Description: Howard Rust is a man who likes his barbecue. You know, just put some meat on a grill, put it in a bun, enjoy. El Fuerte feels this man can do so much more with those pieces of meat than just heat them up. No... he must /heat/. /Them/. /Up./ It is Super Dynamic Meat Rescue time!
It's a nice afternoon here in not-typically-nice Southtown. Today's warmer than the weather broadcast claims it would be. So warm, yet so pleasant aside from the usual unpleasant business that goes through Southtown that a bunch of acquaintances of Pacific High's Southtown chapter are having a barbecue out in one of the more laid back parts of town.
Take their shop teacher, for example. Wearing an obnoxious apron with one of those silly messages (in this one, the classic 'kiss the cook') and a chef hat as though the bearing of such headgear is a casual affair and not one of a mark of someone whom dedicates their life to the culinary arts, he currently presides over an older charcoal grill where a handful of hamburger patties are in the middle of being cooked.
They're nothing special at all. No special seasonings prepared or anything of the sort. This meat is not being treated with the gravity and pizzazz such an undertaking deserves. The casual nature this man is taking with this meat may be an insult to the hat he is currently wearing.
This hamburger meat, it needs a hero! Nobody among the gathered have what it takes to stand up and suggest anything more. They are simply content with just the use of American condiments like ketchup and mustard! Are there no more adventurous tastebuds lying within the hearts of man today?!
A cookoff that El Fuerte was not invited to? There are some evil people around this town from the sounds of it. My how the staff of Pacific High seem to think they are so great that they do not feel the need to have an expert chef such as the Hurricane of the Gulf to help them out. They have gone too far and it will not be tolerated! The people of Southtown deserve to taste some spice and wonderful food and not some bland garbage that might be getting tossed out into ready hands. The sad part? Rust probably can make better tasting hamburgers just by not adding spice.
There is the sound of tires screeching and over the horizon a van ramps into the air and lands hard on the road as he speeds towards the cookout. Behind the wheel is the masked chef with a look of seriousness painted across his features. At high speed he approaches and before long he throws down the breaks and the van starts to spin about and the parking break is pulled right as it ends up perfectly parralel parked between two other cars and El Fuerte is jumping through the side window that was rolled down. He is wearing his R.Mika cooking apron and hat as he slides forward with spatula in one hand and frying pan in the other. "Have no fear for the Hurricane of the Gulf is here to save your tastebuds because it's......DYNAMIC COOKING TIME!"
"Here ya go," says the forty-year-old man as a waiting bun gets equipped with a grilled patty. Neither party is, at the time of exchange, aware of what they're missing. What they're longing for. What they /deserve/ in their food. No, they both seem to be happy enough with their mediocrity, unchallenged and unambitious.
Both 'chef' and recipient look up when a car just goes barreling into a perfect parallel park (holy hell that man is good) and right out the damned car window into a dramatic entrance. Though the meat is from a long-dead animal, they sizzle on the grill with joy and hope at the arrival of the Hurricane of the Gulf. Their hero! Make us delectable and unforgettable, they cry out!
A number of guests here are already knowledgeable about the Hurricane of the Gulf. There's some polite applause here and there, murmurs about Pacific High pulling out all the stops to make this a great event. The faculty members are all looking at one another with utmost confusion. Who called him in here, and more importantly, who's paying for it?
"Uh... hey!" The shop teacher, one Howard Rust waves a hand, nonplussed - nay, stunned - at this level of dramatic appearance. "I got some burgers going on the grill, uh... would ya like one?"
If only he knew how much trouble he's in!
Payment!? There is no payment for El Fuerte this day for saving these poor people from mediocrity. All these people deserve the best and they are going to get it if it kills him. The problem is his food might kill them once they taste it. He twirls his spatula about and he slaps the side of his van which causes the doors in back to open. Three men dressed like mariachi muscians hop out and start setting up what looks like a stand complete with grill and several spices and condiments. It looks like he was not being thrifty at all when preparing for this assault on bland food.
He hops to his feet and his attention is turned towards the older man that asks him for a burger. In a blink of an eye he right next to rust and he rests his hands on the man's shoulders. "Amigo. I can smell the burger. Have you no spice?" he asks and actually has a rather sincere look on his face. Food is serious business afterall. If this man is mistreating it he must be taught a lesson just to be sure it would never happen again. "I don't even smell a hint of something as simple as salt or pepper. You do this meat great insult." He then turns on his foot and he releases one shoulder with a hand and he slips the other around to hang around both shoulders while standing next to Rust. "This shall be my assistant for the day!"
And the man offering such a weak burger can only look upon this sudden band of mariachi musicians with the kind of awe that is best classified as 'dumbstruck.' That nagging feeling of being well out of his league in dealing with this guy.
He is face to face with a true professional. Nay, a true artist.
So stunned is he at this that he doesn't move to remove the man's hands from his shoulders. "Well, uh," he tries to say something in defense of 'having no spice' but this is hardly anything worth interrupting the Hurricane of the Gulf's heroic tirade against his personal crime against great food! His face does sour at talking about doing this meat 'great insult.'
"Hey, that's how I always coo--" His protest is cut short by the declaration of him being his assistant for the day. The food products laid out around the gathering cannot cheer, but if they could it would be a chorus of merriment and ecstasy. They're saved, they're saved! (Maybe.)
"Okay?" He turns his head back over to his own grill, if only to make sure the meat isn't getting burned.
The Mariachi are working dilligently on setting things up and one is already mashing up burger patties while another is cutting up assorted peppers and other sort of toppings. "Come my friend. Save your burning patties and bring them over. We cannot allow anyone else to have something so plain." he tells Rust before releasing the man and in another quick blink of the eye he is beside his own grill. He takes a deep breath and he slaps the side as the coals ignite and burn. He is letting them grow red as he starts pouring some tabasco sauce in a bowl.
"To truely make your audience happy you must take great care of your product and treat it as if it is a treasure, amigo. You do that because it is just that." he says to Rust even if the man hasn't caught up with him. He is more focused on adding crushed redpeppers, garlic, and all other sorts of spices into that bowl and then taking a wisk to stir it all together quickly.
The /energy/ of that guy, wow, he's never really seen someone so enthusiastic about anyone before. Grunting a bit as he stretches out one of his legs to get a bit of stiffness relieved, he goes to retrieve the burgers on the grill.
There is a moment of emasculation, seeing his humble old charcoal grill just churning away while that guy over there's got a whole military corps (...mariachi corps?) setting up something absolutely amazing. The level of contrast in their approach and means remains... really jarring. All this so suddenly, too.
Rather than muse on that any longer and have his stuff accidentally turn to charcoal /itself/, he gets the meat in some tinfoil to bring it back over there. He can smell what's going on there. His nostrils flare twice just bringing it over there.
"Okay, uh... now what, er, do I call you... boss today, or?" Rust asks as he takes in the scents.
%"Boss?" he lets out a hearty laugh and he slaps Rust on the back while shaking his head. "You may call me El Fuerte if you must call me anything!" The worst part is the man isn't even at his most energetic levels at this point. Those are only brought up by a true challenge. Trying to show some people the proper way of preparing a meal is hardly justification for that level of hyperactive luchador. He pulls the wisk free and being this close Rust might almost get tears in his eyes from how hot the sauce that he mixed smells like. He grabs those cooked burgers and he drops them into said sauce and he lets them sink into the liquid and stay there for a few long moments before dipping his spatula in there to easily flip them out of the bowl and onto his own charcoal grill. "Some marinade will make the mundane into something everyone will remember you for." He seems to fail to realize it might not be a good thing to be remembered for starting people's mouths on fire for hours on end. No amount of milk might be able to save them given what he put in there.
The funny thing about that slap on the back is that the man actually feels the impact, which... says a lot for a guy of that stature! It's very telling. It's not enough to make him want to rub where he's slapped, but, hell, when a man can smack you in the back like that you learn a lot about that man.
"Okay, El Fuerte," the man clears his throat as his eyes do, in fact, tear up. What is he putting in there? His left eye shuts as he foolishly draws closer to El Fuerte's concoction.
"Marinading? Uh... yeah, you'd be right about that," he nods as he looks back out over to the crowd starting to gather about the grill of the Hurricane of the Gulf. He holds up a hand as if to tell them all 'wait a sec here.'
"I mean, I'm not stranger to... to stuff like, lemon garlic or anything," sniff, sniff, "ah, jeez, that stuff's powerful, the hell's in that thing?" He asks a bit more urgently.
Yes, it is a rather forceful slap for such a small man. Then again while he is short he is very stout. All that ring work keeps the luchador looking in fine condition. "Red pepper, tabasco, ghost peppers, jalapenos aaaaaaand my special three alarm sauce!" he replies with a broad grin. Just hearing that might make some people feel like they need a big drink of water. "After that we will add some sliced hot banana peppers along with pepperjack cheese." This man might just be inadvertantly murdering people with even the strongest of stomachs. Does he actually eat his own cooking?
He steps back and he offers the spatula to Rust as he goes to grab some burger buns along with some hot bbq chips that are resting on some plates. "Who is ready to try things first?" he asks and looks around, his brow raising some when no one seems all too eager to step forth and be a guinea pig.
The man nods along at red pepper and tabasco, stopping at 'ghost peppers' and starting to open his mouth at jalapenos. All that on top of a three alarm sauce? He does the math in his head as to how many additional alarms they ought to put on that thing, nostrils flaring again with this newfound knowledge of how hot this stuff is! It's hard to hold back the tears! He looks up again and grimaces at the thought of even /more/.
But yet, like a true trooper, he mans the spatula with about as stoic a face as possible within the circumstances. Nobody steps up to try them out. Is it really as bad as it sounds - as hot as it smells? His nostrils are beginning to burn just being so close to them. He sees his fellow Pacific faculty members eye him in specific, as if wondering if /he/ has something to do with all this.
He gulps, already feeling a bit hot under the collar for the immense amount of social pressure laid upon him being the impromptu assistant of this enthusiastic chef who... really, really likes spicy food.
"Hey!" He calls out to El Fuerte, "how 'bout I, uh, give it a taste?" I did not just say that, he thinks to himself when his nostrils feel ready to peel apart from the inside. Ugh, it's already in his throat and he hasn't actually eaten it yet!!
Poor Rust, he wasn't even the one involved in this case. It is the said faculty members that are staring at him why the scorned El Fuerte is even here. Next time they should just invite the luchador so something like this doesn't ever happen again. He rests his hands on his hips and he then looks to Rust with a smile. "Yes, we can both have one to show them thy are missing something wonderful!" Hopefully Rust has a stomach as strong as the rest of his body. He might need all the endurance he can muster to down one of these things.
The Luchador slides two plates down so Rust can add the burger on top of the banana peppers, pepperjack cheese, lettuce and tomato. It also looks like it has some sort of chipolte mayo spread on the top of the bun as well to add more spice just in case the marinade was a bit week. Does this man even have nostrils that work? He doesn't even seem bothered by the smell and by the time that burger is put on the bun with toppings he is quick to pick it up and take a large bite. He doesn't even scream afterwards and make a mad dash for water or the like. He is actually taking another bite. "See! There is nothing to be afraid of my friends!"
Howard Rust is an all-American man. America likes to put things in food that probably shouldn't even be there, and America sure likes to eat a lot of it. But this man, this man of forty wonders if he may be meeting his greatest match since chopsticks as his mouth, nose, and throat are all ready to wave the white flag of surrender before even meeting the foe on the battlefield.
With significant reluctance, the man dresses up his burger with the aforementioned needless super-spicy hot items. How the inside of his mouth wishes it were the skin on his hands, none of which could possibly know the sheer power this super hot burger possesses.
The burger dressed, the man takes it in both hands and passes nervous glances about. El Fuerte over there is happily chowing down on this concoction, which lulls him into the falsest sense of security imaginable even as his eyes start to tear up being so close.
He takes the bite. His face tightens, contorts in pain as he forces his jaw to chew it up into something approaching swallowable size, if only just that. His tongue screams. The inner walls of his mouth all but catch on fire. His gums feel ready to shrivel up and die. The worst of it comes when he swallows that very first bite.
He finds it impossible to breathe! His face starts to turn blue as he drops the burger down on a plate and falls over, gagging and gasping for breath in one of the most violent choking fits imaginable, his left hand reaching skyward and shaking about as if to grasp at something no longer there.
That time it takes for Rust to get himself to eat the first bite? El Fuerte is halfway through his and even his mariachi accomplices are having one. The people watching were slowly being lulled into a false sense of security as well. Maybe this man knows what he is doing. There are four people all enjoying it, right? They come to realize how wrong they were when Rust takes his bite and begins to go into his final moments of life. Well perhaps it isn't that bad, but it is bad enough people start to panic while thinking El Fuerte just murdered the poor old man. "Great disaster! Men! The cooler!"
The three men dressed as the mariachi band quickly pull out a large cooler that was meant for drinks, but is currently filled with ice and water. El Fuerte quickly gets Rust and with all his might he lifts the man up. "Dynamic rescue tiiiiime!" he declares and dunks the older man into the water. Nevermind the fact he try to you know....make sure he wasn't really choking or anything. He is a cook obviously and not a doctor. Well, he is also a luchador which is nothing like a doctor either so that is two strikes.
He can't tell air from pain! The oxygen burns too, his entire world is basically on fiiiiiiiire! He offers no resistance to the small man whom lifts him up and dunks him into the cooler with a dramatic splash.
All goes still as a stout man shy of six feet tall remains motionless. Could it be that El Fuerte's cooking has legitimately claimed a fatality through his adventurous cooking across the landscape of the hottest imaginable, a spice so great that the sun itself would give way to this food?
Bubbles rise from the cooler. Fingers twitch. The damp chef's hat falls off, revealing an equally damp but that much more foul combover as Rust's head rises from the icy cold drink, a low groan as his fuzzy vision overlooks the gathered blearily.
The worst part is El Fuerte got so carried away he forgot to add some of his other ingredients to the marinade. Is this really how people cook in Mexico? No, this has to be some form of evil that was created by the luchador. Is the nice guy thing a whole disguise and he really is trying ot murder people with cooking? "Amigo, are you all right?" he asks as he reaches to help Rust out of the cooler and keep the man on his feet. "Should I have added something else? You look like you did not like it."
If anything it seems like Rust made people realize that they are not the adventerous sort and the rather bland burgers the older man was making were just dandy. The crowd is now more gathered just to see what may happen further with Rust now that he is in the hands of this Mexican madman. Have the cops been called? The sound of sirens can be heard which makes El Fuerte and his men look confused. "What is this? They are trying to steal our food!" With that he and the three mariachi scramble to start packing things away in the fan even more quickly than it was unpacked. Poor Rust is just standing there as they all whip about and fill the van. The men jump in the back and the door closes as El fuerte leaves a single plate in front of Rust.
"It appears we are in trouble, amigo. Here, have the rest to remember us by!" With that he jumps through the open window of the van which is still rolled down and into the driver's seat. He starts the van up and peels the hell out and does a massive burnout before that van disappears off into the sunset.
"Eeeeeeeeeyuh," the ice and water might have done the trick in getting out most of the burning. He's still not all there even as he's helped out, smacking his lips every so often as if trying to remember if he just ate something or he was set on fire or what. Near death experiences have a funny effect on your short term memory.
"Gruh, hrm... geh." He unintelligibly mumbles in response to El Fuerte's queries. There might have been some delightful culinary insight, but it is filtered so heavily through the numbness of his mind and throat that it is otherwise useless except for proving he's still capable of responding to external stimuli such as 'obvious questions.'
Maybe only just obvious questions, still reeling and not seeming all there as they whip everything back together to the sound of sirens. His right hand goes to the side of his head, scratching at it lightly as if to ask 'what's going on,' only to be offered a memento of their time - a single plate of that death burger. He lifts the plate and studies the thing closely, even as his nose and throat tingle again in warning. People around him appear horrified that he may be considering taking another bite.
Good thing the local biological hazard unit is here to save the day, four men in hazmat suits pouring out of the police vehicle that pulls up to the gathering!
"Sir! Sir!" Says a man in one of the suits as he waves some sort of instrument in Rust's direction. "You are holding a class 2 biological hazard in your hands! Put down the burger!"
An awkward and confusing standoff later, this ends up as a filler news story on tonight's Southtown news.
Log created on 14:00:49 10/25/2010 by Rust, and last modified on 20:00:10 10/25/2010.