyy.
> Hattori had nursed him, from that first spoonful of clear
> bouillon, through miso soup, or rice and tea, and finally his family's
> own all-heal, the soup on which his grandfather had sustained an army.
>
> And in this he discovered at last the only thing that could kindle
> even a tiny flame of life and pleasure in that cold wind that was the
> master.
CROW: Whoa! Grandpa's soup was incendiary!
>
> Even now, as he slid open the kitchen door, he shielded that flame
> with his hands. Because even discounting the culinary skills and
> concepts he had gathered in every corner of the world, one thing was
> certain: Hattori Yukio could cook.
TOM: (in a bored voice) Let's see... Master healer, family counselor,
musing philosopher: a bunch of rubbish! *This* man could *cook*!
MIKE: Kinda explains the whole "Saving the Master's life with Broth"
thing, though.
>
> The very same inquisitiveness and innovation that made him perhaps a
> less than ideal grandmaster for his grandfather's school made him the
> perfect director of the master's kitchens,
CROW: ...And an even better designer of lacy nightgowns!
> and since that day he had
> delegated many of his household management duties so that he could
> personally oversee the master's cuisine.
MIKE: (muttering as Hattori) Let's see... Some rhubarb leaves, a little
arsenic; leave *me* out of the Will, will he?
> Today, however, he merely
> left directions for the staff along with the knife, and passed on, his
> eyes glittering behind his glasses.
CROW: (shocked) What?!!
TOM: Oh, great. They killed Hattori!
MIKE: (shouting) You bastards! (turning to TOM with a chuckle)
Seriously, Tom, don't worry. "Passed On" can have other meanings, you know...
TOM: (indignantly re-reading the sentence) Well, it's either that or he
cut out his eyes and passed them on to the Kitchen staff!
MIKE: Hunh?
CROW: (interrupting) Oh, I got it!
MIKE: (sighing) What, Crow?
CROW: He left directions for the staff to pass by the knife that couldn't
cut stone!
TOM: Crow, that's ridiculous!
CROW: Is not!!
MIKE: Guys, Guys! Look, don't worry about it; it's just an alliterative
phrase... He just left the knife in the kitchen with some instructions
for the staff before passing *by* the kitchen en route to doing something *else*!
TOM/CROW: Ahhhhhh!
TOM: Well, why didn't the author *say* so?
MIKE: (sighing) She did, Tom... She did.
> "Stay out of his way," a senior
> chef said to one of the younger staff. "When he spends a morning
> honing every knife in the place, you don't want his attention."
CROW: Well, duh!
TOM: Say, if Hattori's a disgruntled chef with tons of sharp knives, could
he secretly be a Cereal Killer? (he snickers)
CROW/MIKE: *groan*
>
> Hattori went out into that same courtyard and sat under the cherry
> tree with a token sheaf of papers he had no intention of working on.
TOM: How Zen.
> Instead, he leaned back against that ancient trunk and looked up at
> the plump buds on its branches, just beginning to show slashes of
> pinky-white, and extemporized,
CROW: (as an embarrassed Hattori) Oh, excuse me...
MIKE: Sounds like Hattori needs some Gas-X.
>
> Sakura, the spring
> clothes your limbs in youth again.
> When will his spring come?
>
CROW: Hey, that's not too bad...
MIKE: .......Sounds like a Haiku to me.
TOM: What makes a Haiku?
(The guys all pause and look at each other.)
ALL: (talking over each other) Never mind...
> He closed his eyes against the bright sun filtering through the
> branches. He felt old as the tree and not nearly as revived.
TOM: He needed MiracleGro(tm); revitalizing fertilizer!
> How long,
> he wondered, before my menus can no longer hold him up? Something must
> be done.
CROW: Somehow, I don't think Viagra's gonna help this time...
> He gathered the papers up and headed for the garage and the
> ride into town that awaited him there. The urgency of the earth's
> vernal activity seized him, and he quickened his pace. Something must
> be done soon.
MIKE: Well, what with the springtime foliage seizing him, I should hope so.
CROW: (in a deep voice) *This* looks like a job for Defoliant Man!
(MIKE gets up to go, TOM starting to bob after him as he heads camera-right.)
TOM: C'mon guys, I need a break... And some food!
(The guys leave the theater.)
(.....1.....)
(.....2.....)
(.....3.....)
(.....4.....)
(.....5.....)
(.....6.....)
(SOL Interior. TOM is standing behind the main console with a jar of
peanut butter, some bread and a package of foi gras in front of him. MIKE
is next to him, tending a small terrarium.)
MIKE: You sure you don't want some basil or cillantro with that, Tom?
TOM: Naw, but I could use your opposable digits to help me with the knife...
MIKE: (nodding knowably) Sure...
(MIKE is interrupted as CROW and GYPSY enter from stage-right. Both are
dressed in super-hero costumes; CROW in a green leotard set with dried,
brown vines and wearing a "no-leaves" symbol on his chest. GYPSY is
wearing an orange mask with a similarly colored cape tied around her neck
and draped down along her tube-like body.)
CROW: Beware evil-doers! It is *I* ... Defoliant Man!
GYPSY: And his side-kick!
CROW: (looking over at Gypsy) Yes, it is I and my trusty side-kick, Agent
Orange! Here to defend the weak and clueless from the evils of Boss
-a.k.a. "Mother"- Nature!
MIKE: Uh-huh, listen Crow; I know what you're up to and you can't destroy
my herb garden.
CROW: (sounding surprised) But ... but Mike, what with the exploding
cherry blossoms, rampaging flora and just-plain-creepy Bonsai trees all
around us, how can we *not* take up arms against the evil flora that
plagues us daily?!!
MIKE: (rolling his eyes) Crow, there is nothing wrong with my herb
garden. The plants in today's stories are merely suffering from an
over-abundance of adjectives.
TOM: Really, Crow! I mean, exploding cherry blossoms? Get real...!
CROW: But...
MIKE: (interrupting again.) No "but's", Crow. Just put down the mask and
leave the plants alone...
GYPSY: (to CROW) Yeah! What'd they ever do to us?
CROW: (dejected and hanging his head) Geez, all I wanted to do was fight
for truth, justice and the vegetarian way...
(CROW exits off-camera to the left.)
GYPSY: (looking after CROW) Crow seems sad...
MIKE: (nodding and helping remove GYPSY's mask) Well, he'll get over it.
I mean, really, plants aren't out to get us...
(Suddenly, from behind the console, a giant ChiaPet rises up and attacks
MIKE, smothering him off-camera behind the console. TOM and GYPSY look
startled as MIKE calls for help. Commercial sign lights start flashing.)
TOM: Uh, we'll be right back.
GYPSY: (calling off-camera) Crow! Help! Chia-pet!
CROW: (shouting back from off-camera) Nice try guys; I'm not falling for
that one again!
(----------go to commercial----------)
(--------back from commercial--------)
(Theater Interior. MIKE enters, carrying TOM with CROW following. MIKE
makes motions as if brushing stuff off of his clothes.)
MIKE: Gaaah... I feel like I'm going to be picking algae out of my hair
for a week!
TOM: Lucky you came along when you did, Crow...
CROW: (heroically) Don't thank me; thank Defoliant Man!
(They sit down.)
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
> Emotional exhaustion and malnourishment had exacted their price, and
> while his majordomo went about the tasks that kept the household
> running, he himself was only just now able to get up out of his bed.
CROW: (blearily) Oh, man... Is it Noon already?
> He left the bedding where it lay, and concentrated on putting one foot
> down, then the other.
TOM/CROW: (singing ala Rankin-Bass) You put one foot in front of the
other... And soon you'll be walkin' 'cross the floooooor!
> He faltered his way to his desk, and collapsed
> at it, utterly spent.
MIKE: Ladies and Gentlemen; Liza Minelli!
> It had been two, maybe three weeks since his
> collapse; time, like consciousness, had become a fugitive state for
> him. He forced his eyes open, made himself look at the Asahi Shimbun
> -- he could guess who had left it carefully, if optimistically,
> unfolded on his desk, and found himself wondering how many days a
> fresh paper had been left so.
TOM: (sarcastically) Talk about an exhausting pace! Will he read the
newspaper or not? How old was it? Who left it there? The author sure
doesn't leave any stone un-turned!
MIKE: Come on Tom, it's establishing a character's state of mind; the
foreshadowing of elements leading towards a revelation...
TOM: (sighing) Mike, I used to be an "Iron Chef" apologist too; but even
*I* have to draw the line at watching a sick, suicidal Kaga crawl out of
bed and ponder a copy of the Asahi Shimbun.
(after a pause)
CROW: Uh, what's a "Shimbun"?
>
> He owed Hattori his life, but still he could hardly feel grateful --
MIKE: He was a Republican.
> no, he supposed he was grateful, if only because what he had done to
> himself was the act of a fool, one which would only serve to dishonor
> his family name. He picked up a pen and turned it over and over in his
> fingers, staring at it as though it were an alien thing.
TOM: It had just burst out of his chest...
> He knew he
> should be working, should be trying to do anything at all, so that
> Hattori's efforts on his behalf should not be wasted; he had no idea
> how to begin, much less where.
MIKE: For a guy who's only job is to sit around earning interest and
collecting dividends, this doesn't sound too difficult a decision to make.
>
> He felt consciousness sliding away from him again, and this time he
> let it go.
CROW: (tearfully) I'll never let go, Jack... Never let go...
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
> "And I tell you, Yamada, that only a starving man could eat your
> cooking and appreciate it."
TOM: (sarcastically) Ooooo...! Take *that*, Chef Boyardee-san!
>
> "Is that so? Then why are you eating it? Why should I not throw you
> out into the street where you belong?"
MIKE: Geez, Ronald McDonald sure gets surly during the morning rush...
>
> "If I belong in the street, then you belong in the gutter, you
> upstart! You call this kaiseki?
ALL: Gerzundheit!
> I could do better than this even if I
> had a headcold and couldn't smell or taste a thing."
MIKE: Hey, that's just like the Cafeteria Cooks I had back in eighth grade!
>
> "Oh, so that explains your hamfisted seasoning! I always wondered
> about that. They make medicines for such ailments nowadays, haven't
> you heard?"
MIKE: Over-seasoning is an ailment?
TOM: *cough-cough* Ugh, doctor... I think I've got a bad case of saffron.
CROW: Take two tumeric and call me in the morning...
>
> "Dammit! I ought to --"
CROW: (mock-gruffly) Why you little...!
>
> "Ah! Welcome!" Yamada interrupted the other man on seeing a customer
> enter the otherwise empty restaurant.
MIKE: (in a nasal, bored voice as Yamada) Welcome to Yamada's... Our
Blue Plate special today is saki-marinated fish innards with daikon radish
florettes and little, inedible dumplings made out of congealed rice paste.
Can I get you a water?
>
> Hattori surveyed the room. "I take it I can sit anywhere?"
TOM: Y'know, that sounds like a Marx Brothers set-up line, but for the
life of me, I can't suss it out...
>
> "Hattori-san! So good to see you!" Yamada was all smiles, but Hattori
> thought he saw a touch of anxiety in his manner. "Please, sit here, if
> it's not too much trouble."
CROW: But if it *is* too much trouble, just drop your carcass next to the
other people who've been eating my cooking.
> Yamada indicated a table near the kitchen
> door.
MIKE: Say; this isn't my beautiful restaurant; that's not my beautiful chair!
>
> Hattori took both it, and another look around. "A quiet day for you
> must be a pleasant change," he offered, as diplomatically as he could
> manage.
TOM: Wouldn't it have been more diplomatic to keep his big mouth shut?
CROW: (as Hattori) Gee, Yamada, a dead-end dive like this sure must be a
welcome change from that four-star hotel restaurant you used to run!
MIKE: (as Yamada) Uh, thanks...
>
> He was rewarded by a complete change in Yamada's manner as the man
> sank dejectedly into the seat across from Hattori. "I never could fool
> you, old friend," Yamada sighed. "No, actually, business is awful. I
> just don't know what to do."
CROW: Well, there's always hari-kari.
>
> "I keep trying to tell you, Yamada," the other fellow called out from
> inside the kitchen, "if you'd just take instruction from me, you
> wouldn't have even one minute's rest in a day."
>
> "Great gods!"
TOM: (in a blustery voice) Great Ceasar's Ghost, Olson! You call this tempura?!!
> Hattori exclaimed. "I know that voice. Aji-no-moto, is
> that you?"
MIKE: (with a shrug to the bots) How many Aji-no-moto's could there *be*
in the world?
CROW: (in a blase tone) Thousands, Mike.
TOM: Yeah. At least.
>
> "What? Nobody has called me that since --!"
CROW: (in a Sir Alec Guinness voice) No one has called me "Aji-no-moto"
since before you were born...
TOM: So the cooking droids *do* belong to you!
> A big man erupted from the
> kitchen,
ALL: (grossed out) Ewwwwww!!!
CROW: It's Mr. Creosote!
> and on seeing him, hauled Hattori bodily out of his chair to
> pound on him.
MIKE: Next on Fox: When Chefs Attack!
> "Hayabusa, you so-and-so, what on earth brings you in
> here? I would sooner expect to see Escoffier rise from his grave and
> walk across the ocean and through that door than to see you in this
> forsaken place."
TOM: Hmmmm... When chefs rise from the grave, do they shamble about
moaning for head cheese and calves brains?
CROW: (in a zombie-like voice again) Sweet-bread... Sweet-bread...!
>
> "Inomoto, this is just too much!" Yamada shouted, knocking his chair
> over as he leaped up. "It's bad enough your coming in here to give me
> a hard time about my cooking, I'm not going to let you stand there and
> insult me in front of my guest and my friend!"
TOM: (as Hattori) Oh please, don't stop on *my* account!
> He clenched his fists,
> his eyes flashing.
CROW: Ahhh! He's about to fire his optic blasts! Duck! Duck!
MIKE: Crow, you've been watching waaayyy too much anime...
> Inomoto's lips skinned back from his teeth in a
> snarl, and as he set Hattori down with one arm, with the other he
> picked up a chair, hefting it with dangerous ease.
TOM: (in a Bruce Banner-like tone) Don't make me angry, Yamada-san. You
wouldn't like me when I'm angry...
>
> "Easy, gentlemen," Hattori interposed,
MIKE: ...now return to your corners and wait for the bell before you come
out fighting!
> and though his voice was soft,
> both men subsided into chairs, still glaring at each other. "Yamada,
> Inomoto-san and I met each other in France; he was in my class at the
> Sorbonne.
TOM: That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!
> Inomoto, Yamada-san and I were friends when we were
> children, before his family moved away. So both of you have equal
> claim on my acquaintance. Now, what is all this about?"
CROW: (as Yamada) Inomoto wants me to take down my Iron Chef fan site or
he'll sue me!
TOM: (interrupting as Inomoto) Hey, if Paramount can do it to Trek fans,
Fuji can do it to Iron Chef fans!
>
> "I say that I am a fine chef," Yamada said, jutting his chin forward
> defiantly, "and that there is no good reason for my restaurant not to
> be successful."
MIKE: Well, maybe the preponderance of fish innards has something to do
with it...
>
> "And I say," Inomoto retorted, "that there's nothing so special about
> his cooking that would make anyone want to come out of their way to
> eat it.
TOM: Maybe so, but it doesn't seem to stop Denny's from spreading like the plague.
> I say that I could do better, and that what Yamada needs is
> cooking lessons."
>
> Yamada sat quietly for a moment, a glint kindling in his eyes. "All
> right then," he said,
CROW: (in a Jim Carrey-like tone) Allll-righty then!
MIKE: (shaking his head) Crow, I don't think I want to imagine a
professional, Japanese chef talking out of his butt to Hattori.
CROW: Hey, if *that* doesn't bring in the customers, I don't know *what* will!
> "if you think you're the better chef, prove it.
> Hattori-san comes from a family of chefs and cuisine experts, he'll
> be the judge. Do you agree?"
>
> "Certainly I do!" Inomoto roared.
TOM: (as a bad, stilted, martial arts voice-over) You *bastard*! I
*alone* am supreme chef!
CROW: (joining in) Your Kung-Pao is too weak!
> "I have knives in my car, let me get
> them, and I'll show you a thing or two about cuisine.
MIKE: I dunno about you guys, but I don't think I'd let an angry chef with
no customers anywhere *near* a knife!
> I just hope you
> stock your kitchen better than you cook, or I'll have to show you how
> to shop as well!"
CROW: What?!! You shop at Cub instead of Rainbow?!! You dishonor this establishment!
>
> "Just a minute," Hattori interrupted. "I hate to throw cold water on
> you two cats, but I don't have all day to spend at this.
MIKE: (in a slurred, Sammy Davis Jr voice) You two crazy cats! Dean an'
th' Chairman are th' ones to decide this dispute; not me, babe...!
TOM: Uh, Mike? Isn't throwing water on cats a mixed metaphor?
CROW: Yeah, it'd just make 'em madder...!
MIKE: (still in Sammy Davis Jr. mode) Hey babe, it's interpretive... Go
with the flow!
CROW: Uh, right.
> I just came
> in for a bite to eat at an old friend's restaurant, not for a battle!
> I have an hour, maybe an hour and a half at the outside. Can you do
> it in an hour?"
TOM: Foreshadowing! Houston, we *have* foreshadowing!
>
> "We can do it," they replied simultaneously.
CROW/TOM: (singing ala Disney) We can do it, we can do it; we can help
our Cinder-rellie...!
MIKE: (nodding in approval) Nice unison singing, fellahs...
CROW: We've been practicing.
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
> He could see nothing but light.
TOM: Well, I guess *somebody* shouldn't stare into the sun then!
>
> There was a sense of space, as though he stood in one of the huge
> rooms of his house,
CROW: The fact that he was *standing* in one of the huge rooms of his
house probably had something to do with it...
> but all of those were dark, and this one was so
> bright that even when he covered his closed eyes with his hands, light
> seeped in.
MIKE: Cool! I can see my finger-bones!
> It was warm, and from somewhere came an amazing, delicious
> smell.
CROW: (in a dynamic, dog-like voice) Iiiit's *BACON*!
>
> Slowly, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he felt a sensation
> growing inside him, and he found himself trembling in every limb. What
> was this feeling?
MIKE: Hunger!
CROW: Goosebumps!
TOM: Palsy!
> Where was he?
MIKE: (in an Eddie Murphy old-folk's voice) It's cold in here an' I don'
know what time it is!
>
> He felt hot and cold by turns; he felt as though his heart might burst
> the bars of his ribcage and fly singing into the light as a hibari;
ALL: (stunned) Whoa!
CROW: This guy's got a chest-bursting, flying heart that sings?
MIKE: What's a 'hibari'?
TOM: I dunno, but if that's a metaphor, I'd say the drugs are finally
kicking in!
MIKE: For Kaga or the author?
TOM: Yes.
> he
> felt alive. His mouth watered and he was ravenously hungry. Something,
> somewhere nearby, smelled like the richest, most delectable food in
> the world, and he wanted it. He wanted it with a longing he hadn't
> felt in years.
MIKE: Proof that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
TOM: Yeah, but if all he's had to eat for a month is soup broth, a
*saltine* could get that kind of reaction...
> He turned around and around, scenting the air like an
> eager hound, trying to find the source of the smell, and set off in
> quest of it in the direction he thought most pleasantly fragrant.
CROW: (in a Scooby-doo-like tone) Rooby-Racks! Rhis Ray!**
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
> Hattori let Yamada fill his cup one last time; he eased himself back a
> bit from the table,
TOM: He un-fastened his belt, slid his hand under his waist-band and let
out a resounding belch...
MIKE: (nodding) Just like Uncle Earl at Thanksgiving.
> and found himself wishing for such a digestif as
> was customarily served everywhere, no matter how humble, when he had
> dined in France. Well, this last cup of tea would just have to do.
CROW: An un-humble cup of tea... Who'd've thunk it?
>
> He wiped his mouth while he considered the right things to say and the
> right ways in which to say them.
MIKE: (chuckling nervously as Hattori) Well, I've got some good news and
some bad news...
> It had been a fascinating hour,
> watching his friends create a banquet for one, out of whatever Yamada
> had lying around his kitchen --
TOM: ...garlic, kim-chee, Aunt Edna in a stupor by the pantry...
> not that it was meanly stocked, by any
> means. It had been a somewhat difficult time, the two men each trying
> to work around the other. There had been muttered (and not-so
> muttered) curses, and many near-accidents.
CROW: (angrily) You got your peanut butter on my chocolate!
TOM: You got your chocolate on my peanut butter!
>
> But at the end of the hour, Yamada had presented Hattori with four
> dishes, each one a microcosm of Japanese cuisine:
MIKE: Tofu, fish-innards, sake and seaweed.
> a scant bite or two
> of luxury sushi -- o-toro, amaebi, and a futomaki topped with big,
> gunpowder grey Beluga caviar instead of the more usual tobiko;
TOM: Yeah, in a restaurant *this* busy, I'm not surprised that he had
Beluga caviar, futomaki and amaebi just lyin' around.
> a filet
> of Bonito, grilled to perfection,
MIKE: (in a bad, feminine bimbo-like voice) Why, it has almost no fishy
smell at all! *giggle*
> served with a condiment of grated
> ginger and daikon and garnished with gobo slices cut into the shape of
> cherry blossom;
CROW: (ducking) Look out! It's another cherry blossom!
TOM: It could go off at any second!
> skewers of lightly broiled tofu, spread, some with
> miso ground with roasted sesame seeds and some with miso and the
> spring's last tender kinome leaves, then lightly broiled again;
TOM: (as a Monty Python pepperpot) Then, we have Miso, miso, miso, baked
beans and miso!
> and,
> finally, little Mochi cakes filled with azuki bean paste.
CROW: Hey, isn't that the name of that pink-duck critter from "Monster Rancher"?
MIKE: Hmmmm... Well, it *is* Japanese...
TOM: (aghast) Mocchi cakes?!! Noooooooo!!
>
> And Inomoto? He had outdone himself.
CROW: (enthusiastically) He made PBJ!
> As Hattori remembered him,
> Inomoto had always been the one who urged their little cadre of
> polyglot gourmands away from Paris to ever more remote reaches of
> Dijon and Provence, where it was anybody's guess whether or not
> there'd be even one person in the area who could understand high
> school-level French spoken in the accent of Paris by way of Kyoto, or
> Calcutta, or Canberra.
(The guys all gasp for breath!)
MIKE: Whew! Talk about narration!
CROW: Yeah, who cares about food; give the author the Reader's Digest
prize for longest sentence!
(after a pause...)
TOM: How do you ask "Do you have any Grey Poupon" in French with a
Japanese accent?
> His epicurean drive was obvious;
MIKE: But he rolled it on the Autobahn and had to settle for a Yugo.
> Hattori had
> never had any idea that Inomoto had been absorbing an education along
> with his Pate Maison aux Fines Herbes and his Truite au Bleu.
CROW/TOM: (confused) Hunh?
TOM: Something about Ralph Fiennes' brothers, Pete, Mason and Herb?
CROW: Or his sister-in-law Trudy Blue?
>
> Certainly the young man whose slapdash methods and careless seasoning
> had, in their own little excuse for a kitchen, earned him his nickname
> was nowhere in evidence this afternoon.
MIKE: Still, he wasn't called "Slappy" for nothin'...
> All his dishes had the same
> sort of coarse, hearty sense as the dishes that had been Inomoto's
> favorites in France, but with a Japanese twist,
CROW: They were served with chopsticks.
> so that his Tapénade
> -- ground in Yamada's suribachi -- contained fresh maguro, parboiled,
> and a pinch of wasabi powder instead of its usual dry mustard, sesame
> oil rather than olive, and gin-nan in place of the olives;
TOM: (in a dramatic tone) We can re-build this recipe. We can make it
better, stronger ... faster!
CROW: Smellier!
> his egg
> custard was sweetened with mirin but darkened with shavings of black
> truffle he'd just brought back from France
CROW: That doesn't sound too bad... Adding a chocolate truffle to custard
could be tasty.
MIKE: Crow, a truffle is the most expensive mushroom in the world. The
candy was named after the fungus.
CROW: (confused) You mean... He just added mushroom stubble to a custard?!!
MIKE: Well, it *is* a delicacy.
CROW: Ewwww! So's goose-liver pate, but you don't see me adding it to ice
cream, do you?
TOM: (shaking his head) Crow's just not a gourmand, Mike.
CROW: (to TOM) Well, if it means avoiding snails, sugared mushrooms and
bol-weevil surprise, I'm not missing much.
TOM: Philistine!
MIKE: (to CROW) "Bol-weevil surprise"?
> (Hattori recalled Inomoto
> always as something of a shiftless bohemian; what on earth was he
> working at nowadays, that he could afford flights to France and
> Perigord truffles?).
MIKE: (in a blase tone) Probably drug smuggling.
CROW: (nodding) Or weapons trafficking.
>
> He laid before Hattori a classical French omelet, made (he pointed
> out) according to Brillat-Savarin's recipe for a tuna omelet,
CROW: Name dropper...
> only
> with bonito rather than tuna and salmon roe rather than carp roe. He
> capped the meal with a truly astonishing presentation of vigorously
> grated ice --
TOM: (in a deep voice) We unveil -- the *ingredient*! Water!
> grousing the whole time about Yamada's deplorable lack
> of an ice shaver -- drizzled over with roasted pine nuts in a plum
> wine reduction with slivers of pickled ginger, decorated with a spray
> of cherry blossom.
CROW: Ahhh! They're spraying us with more cherry blossoms!
TOM: (traumatized) Oh, will the carnage never stop?!!
>
> Both sets of dishes had been delightful; but both had been so
> different. And now both men were looking to him, Inomoto eagerly,
> Yamada anxiously.
MIKE: Or was it Yamada who was eager and Inomoto who was anxious? Hattori
had a hard time differentiating the two emotions.
> Hattori picked up the cherry twig which was still on
> the table, and twirled it in his fingers to give them something to do
> while he thought.
TOM: He's playing with cherry blossom shrapnel!
CROW: He's a braver man than I...
>
> Suddenly, his fingers stopped dead. His heart leaped in him, and he
> stared at the budding sprig in wild surmise.
MIKE: Oh great. *Another* cardiac arrest! Get the defibrillator!
> A breeze ruffled the
> curtains over Yamada's door. He realized he was holding his breath.
TOM: (as a Yamada interior monologue) Would the poison work or would he
have to try another dish to rid his family of this ancient rival...?
>
> Hattori looked up into the expectant faces of his two friends, a great
> joy mixed with hope welling up in him. "I cannot judge between you,"
> he began, and then waited for their indignation to subside before he
> continued.
MIKE: Darn it! Where's Kishi when you need her?!!
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
> His eyes opened. He levered himself back upright. It was dark, his
> neck was stiff, and his face felt a little sore from resting on a
> crease in the newspaper.
TOM: (chuckling) In fact, you could say he was facing some serious
head-lines! *snicker*
(The other two groan.)
MIKE: Ok, Tom... Let's leave the puns to the professionals, Ok?
CROW: (to TOM) Geez! Warn us next time, Ok?
> But on his mind's tongue, the flavors of his
> dream lingered, and his actual mouth watered for them.
CROW: As opposed to his virtual mouth.
>
> He struggled up from his chair and mode his laborious way to the door.
> No doubt it was late -- he had no idea what time it actually was --
MIKE: It's gotta be dinner time *some*where!
> but surely there'd be something in the kitchen which he could eat just
> to take the edge off his hunger, whether or not it tasted like the
> food in his dream.
CROW: Heck, *catfood* would be preferable to months of soup broth! (he
gets up to go) Come on guys, I'm getting hungry...
>
>
> copyright ©1999, Leigh Ann Hussey
MIKE: (nodding to CROW) Yeah, Ms. Hussey really gave me an appetite!
TOM: Really? She's given *me* an idea...
(MIKE picks up TOM and follows CROW out of the theater.)
(.....1.....)
(.....2.....)
(.....3.....)
(.....4.....)
(.....5.....)
(.....6.....)
(SOL Interior. The set is mostly dark; the silhouettes of several large
boxes are in the background. Sitting on the console is a box covered by a
red cloth. MIKE walks on-camera in front of the console dressed in an
elaborate kimono, carrying a yellow bell-pepper.)
MIKE: (in a grave, dramatic tone) If memory serves me correctly, this
week on Satellite of Love Iron Chef, we have three new Chefs to do battle
with our new challenger. (he takes a bite out of the pepper, tries to
suppress a horrible look of distaste, and spits it out. coughing, he
stands back up and addresses the camera.) I summon, the Iron Chefs!
(The lights come up revealing Iron Chef-like alcoves into which rise CROW,
GYPSY and TOM. GYPSY just bobs into her alcove from behind. Each is
dressed ala the Iron Chefs; Crow in gold, Gypsy in silver and TOM in red.)
MIKE: (continuing in his dramatic tone) Iron Chef Velveeta is Crow T. Robot...
CROW: (holding a small box of Velveeta) Bite me.
MIKE: ...Iron Chef Cajun is Gypsy...
GYPSY: (a copy of Emeril Lagasse's "New New Orleans Cooking" is next to
her, in the alcove) He's still no Richard Basehart...
MIKE: ...and Iron Chef Roadkill is our ever-present, Tom Servo!
TOM: (holding a small, flattened squirrel with tire-treads on it) Thank
you! Thank you! I'm here all week!
MIKE: (nodding.) Very good. Since we don't actually have a guest this
week, we'll be seeing what each of you can do in competition with each
other... Now, we unveil ... THE INGREDIENT!!! (smiling, he pulls the
cloth off of the box on the console)
(We hear a fanfare from off-camera as the "Iron Chefs" look on into the
box that the camera cannot see into.)
MIKE: Today's ingredient is ... escargot!
CROW: Ewwww!
TOM: Geez, Mike! Why do you do this to us?
MIKE: Hunh?
GYPSY: Yeah, Mike... That's just gross!
MIKE: (sighing and putting the cloth back over the box) Well, if you guys
don't want to play "Iron Chef", what *do* you want to do?
CROW: I dunno, but I have to admit I find it surprising that cooking
competitions can be considered treatment for suicidal depression...
TOM: Yeah, I mean if we go by today's experiment, the American Society for
Psychiatric Medicine should start prescribing combat cooking arenas to
help people deal with their emotional problems...
MIKE: Guys, it's *just* a story!
GYPSY: I agree with Mike!
MIKE: Tom, Crow... "Iron Chef" isn't really about curing depression or
force-feeding snails on a diet of cherry blossoms; it's about fine
cuisine... It's about a pan-cultural exploration of gourmet techniques
and ingredients! It's about...
TOM: (interrupting) ...the Japanese fascination with game shows?
(The mads lights start flashing.)
MIKE: (shaking his head) I weep for the cynics of this world... (he taps
the lights and addresses the camera) Oh, and Pearl? You may still hate
us and everything, but we managed to scrape a few things and get you a
small gift on your harddrive...
(Castle. PEARL is looking surprised with a smile on her face, looking at
her computer.)
PEARL: (enthused) Why... You've downloaded a complete set of MP3s from
Eighties metal rock group, "Guns-n-Roses"! Why, Mike; how thoughtful of you...!
(In the distance, we can hear a booming sound as if someone knocking on
the castle door.)
VOICE: (shouting from off-camera) Allright, hackers! This is the
Department of Justice; open up or we're comin' in!
PEARL: (looking up with wide, startled eyes) Uh, just a minute...! (her
expression changes to one of rage as she glares at the camera) Very funny
nitwits; but next time you won't be laughing... I shall prevail! (she
starts laughing maniacally)
(BOBO dashes by in the background as the knocking continues.)
BOBO: I'll get it!
PEARL: Bobo! No!
(Fade to black.)
-----x-----
CREDITS:
Mystery Science Theater 3000 was created by Joel Hodgson.
This MiSTing is the mental work and suffering of David J Rust.
Dr. Forrester, Pearl Forrester, Brain Guy, The Observer, Professor Bobo,
TV's Frank, Joel Robinson, Mike Nelson, Crow T. Robot, Tom Servo, Gypsy,
Cambot, Magic Voice, Deep 13, the Satellite of Love and other specific
contents are copyright (c) 2000 (currently) of Best Brains, Incorporated
and is used without permission as an act of parody. All rights reserved.
Use of copyrighted and trademarked material is for entertainment and
parody purposes only and as an act of parody; no infringement on the
original copyrights or trademarks held by Leigh Ann Hussey, Fuji
International TV, the TV Food Network or Best Brains, Inc. is intended or
should be inferred.
**translation: Scooby-Snacks! This Way!
(Keep Circulating The Tapes)
> This is no different than
> catching snails in the park and putting them all on different diets...
K. A. Pezzano
<snip>
As an Iron Chef fan and an MST3K fan, I gotta say that this was one of
the funniest things I've ever read! Nice job!!
"Japan: Please reconsider cartoon gun-toting big-eyed
prepubescent blondes as your national heroes."
- Mystery Science Theater 3000
K. A. Pezzano - koko...@mindspring.com (remove spamblock
to reply)
www.mindspring.com/~kokopelli/