Cue tension building thematic music.

Close-up of the Chairman, a tall, lean man of Asian descent holding a crisp, clean yellow bell pepper. He clasps the vegetable tighter in his grip, bowing his head to its organic freshness.

Camera zooms out to reveal the immensity of Kitchen Stadium: stainless steel surfaces and endless kitchen gadgetry goodness.

The focus returns to the Chairman, spiffy in his designer suit, sporting…a lilac dress shirt and hot pink tie? Somehow it only accentuates the strong angles of his arresting face and the viewers' eyes are drawn to his lips as they over enunciate each word, "The time has come, once again, to answer Life's most savory question: Whose cuisine reigns supreme?"

Dramatic pause…

"This is Iron Chef America!"

The Chairman spins into one back flip… two…three, and lands, surefooted, on a platform at the front of the stadium. He stands at profile, looking svelte but warrior-y, fuchsia tie bedamned.

The camera cuts to Alton Brown. He stands behind his hub of operations, the glow of two computer monitors bouncing off his glasses. He is a middle-aged Caucasian man. Like the Chairman, he is also dressed to the nines, but in subdued blues and grays. His confident and endearingly pedantic voice rings out, "Good evening America, welcome to Kitchen Stadium. We promise you the crème de la crème of culinary combatants, and today we more than deliver. The Chairman welcomes our challenger, Count Hannibal Lecter VIII, though you may know him better under his published moniker, Dr. Hannibal Lecter!"

Cameras change and viewers see a long, brightly lit walkway weaving through the stadium. At the far end a figure emerges from a shadowed doorway. He is surprisingly…compact. No, not short! It wouldn't do to even think it. Clad in a white chef's tunic, the man of indeterminate age quickly traverses the walkway, the lens following his sure movements as a voice over from Brown is heard, "Dr. Lecter joins us today from his paradisiacal abode in Buenos Aires, though he has sharpened the blade of his epicurean influence around the globe. Known for his artistic blending of Old and New World dishes, his renowned cookbooks are international best sellers!"

Lecter arrives at the end of the walkway and stands before the Chairman.

Bowing, the Chairman states, "Chef Lecter, welcome."

Lecter returns the bow, "Thank you Chairman, it's a pleasure."

Nodding at his words, the Chairman continues, "Ah, but usually the wielder of weaponry, are you ready to be at the receiving end of the judges' cutting comments?"

A cruel grin of anticipation tilts one side of Lecter's mouth, and he says, "I am, Chairman."

"Very good! Tell me, which Iron Chef will tango with your vast culinary skill?"

"I only tango with my wife, and coincidently, she's the reason for my selection. I choose Iron Chef Bobby Flay."

"Wonderful choice. How did your wife influence your decision here today in Kitchen Stadium?"

"She's quite the fan, you see. She finds Flay endearing. Refers to his red hair as…sexy." Here Lecter's eyes narrow subtly and his grin expands, revealing sharp white teeth. "Yes. I choose Iron Chef Flay."

Fixated on Lecter's teeth, the Chairman's adam's apple clearly bobs as he swallows. Then, recovering, clears his throat. "Excellent! Now on to our secret ingredient!"

The two men walk side by side to a platform holding a stainless steel encasement embossed with the Iron Chef logo. Flay is there waiting.

Lecter and Flay exchange a look.

The Chairman walks around the platform and dramatically lifts his hands as wires from the ceiling pull the cover off of the immense table.

Arms spread wide, the Chairman bellows, "Today's secret ingredient is…" the camera pans to different angles showing a vast array of select cuts of meat spread artistically across the table; fog from dry ice swirls up and around the display as the thematic music builds, "FREE RANGE RUDE!"

Flay rubs his hands together, a good-natured grin on his face and he's nodding.

Pure glee is visible on Lecter's visage.

Somewhere in the background Alton Brown giggles maniacally.

The camera cuts to a close-up of the Chairman, who now has his hands clasped behind his back. "So now America, with an open heart and empty stomach, I say unto you in the words of my uncle," he pauses to lift his arm in a karate chop, and rapidly drops it, shouting, "A la cuisine!"

A digital timer appears in the bottom left corner of the screen. The chefs have one hour to create their masterpieces.

Moving swiftly, Lecter and Flay scoop up large armfuls of meat and head to their respective places in the kitchen.

There is a whirl of activity from both men, their sous chefs and assistants. Rapid chopping can be heard echoing off of wooden cutting boards and somewhere a blender is running. The camera zooms out to better capture the action and viewers hear another voice over from Brown, "The Battle of Free Range Rude is on here in Kitchen Stadium. Free range rude, of course, a product cultivated around the world, but particularly concentrated in urban settings. It looks like Chef Lecter has selected a poultry variety; a group that tends to be liberal with the birdie finger at traffic intersections and is putting them on crostini. Oh, and there in Iron Chef Flay's kitchen it looks like he is staying true to his Tex-Mex style. What appears to be a version of pozole is simmering in a stew pot." The camera switches from the kitchen to Brown at his computers. "Pozale, of course, an entirely appropriate dish to honor today's secret ingredient. More than five hundred years ago Aztec priests would sacrifice prisoners to the gods, ripping out their still beating hearts. The rest of the body would go into a communal pozale, a large stew, that would be distributed throughout the village." Brown's cheery voice ceases and the camera returns to the kitchen.

Close-up of Lecter nimbly dicing an onion.

Shot of Flay, who is uncharacteristically paused, studying Lecter.

The camera pulls away to show a long table seating one man and two women. Brown's voice again, "All right, it's time to meet our esteemed panel of judges. May I present to you Ahonui Alana of Hawaii, recently retired and newly a Wal-Mart greeter, not to mention all around appreciator of fine food."

Close-up of Ahonui. He's Polynesian and nearly eighty; deep grooves are etched around his eyes and mouth from a lifetime of laughter.

Ahonui's voice is pleasantly deep, "Thank you Alton, I'm honored to be here. And I've gotta tell you, I took up my job as a greeter after I realized my pension just wasn't gonna cut it. After the last month of dealing with the free range rude, especially the touristy, traveling variety, I'm more than ready to sink my teeth into these dishes."

"Very good to hear, thank you sir. Next up we have Rebecca O'Neal, a customer service representative for an unnamed cable television provider, as well as a self-proclaimed dessert goddess." The lens shows a round, blonde woman in her mid-thirties, with deep brown eyes and a penchant for lacy frills. "Rebecca, welcome to Kitchen Stadium."

Rebecca nods, a wide, jovial smile across her face. "Thank you, and like Ahonui here, I'm absolutely tickled pink to be here. Do you know some of the things folks say, just 'cause they're on the phone and don't have to look at you face to face? Oh yeah, bring on dinner."

There is a commotion in the background. A single high pitched squeal and then a thud as something heavy hits the kitchen tile.

The camera pans from Rebecca to the bustle in the kitchen.

Viewers hear a woman's voice, West Virginian drawl evident, say clearly, "Damn it Hannibal! Just 'cause I comment on a man's hair doesn't mean you have to scalp 'em."

There's a loud explosion. Perhaps a gunshot, and the screen goes black.

A/N~ No Iron Chefs were harmed in the making of this fic. :o)

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Thomas Harris and Food Network, 'cause they both rock.