Rapid Fire Love

I opened the refrigerator door, old plastic containers brewing mean waste, a pizza box that was weeks old, bottles of mustard, ketchup, chiu chili oil all filled only to the base of their bottom, all awaiting that day when either Lola or I would throw them away. We were a cluttered couple, the dirty clothes were awaiting their own soiled demise but they have a limit, at some point they morph and bloom pincer bugs and worms to eat them away. Amidst all of the cryogenically maintained foods, from our gastronomical history, on the main shelf lay a Dead Goose, a dead Goose. A Starch White Goose!

I yelled at Lola who was in the other room wasting away in anger, this because we had just brewed another argument that were getting easier to repeat by the day, “What is this feathered Goose doing in our refrigerator?”

Lola scurrile yelled back, rancorously scratching her voice as she did, “I am going to cook Goose on Saturday, Victoria and Robert are coming over for dinner and I don’t care if you are there!”

She did not need to add that last comment of course I would be there. We had not called off our irritating relationship, we were still a couple, and she was still a terrible cook. All this only served to make me curious about Goose and Saturday night. Victoria and Robert were two of our funkiest friends, Opera buffs and connoisseurs of expensive wines. Dinner at their house was always an exquisite perfection so it was dangerous to cook for them and it was dangerous to go out to dinner with them. Victoria was known to make chefs and waiters squirm, male emasculation for her was a liberal practice. Robert was her opposite, a nice guy, how he ended up with such a bitch is a universal mystery; tragically, as a couple, they are now incubators for everyone else’s bad luck.

Seeing Goose in the refrigerator allowed me to forget my anger and instead warmly recollect why I had fallen in love with Lola. Lola was an enervating nerve ending at the bottom of her own sole, walking around disguised as a woman and every second dying to explode. Such reckless passion was a formidable attraction for a man such as I — that spends his life planning and never executing an infinite number of master plans that were eternally on the verge of being perfected. Lola had but only one plan, to have a nervous breakdown, to be dangerous, to be sick, to have a massive illness and nasty down on her unique set of depressions. This was like cohabiting with The Cold War, at any second the world would explode and you were her hostage. Most wonderfully amazing it was that, while Lola was Neutron Bomb Lola, it was me, me that was the Atomic trigger. Yes, Lola was set to go off but it would be my fault if she went off. And I don’t need to tell you how insensitive we men are, we are very insensitive. The cold war got colder -there wasn't any intimacy.

Because of all those loose passions there were plenty of times that I avoided going home so as to shelter my emotions and practice exoskeleton building distractions. My hands to my head, a Martini calling my name and a distastefully bitter olive asking me to eat her. I was in love with Bombay Gin so I took the olive out and threw her at a man that must have thought I was crazy like Lola and not crazy because of Lola. I don’t know if you can love your captor, there have been many cases of male prisoners falling in love with their female guards, but you don’t have to swim too far to figure out why a prisoner might find a female or for that matter male guard attractive. Love is an escapist art. Lola had me emotionally hostage to her rollercoaster and it was all my fault.

In a sense Lola was The primal scream of my life. I never had to yell at anyone because Lola was able to tell everyone off in any furious direction ensuring that we would all repel each other. Lola was not a phenomenally attractive woman. She was pretty in her own way but not pretty. This is why I held it to be true that an applied force creates an equal and opposite force. Lola, by fatally repelling the world was causing an equally fatal attraction towards herself. I did not know why I was still with her so it had to be this force thing or maybe Goose on Saturday sounded good.

I went to work. I was managing a restaurant; strictly a temporary job until I perfected one of my master plans. Why all of my peers could see that I did not belong there, true they all thought that they did not belong there either, but there was something special about me, I had a master plan.

Restaurant work is the best! Everyone working in a restaurant knows that they are losers; you will not catch then telling you: “Yes this is what I have always wanted to be.” Bankers, brokers, doctors and lawyers they all act as if they are doing what they always wanted to do but not restaurant workers, never. There is something humbling about working for tips in an obvious manner, brokers work for tips too, so do politicians and salesmen, technically everyone does but restaurant workers beg for their tips. “May I take your order please?” Translates to, “Please may I take your insults?” Or “Let me feel you superior nature while you chow down on our grub.” I was the restaurant manager, which means that, of all the employees, I was the most overworked and underpaid.

Being the manager had its privileges. I could, at the end of the day, account for most of the money. I could fuck with peoples schedules so as to make them love me or hate me. I could give away free dinners to all of my friends, though Victoria and Robert would never be seen at my restaurant. And there were terrible sides to it too, missing cooks had to be replaced by me. I was a terrible cook so when that eventuated I would swash and scramble things around to make them look unrecognizably sophisticated; which is why, I suspect, customers never complained about my cooking, because of its uniqueness, they did not know if they were suppose to like it or not.

The worst thing about restaurant work is cleaning restrooms and doing the freezer inventory. If there is any evidence of how backward our civilization is, it’s in the fact that we have to clean restrooms. Humans originally roamed in the wild and thus did their shitting wherever they might have happened to be. This is why it is so difficult for these roaming assholes to get their shit and urine right into toilets and urinals. They miss all the time, it is amazing how inaccurate they can be even as they try; and then there are those that do not want to get it right, instead they want to send a DNA message through every other asshole that sits on that particular toilet. One day you walk into the restroom and before you there is an industrial size sculpture that someone has managed to erupt, magnificent in its repugnance and you have to clean it up, and you have to clean it up; that is the horror!

And then there is freezer inventory. You have to go inside of this huge freezer, which has an axe inside just in case you get locked in, not very encouraging. You have to the job of counting all of the roast beef, all the pork butts, all the honeyed ham, all the sausages, all the prime ribs, and you know something when meat is deep frozen like that it looks scary, blotchy red-dark, calcified with fat and purpled-cold; and it hurts you so much to touch it that you want to take an axe to it; only it is so damn solid it is only going to hurt you more, so you don’t. Instead you witness your frustrated breath belching out in a questionable attempt to keep you warm while the sauces and salads and dairy products await your indispensable ability to count and FIFO arrange things. By the time you finish your freezer and cooler inventory the last thing you want to do is be around food and well, there you are.

On this day however there was no freezer inventory, no big bosses coming around so as to prove their existence, no ordering to be done and it was a slow traffic day, only few customers so it was all nice and quiet. I sat at the edge of the bar, our most profitable center, chatting with Geoff our highly intellectual bartender. Geoff was not just an intellectual he was also a superb athletic masterpiece. He participated in He-Man events like triathlons and Alpine bike races. One day, while lighting the restaurant’s glass fireplace, an action that required one to lean forward over the caldron area while bending the knees, and slightly twisting one’s torso as one searched upwards with one’s left hand, our beloved Geoff almost collapsed into this blaze that he had started. Fortunately Geoff’s gifted athletic prowess managed react quickly to recover him and instead turned the incident into a permanent back injury.

The result was not just back pain for there was pride to be had from this incident. Geoff, explaining to me the complexities of a highly tuned muscular body, paraphrasing words spoken by his doctor noted as follows: “An average torso, under the same circumstances, would have collapsed and suffered minor injury but because my torso is, muscularly, highly tuned my muscles overreacted. Sensing perilous disaster they quickly exerted a well trained reflexive reaction so as to recover and instead caused an incongruent, differential ligament straining throughout from the left side of my lower back towards the top right side. In the process this reaction tore ligaments and fractured my vertebrate.”

In other words Geoff’s body was too sophisticated, geared to respond to severe situations, such as ever perilous mountain climbing or endurance biking, in the recovery process it overreacted and ripped itself apart. The distance one places between averageness and one’s self is not without its dangers.

Geoff was always teaching me wholly useless things like that. There was for instance a time when someone was stealing money from our cash register and Geoff argued that, “…management can be sued for making it too easy to access the cash register.” Yes, Geoff believed that to passively cause temptation was a crime.

That is how we chatted away the infamies and consulted each other on how to best handle this or that piece of gossip, person or situation. Geoff’s final advice, on any of my predicaments with higher-ups, was always good and equally untenable. He would lean into me whispering the final solution: “Well if he bugs you so much I tell you what we can do, tonight you and I follow him home and kill him.” While I never took him up on the offer the truth was that there had been many managers, directors and many more servers that had come and gone, but Geoff had stayed put for eons.

While drinking my Martini along come these two women, both a bit average in their own very different way and we make conversation with them. For some strange reason I found myself unusually attracted to the uglier one of the two. Maybe I wasn’t feeling lucky, maybe I just want it a sure shot, maybe we were soul mates, I doubt all of those reasons, all I know is that for some strange reason I really liked her; her name was Carrie.

Carrie and I strolled outside through a dark night. There were lots of tourists everywhere so we went to a balcony that was hidden from view and talked about petty things. Carrie had a child but she was not dating anyone, and to be truthful I don’t know if I was dating Lola, we were abstinent lovers, twirling knifes at each other and not as members of a circus, one of us ought to end dead. I did not molest myself with explaining my relationship with Lola to Carrie, she did not ask about it and it wasn’t like Carrie and I were sexually attracted towards one another; I sensed that we were just feeling an emptiness that was ours to share. At some uneventful point in the evening Carrie and I ended up kissing each other but only once. Again it wasn’t like we were dying to do that, it just happened that way and it tasted like a perfect pot sticker. Then we parted company and we didn’t bother to exchange phone numbers.

I get back home late, past midnight, and Lola is still awake, naked, sitting on the bed crying. She had been nurturing, into existence, many tears and she was now a marathon weeping body. A bath of tears was not unusual, I was into spiritual crying myself, occasionally once every six months I would just cry for no reason at all; hey that is good for you, you don’t have to know why, I don’t have to know why. I asked her if she was OK while holding back possible guilt equally wondering if someone had seen me kiss Carrie and had snitched to Lola.

“Lola, what’s wrong honey?”

She began to ambitiously cry while scraping her hands to her face she said: “I can’t cook Goose…” her voice quivering, “…I can’t cook Goose.”

I said, “Is there something wrong with Goose?”

She was too busy crying to respond so I went to the refrigerator and opened the door. The light from within flooded the darkness outside as I looked at Goose — and granted she was dead but she looked ok to me. I went back into the bedroom thinking that maybe Lola was put off because of her unrealistic cooking talents, or maybe, as was her usual manner, Victoria had wanted to avoid the entire evening and had called to cancel.

“Honey, what is wrong?”

She quieted a bit, intermittently sobbing and responded, “I can’t cook Goose she’s an Aries.”

My eyes dashed to the ceiling to see what I was missing here as if expressing “Oh dear me.” Carrie then repeated herself, “Our Goose is an Aries — I can’t cook a Goose that is the same sign as you are.”

Well there you go she did love me, the god damned Goose was an Aries, I am an Aries. I said, “But honey that doesn’t matter…”

She interrupts me… “You’re so insensitive sure it matters, I don’t want to eat a dead Goose that is the same sign as you are — why that would be the same as killing and eating you! But I bet for sure that if Goose were a Libra, like me, that you wouldn’t care and you would eat it anyways.” Sobbing away.

“But, but Lola honey please, how do you know it is an Aries maybe it is something else?”

“No, no, I know it, I called the Goose Man who sold it to me and he knows a lot about Astrology and we counted back to Goose’s hatching day and hour and she is definitely an Aries.”

Come to find out that this guy is a fanatic about horoscopes and that he has a peculiar preference for Geese that are born Taurus, Aries and Leos and the one he sold us just happened to be an Aries and he won’t take it back because he can’t exchange meat. So we can’t get a Goose that is at least a Leo which neither one of us are.

At some point in the night, not as concerned with Goose as Lola was, I went to sleep while she stayed awake staring at my abominable insensitivity. The next morning Lola went to work and I took Goose out of the refrigerator just so that I could look at a fellow Aries. She was a good looking Goose, oh you just have to imagine how many geographies she visited, how many fishes she devoured, how many little Goslings were running around with her DNA. All imagination fades when you find out she was raised in captivity. Hard to keep us Rams in captivity — sooner better dead. I talked to Goose thinking maybe we could somehow change her sign. I went as far as calling the Geese Man to see if he would cooperate with a horoscope sign change but he was too ethical to try to deceive Lola and recalculate the hatched date of my fellow Goose.

I went to work considering that we ought to cancel Saturday’s dinner or else substitute Goose for Colombian Chicken Salad or Pasta Primavera. I drank White Russians wishing that Carrie, the woman whose kisses tasted like pot stickers, would show up and drive through a long desert road with me. This was Wednesday. The same thing happened on Thursday and Friday and Goose was still dead in our refrigerator.

Saturday morning, Lola was sleeping late I went for coffee and to read the headlines. Stocks were plummeting, revolutions and murders were priming themselves everywhere so I tossed the paper aside and just tasted my coffee. Don’t ask me why but the coffee started to taste like a pot sticker kiss — and I begun to suck kiss my coffee and the heat was moisturizing my lips, till it just felt better than that pot sticker kiss from Carrie. Remembering Carrie I suddenly just wanted to kiss her again, maybe so as to accentuate the difference between my coffee and pot sticker kisses. While trying to perform that imaginative trick, kissing away every sip of my tongue — licking coffee just to ascertain why pot stickers could taste like a kiss and a kiss like a pot sticker, — mushy, semi indifferent, you are going to eat me, you are going to kiss me, I don’t really mind if you want to kiss me, I sort of want you to kiss me too, and I shall well follow the perfunctory actions that are required here, move my lips, tangle my tongue with yours, attempt to feel sensual about the moment when in reality, I just really like you and don’t really need to kiss you.

I Am there feeling all this out, still preferring a kiss from my coffee when a voice at another table interrupts me. “Hey, hey aren’t you the guy that was with Carrie the other night?”

I turn and realizing it was Carrie’s companion from that night I acted as surprised as I indeed was, and responded: “Yeah, how are you?”

Without responding she rushes to my table, grabs herself a seat and angled-wobbled on it as if she could not sit still, and says: “Did you hear what happened to Carrie? Did you hear?”

I frowned creating a labyrinth of doubtful looks, “No, what is it, is she ok?”

“Well, after she left you that night, going home, she was driving a bit drunk and lost control of the car, off into a ravine she went, they did not spot the car till morning; she bled to death.”

Without waiting for my response she followed that with: “I am sorry I have to get going now, bye.”

I went home despondently wishing the whole earth to end my kiss of death.

When I arrived home Goose was already in the oven, baking at 320 degrees, its hotter in the center of the Sun, colder in the North Pole. Lola came to welcome me at the door and she looked like she had been cleaning for Queen Victoria’s arrival; I hugged her, she embraced me and gave me a big smile then said, “It’s going to be a great dinner!”

I kissed her and went into the room so as to shower and change. Aries Goose finely smelled up the place. Lola was playing lively tunes and had drawn aside all the curtains so Sun could shine on our happiness. Coming out of the shower Lola greeted me with a white towel in hand and helped me to dry my back and said, “You know I think with the leftovers from Goose I am going to be able to make you a wonderful Goose soup.”

I thought at that point of asking how she had resolved baking my fellow Aries but I did not want to deal with the possible outbreak instead I anointed the soup idea.

Both Victoria and Robert were their usually properly boring selves. We discussed all the latest movies, Victoria listing in detail which directors had done what and noting their individual styles and backgrounds. She was the equivalent of a Baseball fanatic, oh but she hated sports because they are so inane; baseball card collectors could not be as sophisticated as movie buffs.

Robert had a butterfly collection, he talked about that, there is probably a name for butterfly collectors; I don’t remember it, as far as I am concerned they are the same as stamp collectors. I had however always been fascinated by some butterflies that did not have to eat their entire lives and lived only to fly, pollinate and then to die, no Goose meals in-between. Robert did not seem to know which particular butterfly I was talking about, maybe it didn’t exist. We discussed how lots of butterflies only live a few days, hours, whatever. How long do you really need to live to watch the same old Sun and the same old Moon avoid each other? I do admit to being enamored with Monarch butterflies that fly from Mexico to California, most welcome migrants that flourish the tourist trade so there are a lot of, commercially viable, Monarch butterfly parades.

Interrupt, Lola got a little upset when I told her that I could not eat any Goose, my stomach was upset, it wasn't a lie.

Both Robert and Victoria praised the Goose, praised the soup idea, praised Lola; she was ecstatic with joy, and once gone, Lola plummeted into the couch into a ravine sleep.

I called Peter our Chef, it was 11pm. “What are you doing calling me at this hour!”

“I was just wondering what you would think if we added pot stickers to the menu?”

“Pot stickers to the menu! What! Are you crazy? There is nothing in our cuisine that compliments pot stickers. We are not Chinese you idiot, we are a blackened, or mostly not blackened steak and potato house. All of our customers are over the age of fifty, they don’t like pot stickers, they don’t eat pot stickers and they don’t even know what pot stickers are!”

Peter didn't like me. He earned a higher salary than I did for He was the Chef. All chefs think of themselves as kings and what they really are is miniature kings; rulers of Serfdom Land. Every restaurant is their castle. Peter, the cook, ordered me around. He had made a name for himself by creating an award winning potato dish with a special sauce. Someday, in the near future, people would be eating his stupid potato dish out of an instant carton meal-box but at that moment he was the only one that knew how to prepare it. It tasted like potatoes doused in hollandaise sauce to me, but I don’t know about those things.

Having used up all of my influence with Peter I went to the library and searched for pot sticker recipes. A pot sticker is not that complicated of a thing, you wouldn’t imagine it but there are more recipes for these things than there are for hamburgers. I wanted to perfect pot sticker making but I wasn’t a great cook. I decided to meander through the Chinese joints in China town in search of pot stickers.

One week later my boss asked me into his office. Bottles of expensive wine everywhere, he fancied himself Bacchus, he was appropriately fat and more a roaring pig than Bacchus may have been. My boss questioned me: “Peter tells me that you want to add pot stickers to the menu, is that true?”

I peevishly respond “Yes…but..”

Boss interference: “…and what is this that you have been leaving early to go into china town? What business do we have in china town? Is your heart in your job? Are things alright at home?”

I was forced to resign. That bastard Peter he never liked me and the wait-staff did not like me either. Mostly they did not like me because I did not do anything nor did I tell them what to do, which people really need. The staff had officially complained to human resources noting that I provided no direction. I don’t know how much direction a restaurant really requires, specially a steak house, not much you can do with that.

Lola could not believe that I had resigned. I told her not to worry that I was working on my master plan, whatever that was but instead I spent my days hunting down the perfect pot sticker. A couple of acquaintances directed me to places that they were certain had the perfect pot sticker, but at neither place did the pot stickers taste like that kiss of death. Reaching nothing but dead end after dead end, I felt that I was cornered into learning how to make the perfect pot sticker myself. Much to Lola’s consternation I got a job at a Chinese restaurant and there I would spy the methods of the masters. I was the only one that was not Chinese, I was the only one that spoke English, I never tried to correct the spellings on the menu, I always used numbers when ordering and I bowed my head a lot; those simple acts won me their acceptance.

I did the soups, not much to do there, you just add noodles, cabbage, peapods, ginger, celery, onions, etc… …add this add that, boil, add salt, add pepper, boil, and re-boil and you never stop boiling, it is steam room ten hour facial; one after the other — cauldron after cauldron, doing my time so that I could get to the perfect pot sticker, thinking to myself… “…one amongst these people must have admission to the divine pot sticker kiss.”

A very old woman, called by some Tzu His, a name that meant nothing to me, was remotely the nicest of the group; all the rest did not want me there but Tzu stood by me with mindful assistance always offering extra spices and extra herbs, occasionally gently urging me with grouchy menace, she would not say anything, she just gave me this very quiet push, her teeth all gone, her lips curling inwardly she could not much manifest more than that. I was happy that she sort of took me under her crabby care, and I expressed it by occasionally caressing her shoulder all so marvelously without words or meanings.

One day I was moved to the crab boiling pot. I had boiled all the herbs, vegetables and roots that the land and sea had produced, even done in a lot of shrimp, all boiled in my endless boiling pots. Shrimp are ugly, very ugly. I used to eat them all the time sautéed in garlic buttered cilantro yummy but once you see them alive and walking, forget it — you become aware of their inedibleness; Geoff used to call them “The cockroaches of the sea.” My experience boiling now qualified me for the higher crustaceans’ species, Crabs. Those creatures that have one tentacle claw longer than the other, lack of symmetry problems, a formidable right tendency. I don’t know much about crabs, I did not eat crab meat, too much work, and while the whole world seems enamored with crab cakes — every recipe I ever saw and tasted for those things was Yuk! And crab salads too, use imitation crab or real crab Yuk! either way. In Spain, home of my most favorite dish, Paella, they serve it with a Crab that is used as garnish. The Crab sits staring at you all throughout your dinner, sitting there on your plate — that is wrong. That is why we South Americans had to break with Spain. Anyway those crabs are just too much work to eat but boiling them was now my new job. I left the toothless Chinese lady all by herself boiling noodles away.

A very diligent, skinny and energetic fellow took over my charge. He said his name was Fong, I don’t know if that was his first name or his last name, or where in China he was from, he never tried to laugh with me, he never sparked an emotional connection to my being — I was just someone there to help him with the Crabs so he could smoke more cigarettes.

My first lesson from Fong was in tying the Crab’s menacing Claw. You get these Crabs and they don’t look deadly, but Fong explains with gestures, sort of saying: “Very, very dangerous these claws, you be very but very careful with Crab you hear? Now …grab here, like this, and then clamp claw shut, like this, and then toss the Crab back on top of all the others, so they can be uncomfortable, and fully miserable, right up until we boil them, ok, ok.”

Life is hard even for crabs. It was for me difficult to make sense out of Fong’s gestures, specially for a fellow as verbal as myself, but I managed, if only through intuition to get the idea, clamp the claw, let the thing live as long as possible before eating, then boil it alive just like a vegetable.

I had heard that Lobsters make a shrieking sound when they are discharged into boiling water. Butter, lots of butter eliminates those shrieking echoes but I wasn’t expecting the same from exoskeleton armored Crabs. I tell you true that those Crabs, all of the ones I tossed into the boiling pots, substantiated a hideous piercing shrieking that brought many an army of Crab nightmares to my dreams. And you just can’t kill them fast enough but you just have to keep on killing them as fast as you can so humans can gobble them up. And you can’t expect beady eyed crabs to love you, and you can’t expect to out survive them for there are more Crabs than there are people like you so you and I will die before we boil all the Crabs.

It was with this weary knowledge that I followed safety standards and made sure to keep the Crabs at a fair distance while clamping their menacing claws. They would stand on the wet ground, I would bend over and while they were looking intently into my eyes I would grab them from behind and snap the clamp on. It’s not like those things can fly yet there were stories of crab clampers that had fallen victim to the Crabbing menaces and this before reaching their retirement plans. Jostling his finger at me Fong, threading similarly black beady eyes himself, would motion: “You just better be careful, they are swift and shifty creatures of the sea.” Then he would turn away to smoke his cigarette.

I had never seen any Crabs running, maybe on the bottom of the sea they could clock a decent kilometer, but here on concrete that exoskeleton could not possibly help them any; I smirked a little at Fong, but he did not move his beady eyes.

Lola was on the verge of leaving me because she wanted me to get a real job, she did not believe Crab Executioner Maximums, at minimum wage per hour, had much of a future. She wasted much effort on trying to get me to quit but I was after a recipe here, so I stuck it out and Lola was boiling to get out.

Then one day, I managed to sit during a break next to my dear old Chinese lady Tzu His, and so I ventured to ask her if she knew a really good recipe for pot stickers. Oh her eyes lit up like a diamond dragon, “Pot stickers!” She knew pot stickers! Because of her age she could not get a job anywhere else so she was just doing time in this joint. It became obvious to me that her vegetable boiling was only a side job, her true and secret talents were her magical pot stickers. I asked her for the recipe but her revolt was absolute, more or less gesturing, “Oh no mister, no mister, won’t give my recipe to no one, go to my grave with it, this world isn’t good enough for my pot stickers.”

Behold the miracle, I had stumbled upon the divine pot sticker Chef and she was not willing to share her secrets because she thought this world not good enough. Where else might they make pot stickers like hers? Yet I understood her, there are precious things that one ought to never ever give away; I then carefully nurtured our relationship — easing here and there the idea that I needed to have just one, one of her devine pot stickers. Then one day, Tzu gesturing, “Ok, ok I make for you, but you no tell nobody, you no try to make, you just taste, taste one, one only!” Her cursive finger raised “One, only one!” to me it meant one kiss. I fervently agreed.

Not three days later she came to me while I was clamping crabs, not three days later, she halted me and handed me a foil paper wrap holding no more than just one, one, singular pot sticker. Then she went away, ushering her hands and making frowning faces in such away as if saying “Now go away, leave me alone, leave me alone!”

I held the moist and tender beauty within my palms while forgetting about the unclamped crabs on the wet concrete floor. I stepped aside and took a daring bite, oh what a gentle kiss my lips did feel dash deeply through them, a moist tender moment, I don’t explain the taste, I don’t know what condiments adorned this succulent delight, what ingredients composed such an edifice of joy, I just wished to slosh pot sticker flesh in my mouth eternal, and not to let it wander down my deep esophagus ravine; ecstasy! Look me to sky above and heaven I could palpably touch, and then, all the foil paper in my hand but only empty.

Fong, seeing that I was not cooking angrily gestured for me to get back to my work. I nodded my dazed dangling head many times, “Yes, yes, yes,” back to work it was when there laid a big crab just below me, I went carelessly to lift Crab from the wet concrete floor — but beady-eye Crab swiftly reached for my neck before I could grab and clamp his enduring claw; Crab’s claw rapaciously unleashed around my Adams-apple, smack front of my neck thus clamping hard down on my neck — crab was seeking to extract divine pot sticker; I fought and struggled to jerk Crab’s claw off of me, but it was not to be, asphyxiated, dangling from this Crab, I crashed dead into the wettest ground.

If everything is attacking you - you are in enemy territory.