anyway, I don't really know why I wrote it, but what do you guys think? it's about two of my favourite chefs...
Some people like it cooked some people like raw. Who am I to judge? Even if it’s human flesh, even if it’s my flesh, who am i to judge? The dead have no right to judge. None.
Yes, maybe I was a chef, an artisan of the highest form of cuisine and culinary arts. And yes maybe I once had sixteen Michelin stars to my name, but that's a thing of the past. A story from when I was still alive. Most people, at least these people, don’t know me as anything else other than the guy who says a lot of ‘f’ words on TV. Well, I reckon ten years later, that’s all everyone will remember me by.
I shouldn’t have been so eager to show off, not to people preparing meat of the questionable kind, Especially not to people who were driving around that other chef’s car. The fat guy I hated. No finesse, messy cooking, too casual— far too many faults. I cussed him on TV a lot, Said he was fat, but all of that is a thing of the past. I’m sure he’s suffered the same fate earlier. The meat had a lot of fat.
I’m going inside the same stomachs he’s going, and I do not like that. But still, who am I to judge?