KETTCH ME IF YOU CAN
Well, I am back, after an impossibly long break.
CAST OF THOUSANDS: Drat. We were hoping you were dead.
ME: Hey! That's not very nice.
CAST OF THOUSANDS: Neither is leaving us hanging.
ME: Well…
Anyways, here's what you really want: The story!
Chapter Six: Kettch a la Mode
Three days later, Wedge stared at the tray in front of him with a mixture of primitive revulsion and disturbing awe at the extent of which the so-called food disgusted him.
There was something, presumably meat, but had been burned so black that it was impossible to tell what life form it had once been. There was something green and slimy next to it. Wedge was almost certain it was supposed to be dessert. He hadn't touched it, but it had gradually migrated around the tray to infect every other food item, rendering them inedible. There was also something that was brown and crunchy and smelled of must and mildew, and Wedge wondered if Janson had found it in the old storage closet where they kept the mothballs. And to make matters worse, the caf appeared to be the same thing as the lump of charcoal on his tray.
And horribly bad food wasn't even the worst of the damage Janson had wreaked on the mess hall. No meal was ever served before it was forty-five minutes late and cold, although Wedge thought that this was done on purpose, because at that point, everyone was too weak with hunger to question the smell.
That had been bad enough, but yesterday had been worse.
"Wes, what's this?" Wedge had asked Janson suspiciously when the lieutenant, flamboyantly attired in the billowing apron and enormous hat of an upper-class Coruscanti chef, appeared at the doors of the cafeteria. At that point, lunch was only thirty-five minutes late.
Janson had handed Wedge a menu, one of many that he had been carrying and handing out to all the diners.
"I've made some changes to the establishment," Janson had explained loftily, twirling a thin black moustache with curled ends around his finger. It was fake, and had made him appear vaguely sinister. In fact, Wedge had mused, it was what Darth Vader would have looked like if he's had facial hair.
"From now on," Janson had continued, "it's only the finest for Starfighter Command. Allow me to seat you."
Janson had seated him at a round table with a tablecloth and a centerpiece. Wedge had glanced at the menu rather apprehensively, but to his surprise, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. Appetizers: Endor Treeleaf Salad, Ewok Eyeball Soup; Entrees—wait a minute. Wedge frantically flipped back to the cover.
A large bold font proclaimed the words, "Kettch's Diner" at the top. Underneath the heading was a crudely-drawn silhouette of an Ewok with the same disturbing chef's hat and moustache that Janson had been wearing, and holding knifes larger than it's body in both hands. In tiny letters at the bottom of the picture were the words, "Yub, yub, Commander!"
The day before had been even worse. Janson had substituted Mos Eisley's celebrated—and feared—Twin Suns' Hot Sauce for the ketchup, whose labels now read "Kettch-up". Then he had merrily exchanged the seasonings in the salt and pepper shakers for various forms of spice, some of them illegal. This had caused half the pilots to wander around the base, drooling and with vacant faces, until Wedge preformed a drug test on Tyria upon leaving the cafeteria.
The day before that had been relatively unexceptional, except that Janson had painted a coat of Superglue on the seats of all the chairs and stolen all the culery, forcing everyone to eat with their fingers.
Face plopped down in the seat next to Wedge, momentarily interrupting his musings.
"This can't go on," Face declared, poking cautiously at the blackened lump on his tray. The green goo, Wedge noticed, was already beginning to spread.
"This has got to stop," Face continued. "There are bets going for the first person to choke and die on Janson's 'homemade oranj pie'." He took a bite out of the lump and immediately gagged.
"I'm afraid to go near him," Wedge admitted. "He's now got access to more potential weapons than we've got in the barracks. I've had to perform a weapons check every time he leaves and enters the kitchen."
Face chewed mightily. "Whose day is it to check him?" he asked unconcernedly.
Wedge froze. "Your," he said with a surge of alarm.
Face paused in mid-chew. "You didremember to take his blaster away from him before you let him in the kitchen, right?" Wedge prompted him, his "I've-got-a-bad-feeling-about-this" sense ringing loudly in his head.
The sharp sound of blasterfire emerging from the kitchen answered his question. Most of the people in the cafeteria immediately ducked for cover under the tables in the not-completely mistaken belief that they were in mortal danger.
"Whoop," said Face after several rounds of blaster bolts had been fired. "Guess not."
Wedge tossed down his napkin hurriedly. "I'm going in," he told Face. "If I don't come back, make sure you don't eat anything tomorrow."
He plowed through the kitchen doors and stopped dead at the scene before him.
Janson was crouching behind a barricade made from what looked like every exotic dessert pan in the New Republic, his still-smoking blaster in one hand and a wickedly sharp chef's knife in the other. The remains of a kitchen droid were scattered in various places around the kitchen, including the ceiling and the industrialized stove.
"What the Sith happened here?" Wedge demanded, horrified
Face poked his head through the doors, and his eyes widened. "Good grief," he said.
"It looks like you've been fighting the Clone Wars in here," Wedge said in disbelief, glancing around at all the mayhem.
Face pointed to a smoking black lump inside a huge pot. "And it looks like lunch was a casualty," he commented.
"That's not lunch," said Janson reasonably. "That's the caf."
Face poked the charred lump with a finger. "I wouldn't do that," Janson advised. "You might make it angry."
Face swore and jerked his finger out of the pot. "Emperor's Black Bones, it moved!"
"Count yourself lucky," said Janson. "It bites, too."
Wedge felt sick. "Wait a minute. This is what I've been drinking every day!"
"It's the dark, dirty secret of Starfighter Command," said Janson. "That's why you're never supposed to ask what's in it. But it's pretty good once you add sugar," he added helpfully.
Wedge stared nauseously at the caf pot, which sported a droid leg hanging over the rim. "Wes, why did you shoot the kitchen droid?" he asked then,
"It attacked me!" Janson said loudly. "All I did was ask what was in the Gungan meatloaf they were making for lunch, and it came after me with a blue milk butter knife!"
"That's it," said Wedge. "Out."
"What?" asked Janson.
"Out," he repeated. "Out out out. Out."
"Let me help you," Face offered, propelling a protesting Janson towards the exit. "Out."
Once in the cafeteria, the crow began to boo Janson loudly when they recognized him as the murderer of their food.
Then someone's oranj pie flew in a graceful arc through the air and splattered over Wedge's spotless uniform, missing Janson by centimeters.
The crowd gasped as a person. Time seemed to stand still for a moment.
Then Janson said, "Wedge, did you know that you happen to have some pie on your shoulder?"
Wedge looked at him levelly. He very carefully picked up the nearest plate of green goo and smashed it perfectly in the middle of Janson's face. The action brought him an almost disturbing sense of satisfaction and a large smirk.
Until someone shouted, "Food fight!" and enthusiastically hurled their tray at their neighbor.
That decided Wedge. Without thinking, he grabbed a bottle of "Kettch-up" and squirted it at Face, who ducked, but not quickly enough to avoid the liquid stream of red.
"Hey," Face said indignantly. "This was only clean uniform. Take this!" And he hurled someone's Alderaanian-style cheez noodles at Wedge's head.
Food was flying fast and furious. Wedge had to throw himself to the side to avoid a series of flying fruit from the dessert buffet and gasped as Janson energetically dumped a pitcher of caf over his head.
In retaliation, Wedge scooped up a handful of mixed-up foods from the floor and flung it on Janson's apron.
He was just about to grap another handful when the cafeteria doors were flung open and Phanan, Tyria, and Runt walked in. They stopped in surprise.
"Hey, you guys are having a food fight," Phanan said accusingly. "On a military base, with a bunch of pilots. This is so unprofessional. Why wasn't I invited?"
Wedge stood up slowly. Everyone glanced at him anxiously and, on some faces, more than a little sheepish.
Without a word, he threw his handful of food across the room at Phanan.
Then he ducked as everyone cheered and reached for the nearest item of food.
Don't deny it. You know you've always wanted to see the Wraiths in a food fight. So, review! Review! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!Please.