Pulled Jackson burgers with Greg Scratchings and Jackson Eyes
Ingredients:
One head of Greg Jackson
Salt & Pepper
Parsley
Pulled cheeks
Head meat
Ears
Mama's BBQ sauce
Vinegar
Brioche rolls
Method
Pulled Jackson burgers
1 Place head and cheeks in crock pot for two
2 Take pulled pork and lay in an oven dish. Coat with a layer of barbecue sauce.
3 Bake in oven for 20 mins, then serve in brioche rolls
Greg Scratchings
1 Give ears a good scrub with hot water
2 Cut ears into thin strips
3 Deep fry ear strips until golden brown
4 Drain on kitchen roll, adding salt, pepper and parsley as they cool.
Jackson Eyes
1 Remove eyes with a fork, careful to not puncture them
2 Soak in vinegar for ten minutes
3 Add them to the oven with the burgers for the last 30 seconds
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Flickering orange candlelight licked the meta-human's ivory skin, which glowed like the moon on a cloudless summer night, glowing in the reflection of the faux silver platter that carried with it a meal most divine. The musky scent of baked meat lingered in the humid air, the steam crawling from the burger taunting the senses, saliva accumulating at the edges of the chef's lips. The platter slid effortlessly along the mostly spotless table cloth that donned a table far beneath the quality of what was being served atop it. Sitting just beside the platter of delicacies was the candle which bathed the meal in warm light, the chef lingering for a moment to admire his work before listing back to the counter to remove his apron and wipe the sweat perched on the edge of his brow.
He sat before the meal, giving a long moment of silence out of appreciation for the strength he had been given and the strength he was soon to receive. Long, wide fingers sink into the buns of the burger, a globule of sauce crawling over his thumb as he brought the burger up to his parting lips. The bite was careful and precise, every mastication patient and paced as the flavor sank in and grew sending a warmth that build at the back of his throat down his spine and through the rest of his body. A shudder ran down his body as a sigh crept from his content lips and he returned the burger to the plate, picking up one of the eyes. "Evening," The cook said, rolling the eyeball between fingers before aiming the dulled iris directly into his, "My apologies. Really." He popped the eye into his eye, rolling in on his tongue before placing it between his canines and biting down, the warm gelatin like fluid spilling into his mouth. He could already feel it beginning. The touch of power surging through him, welling up behind his eye, begging him to explore what was on the precipice of being awakened. In an instant, it returned. The hunger.
Beau De La Fontaine, known to those who had the privilege of meeting him in their final moments as none other than "
The Cook". The name Scourge still lingered on the tongues of those in Detroit, but that was a name best left to the dead. Beau was here now; The city of angels.
And he will gorge himself of every angel the city has to offer.
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Journal # 2,544
Haven't thought about my folks in an awful long time. Days like this tend to remind me of the little things I did way back when. My number one regret would probably be that I left without sayin goodbye. My folks were heartbroken when they found me up and gone after the police showed up lookin for me. I could hear mom wailing half a block away, back when I didn't know to to jaunt. I almost turned back to go home and be with my them at least one last time, but I didn't. I couldn't. Tom was officer Warren's boy and as far as it looked, I had outright killed him in the street earlier that day. Warren was known for being a mean son of a bitch to just about anyone that pissed him off. Department always looked the other way, especially when he beat the piss outta metas. They got it the worst and I had just joined their club. My option was to stay and die or run. It'd be nice if it didn't still feel like the wrong choice.
One of these days I might have to pay them a visit. Nothing too long. Just a hello, maybe. Can't even remember dad's face nowadays. I'm scared to see how much older he's gotten; How much older mama's gotten.
Happy birthday to me.
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The cigarette had cycled from his lips to his hands and back again more times than he could count as a lighter sat in his clenched hand. He had given up smoking shortly after he became her guard. Most of his days were spent with her inside and that left little time to pop out for a smoke. Still, when he laid here alone twirling the stick of tobacco between nimble fingers the relief of taking a long slow drag on a brisk winter morning crept up his spine and sat squarely in the back of his brain. "Just compartmentalize it," he sighed as he shifted up and out of his cot. She wouldn't be up for a few hours normally and Harper had always been one to keep himself busy. She got up at relatively the same time every morning, which left him to patrol the area or do small jobs for the boss-man whenever he was needed. His number one job had always been to keep her safe though. Well, not so much safe as... to keep her 'theirs'. She was powerful after all or so he had been told. Nothing she had ever done particularly made him go wild with excitement. The only thing that tipped him off to how powerful she was was her scent. There was no real organization for what kind of smells meant what and every meta had a distinct scent to them, but with every scent came an intrinsic understand of just where their power belonged on the scale. The girl was high up on that scale. Awfully high indeed.
She was one hell of an asset to lock away in an ivory tower guarded by none other than Hailstorm himself. Well, Harper now, but Hailstorm in another life. Back when he was a reckless living weapon. He was more controlled now. Mostly.
Some things never leave you no matter how far you run.
"Harper," frowned a young 20-something with flaming red pixie hair and a Napoleon complex snarled at him as he made his way out of what was a former broom closet and now his room. "Morning, Erin" Harper half-waved as he staggered past, bloodshot eyes and the taste of chalk in his mouth. "Still hiding something, huh?" the girl said before turning and walking away from him as if a point had been made. "Sure," he surrendered and went on to the showers, the day already off to... well, a start. He never had the energy to deal with telapaths. They couldn't read his mind so they couldn't trust him.
Insecure bastards.
The shower went by in the blink of an eye as did his normal morning chores and H found himself outside of her door nearly an hour earlier than his usual time. He was wearing his usual get up: a pair of tan cargo pants tucked snugly into a pair of jet black boots, an olive green long sleeve shirt that was half tucked into his pants, and a similar ballcap that simply read "H" on his head. It might have been warm in here, but the near full body coverage did wonders hiding just how badly he'd been torn up by years of playing war in a dying city. Even if it gave him a bit of a paramilitary vibe.
Harper rapped his knuckles on the door, pausing for a moment. "Ruby, you up?" He called, giving her another few seconds before he popped the door open, finding a silent, empty room. "Shit," he hissed, biting down on his lip as he swung the door closed and spun around to make sure no one had passed by and caught him utterly failing at his job. No one was in his direct view and that'd have to be a thorough enough check for now. He had a certain girl to catch. Harper took a long, slow breath and jaunted back into the empty room, standing just to the right of her bed. Slowly he inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in the scent that was distinctly his charges. The scent of raspberry flooded his system and drowned out all other smells. Harper took a quick glance around and seeing nothing out of place jaunted back to his room for a quick change of clothes.
Less than a minute later Harper was out on the streets in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, racing through the streets after the scent. In many ways he was nothing more than a bloodhound and if that was the case, then so be it. He was a damn good bloodhound. The scent led him straight to the Reformist den, "The Chaos Club" which he had never had the interest in entering until now.
H slid into the club and quickly whipped out his Ipod, taking a picture of the club to log in case he ever needed to jump and couldn't get the image right. Immediately he had a good idea of where she was, but with the sheer number of metas roaming around it was easy for scent to get muddied. Harper walked through the club while scanning the environment for a familiar face, a few people throwing compliments to his glowing wrists which they seemed to assume were painted on for the club. It would be a lie to say that he wasn't tempted to show them just how wrong they were.
He spotted her sitting at a table with another person, who smelled of freshly poured paint. A meta. A meta with a face he swore he recognized. He blinked and took a long breath before grabbing a knife from a nearby table and making a jaunt to their table, appearing next to the meta Ruby was visiting. "Morning," he grinned at the two of them, swinging an arm over the man's lap, bringing the knife to his wrist. Ruby would know enough by now to know that if he sliced open his wrist, a nice faucet of acid would be poured onto her new friend's lap. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Prosaic
StarBoi
Skai
Member
