The Iron Chef

[Carthrat]

An angsty little piece I tossed together for school. I think it's decent!


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By Carthrat.

'The Iron Chef'.


Ferrosis, it was called. A rare condition that the origins of which were yet unknown to medical science. The condition affected the victim's skin, and was obvious to all who viewed him. It seeped through the pores of his body, giving him a shiny grey complexion.

The victims of the malady were few, and always set apart and alone. Those who were forced to look upon the iron complexion, the steely eyes; eyes that cried mercury tears in the dead of the night for the life they could no longer lead.

One of these victims was a chef. The Iron Chef, they called him. Contracting the disease had been, to him, a strange experience of ups and downs; a more emphasized representation of the bumpy road of life. The first reaction; shock, horror. Long hours spent staring at his hands, knowing the outside world would forever reject him.

Then the unexpected upturn; the joy of realizing a newfound ability. The illness did not seem a curse so much now. While he hid his face from the public eye, he continued to pursue what he loved the most. The fine art of preparing a meal; just the right amount of herbs, the perfect timing of the oven. And now, his skin rendered him able to withstand the heat of the cooking fires. To change the texture of a meal in progress. Small changes were often applied to the food, increasing the flavor by great leaps and bounds.

The small restaurant The Iron Chef worked at rapidly began to grow in size. The passion he placed into his cooking became well known. His identity, however, had to be kept secret. His coworkers advised him to let them take the credit for his brilliant work. The Iron Chef agreed to their request. Fame and fortune did not matter to him. It was enough that people could sample his dishes and that he could be absorbed in his work.

The owners grew rich and fat off his work. The food The Iron Chef made was plentiful, and in demand. The prices were raised, but the people kept coming. Until one fateful day...

It so happened that a single customer was afflicted with an illness that was traced back to the restaurant. Only a single waiter knew the cause of the illness. It was a meaningless accident that occurred on delivering the service to the patron. A trivial accident, surely, but one that was costly. The inquiry revealed the nature of The Iron Chef.

And none remembered the delicious meals they had partaken of. None remembered the joyful times, the happy place. Black clouds gathered in the minds of the people, and as one, they rallied against him.

The poisoning case was forgotten, but the hatred remained. Vengeful mobs sought out the lonely chef, pursuing him on one basis only; the colour of his skin. Those few who stopped to think about what they were doing were swept up in the wave of outrage. Logic knocked down by flaring blood.

The Iron Chef evaded the mob, but lost something more valuable than his life. The chilling realization of knowing that he would forever be judged by his skin had demolished his creative talent and passion of cookery. Never again could he prepare dishes for a crowd that would not taste his joy. Never again could he bring himself to gift a mob who spurn him.

In the cold rain at a grey city, he knelt down, and wept mercury tears. The cleansing water from the dusky sky washed over him. His skin began to turn to brown; his movements, once supple and lilting, became hard and unsure. Through his transformation, mercury tears spilled from his eyes.

Now, he is as still as a statute. A monument to human hatred of the uncertain, and the alien. All around him, it is said, no cooking can be done without