It was hotter in the kitchen than I’m used to, and I’ve limped through burning buildings to see the evidence was destroyed. I rubbed my forehead with the back of my wrist, smearing foie gras all over it. It sizzled.
“Jesus, McArthur,” said the sous-chef next to me. “You almost smell like a human for once.” His face was tanned from the radiant heat of his stove, and his hands were twisted but dexterous.
I grimaced and scanned the room, looking for my prey. I was on a stake-out, deep cover, watching Jimmy the Fish for signs that he’d gone off again. Right at that moment he was elbow deep in a tuna, violating it in a way that would make a mother wince. He drove his hand deeper with a meaty squelch and twisted, breaking something off inside. It landed in the scraps bin next to him.
“Duck!” screamed a voice behind me and two flew overhead to crash onto the grill. Something else fell from Jimmy’s hand into the bin.
I hobbled across the room and seized it.
“I’m taking out the trash,” I said.