3-Omelets and An Evil Bitch

3

  Omelets and an evil Bitch.

The smell was heavenly.  Hank’s eyes slowly came open and he took in the beautiful morning.  He smiled and rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxer shorts.  He walked out of the bedroom and called down the stairs ahead of him.  “Damn that smells good, Maggie.”

He slowly plodded down the stairs scratching his head through the messy brown hair.  Hank had gotten laid the night before by Maggie, his partner in crime and a true professional in the sack.  Top that with the fact that within 48 hours, they were going to be very rich.  And now, the hot porn star in the bed last night was in the kitchen creating whatever it was that had birthed that God-like smell.

Hank was a happy man.  Of course, he was totally wrong about almost everything, but for the following twelve seconds that it took him to move from the bedroom down the stairs and into the kitchen, he was a happy man.

Hank turned the corner to his kitchen and his face dropped.  Standing in front of him was not the naked woman of his dreams, but instead, a man; a man standing about 5 feet, ten inches, with neat, clean, short hair and the angled nose of a British born.  He had been wearing a business suit, but the coat was removed, folded and placed over a chair.  The sleeves of his white under shirt folded up to make the task at hand easier.

He was the one cooking.

Hank frowned and began to yell. “Who the fuck are-“

Hank stopped talking as the man snapped out his right hand to the handle of a gun and raised it to point at Hank’s head.  The gun looked like a Berretta 9mm that had been bit by a radioactive machine gun and gained its powers.

Needless to say, Hank was no longer a happy man.

The cook smiled suddenly, a very wide and inviting smile.  He then spoke, his British accent making him sound even more mannerly then he was trying to be, “Ah, Mr. Tomec.  Can I call you Hank?”

Hank stared down the barrel of the gun and slowly nodded.

“Wonderful!”  The Cook was excited by this.  “Now, please have a seat.”

Hank slowly moved to the breakfast table and sat down, watching the man and his gun. After he sat down, the Englishman put the gun back on the counter and retightened the black leather driving gloves which he wore on both hands.

“Now,” the Cook began to speak as he went back to finishing his project, “I would assume, that given the current situation, coupled with the actions you took yesterday, that with your powers of deduction you have figured out what I do for a living?”

Hank was quiet at first, not sure if he should answer the small man with the gun and the spatula, “You're… you’re a hit man.”

“Well done.,” the cook complemented, smiling.  “Now that I am sure you understand that, I am going to tell you a story.  This story will be followed by a question, after which you and I will reassess and decide the best way to proceed with our business.  Understand?”

Hank nodded.

“Good,” the cook said, as he moved to a different pan and began to flip pancakes. “I am, without a doubt, a very good hit man, as to say I kill other people.  And I do it very well.  I am aware that is a rather cliché opening to this story but bear with me.  It does become much more interesting.  You see, when I began my career I was in the military.  After that, Her Majesty’s secret service, and when I was with these organizations, I had no problem killing because I was a patriot.  Still am, in fact.  God save the queen and all that.”

The cook chuckled and Hank stared in confused awe at the man in front of him.

“Yes, well,” the cook continued as he returned to his first pan of hash browns.  “In any case, things happened and I found myself no longer in the good graces of the Monarch Supreme, with nothing left but these skills of a rather appalling, violent nature.  So, suffice to say, I had a crisis of self, much to my dismay.  I had a hard time killing someone without the beautiful justification of patriotism.  Do you understand?”

Hank considered if he should answer or not.  “You didn’t like killing people for no reason.”

The cook made a sound of happy amusement.  “Well, there it is, isn’t it?  That’s what I love about you, Americans, you just trim everything down to brass tacks.  No lousing it up or beating around the bush, so to say.  Such a direct use of the language we have created.”

The cook looked up at the cupboards then back to Hank, “Plates?”

Hank pointed at a cupboard and the cook pulled out a plate.  With practiced skill and speed he prepared the plate with hash browns and an omelet and two silver-dollar pancakes.  He then turned and brought the plate in one hand and the gun in the other to the table and placed the food in front of Hank.  Even given the situation, Hank could only think about how amazing the food smelled.

“Please,” said the cook as he handed Hank a fork and motioned toward the plate with his hand.

Hank took the fork and stared, unsure of what he should do.

The cook sighed.  “I brought the gun for a reason, Hank, and beside, poisons would change the favor index.”

Hank slowly put the fork into the omelet and broke a piece away, his eyes never leaving the cook who just stared back smiling anxiously.  He then speared the segment and slowly lifted it to his mouth.

The food was amazing.  Hank had never tasted anything like it.  His face curled uncontrollably into a smile.

“Pretty good, eh?” the cook said.  Hank could only nod as he dove in.  Each flavor better than the last, the pancakes were fluffy and light with a hint of cinnamon that dragged him to continue.  The hash browns were perfectly crisp and not over cooked.  The omelet was cooked to perfection and the inside filling had been pre-sautéed.

The cook just watched with a smile as Hank ate until he was about half way through the meal.  “To continue, in any case, I had to find some way to ease my troubled state of mind over the killing and finally, I came upon it.”

Hank nodded as he shoveled the delicious food into his mouth.

“So I decided to cook for them.” The cook finished as he sat there smiling waiting for it to sink in.

Hank’s eating suddenly slowed.  He looked up into the ace of the harbinger of his doom as he swallowed.  He put the fork down, his appetite suddenly gone.  The cook continued to smile, warm and inviting.

The cook continued, once he had regained Hank’s full attention.  “When I am researching the job, I also research their favorite meals and eating habits.  I only got the order yesterday for you, so needless to say, I was worried.  I am glad you enjoyed it, though.  Well this concludes the first part of our business, now on to the second and most important.”

The cook took a deep breath, tightened his gloves, and picked up his gun.  He pointed it to Hank’s forehead.  Hank’s face went white with fear.

“Where is the thumb drive?”

Hank stammered, “Up-stairs in the bedroom.  In a shoe box in the ventilation shaft.”

The cook dropped the gun and smiled.  “Well that is wonderful, I have to say Hank, not always do I have such cooperative marks.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?”  Hank asked, starting to relax.

The cook raised his eyebrow.  “Silly boy.  You really think they paid me to cook for you?”

A look of realization came over Hank’s face.  The cook then raised the gun and pumped two - three round bursts into his chest and head.  The cook then lowered the gun to his side and reached out to feel for Hank’s pulse.  Nothing.

The cook turned and moved with efficiency and purpose up the stairs to the bedroom then to the ventilation cover.  He popped it off and removed the shoebox.  The cook opened the box and frowned at what he saw.

No thumb drive.  Instead, a Post-it note, stuck to the bottom of the box.

“Hank -  Sorry.  Last night was fun –Maggie.”

The cook frowned and dropped the box before pulling out a cell phone and pressing a single number.

A voice picked up on the other end.  “Do you have the cupcake?”

The cook rolled his eyes at the code words, how silly.  As if anyone was listening.

“No, the egg is scrambled but the cupcake is on the run.  However, I have a lead.”

The voice did not sound happy.  “This is priority number one.  You have 24 hours to bake the cupcake.”

The cook could take no more, “Really, bake the cupcake?  Like anyone out there who would be listening can’t figure out that we are talking about murder?”

The voice on the other end became aggressive.  “You have 24 hours or we send cleaners.  Is that clear enough?”

The cook frowned, “Consider it done.”