Last Call
A Word: Ibid.
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I succesfully cooked a taquito with a lighter. Come save me.
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There's nothing that screams desperate quite like an empty kitchen. Desmond has a bottle of ketchup and some Chinese takeout boxes that've started going green on the outside and nothing else.
"Will you teach me how?" Kadar asks the second Desmond answers his phone. An entire world of morbid curiosity and horror in his voice. As an actual culinary chef -and why he chose to squander that degree in a bar is a story Desmond's never gotten out of the man before- frozen food holds a special place in Kadar's life. One that is part divine intervention and mostly utter disgust.
"Only if you promise to use the knowledge for good," Desmond says as he stares into the empty bag he'd found wedged in the deepest pit in his freezer mournfully. He doesn't remember buying them, but he doesn't remember a lot of things really. "And against your brother. You can use it on him as much as you want."
"My brother is not Satan, Des. Stop insulting him or I'll leave you to your miserable fate," Kadar says but Desmond hears the rustling of clothing, and knows he's going to be rescued and taken to where real food exists anyway.
Hopefully, Kadar's also in a good enough mood that it won't be some vegan/vegetarian/gluten/air food place too. The kind of place that has one good thing to eat and only Kadar knows it, but he refuses to tell Desmond what it is until afterwards. Because he thinks the faces Desmond makes are funny as hell.
"You keep telling yourself that," Desmond touches his Zippo carefully, testing its heat briefly, "but when he burns the world and rules supreme over all of us mere mortals I reserve the right to say I told you so."
"You're fucking ridiculous," Kadar snorts before Desmond is listening to dead air.
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