Too Many Cooks

                                     Too Many Cooks...                                   

It wasn’t that unusual to hear one of Jason Tyler’s very popular hit songs being played at his funeral.  What was unusual was that it was coming from inside the mahogany casket! 

                                        * * *

 Two days before the funeral, Jason Tyler had gotten into a heated argument, while partying with friends, with Tracy Malverne, who was his best buddy in the entire world. Jason’s friends were few and far between because of his constant bragging, but he could always count on Tracy.  Until today. Tracy was livid because Jason had ‘stolen’ a little ditty that was like Tracy’s trademark.  Wherever he went, Tracy would whistle that little tune, and Jason kidded him about it incessantly. The problem for Tracy was that Jason had taken HIS tune, added lyrics, and recorded it, accompanying himself on his guitar. 

           “What the Hell did you steal my tune for?” Tracy demanded. 

           “You got no copyright on it, dude!”

           “Oh, right. Jason, you’ve heard me humming and whistling that thing for months now, and I always used it as my signature tune. I was working on it.”

           “Not fast enough, buddy boy. Come on, Trace. It’s only a little tune. Don’t get your panties in a wad!”

           “Jason, that’s theft as far as I‘m concerned.”

           “Did you write it down? Did you copyright it?”

           “I told you I was working on it, you bastard. I was writing it on scraps of paper, for God’s sake. I hadn’t finished it, that’s all. It’s just a simple, little tune -- but it’s MY tune! And, no, I didn’t copyright it.”          

           “Trace, you hadn’t done a thing with it, so I worked on it, and I fleshed it out, dammit! I wrote a full arrangement, and I sang it and I recorded it. I’ll make it into a hit, and it’ll be advertised on every damn billboard in the city! The fact of the matter is that I‘m better than you in everything I do, and that’s why you didn’t even bother to take the time to do anything with your lousy little tune.”

“Jason, you stole my song. That’s all I’m going to say... you STOLE it. You are the lowest of the low. Goodbye for good. I don‘t ever want to speak to you again.”

           And that’s where they left the argument, until Tracy mentioned the incident to his father, Louis Malverne, who was not too popular with the local police, because of the many pots

he had his hand in -- most of them illegal. The elder Malverne, known by his friends as ‘Big Louie,’ was incensed with his son’s former best friend, and particularly enraged at Jason’s saying that he was better than his boy, Tracy. After all, Tracy was his only son -- the apple of his eye. No one talks that way about his son and gets away with it -- it was the ultimate humiliation of his family. Louis Malverne had some serious thinking to do. Something had to be done.

                                              * * *

It was Midnight, and there wasn’t a sound in the Tyler house, where Jason lived alone. Two men in black approached the house from the rear, walked quietly up on the back porch and, using a Slim Jim tool, opened the lock on the rear door. They crept in stealthily, made their way up to the main bedroom, where Jason was sound asleep, and quickly rolled him up in his own blanket after duct taping his mouth. The two men then hoisted their captive on their shoulders, like a canoe on a portage, and made their way downstairs, out the rear door, and around the corner of the adjoining house, where they deposited him unceremoniously in the rear seat of a long, black limousine.

                                                 * * *

Louis Malverne looked at the young man rolled up in the blanket, reached down and ripped the tape from his mouth. 

           “So, Jason, you think you’re better than my kid? Better than Tracy?”

           Jason was angry at the way he had been treated and he yelled defiantly, “Hell, yes! I’m better than he is at anything! I’m the best!”

           Louis laughed, “You think you’re that good? God’s gift to the world?”

           “You’re damn right!”

           “Would you care to put your money where your mouth is?”

           “Damn right I would!”

           “All right, Jason, let’s see if you’re as good at everything as you say. Let’s see if you can outdo my son in a simple little contest. Are you willing?”

           “Hell, yes.”

           “Even if your life is at stake?”

           “My... what?” 

           “Your life, you piece of crap. Are you willing or not?” Big Louie’s expression was enough to tell Jason that Malverne was serious -- dead serious.

           Jason hesitated. And then, “Sure, OK! I’m better than him at everything.”

           “Well, Jason, you humiliated my son, and I don’t like that. It reflects on my whole family. So let’s just find out how good you are.”                                               

           Jason was unrolled from his makeshift cocoon and dragged into the kitchen, where Big Louie placed a chef’s hat on his head and a long, white apron around his neck. Tracy was already there, and wearing the same outfit.

           “Jason, you’re going to cook an eggplant parmigiana -- all the ingredients are here in the kitchen. Tracy will also make an eggplant parmigiana -- and in the interest of fairness, I’ll let both your masterpieces be judged by your father, Jason. If he thinks yours is better than Tracy’s, you’re free to go and I’ll give you $50, 000. If it’s not better than Tracy’s, you’re a dead man. I’m going to shoot your egotistical, bragging ass right through the head!”       

           “But, Mr. Malverne...”

           “No buts, Mr. Tyler.  Let us know when you‘re done. Son, you get busy, too.”

           Jason shouted, “All right, Mr. Malverne. Your son is a loser! I‘m the best! You‘re on!”

           Tracy’s mother had taught Tracy to cook when he was very young, and he was right at home in the kitchen. Unfortunately, Jason had no way of knowing that before he accepted the challenge. And it was too late to back out anyway.

                                             * * *

As the mourners passed by the closed casket to pay their last respects, Jason’s father stopped next to Tracy, who stood to the side, looking very sad. 

           “Hey, Trace, that’s one of Jason’s songs, isn’t it?”

           “Yes, it…  WAS -- his favorite song. He gave me the rights to all his songs in his will. I put a battery-operated tape player in there with him. With auto-rewind, it’ll play over and over until the long-life batteries die.”

           “Wow! You are one lucky bastard. I really hated to be the one to judge, because I loved both of you guys.  I didn’t realize he’d commit suicide because I felt that your parmigiana was much better than his, but Jason could do everything so well!”  

           Tracy smiled. “Yes... Jason was a whiz at everything, sir... well, almost everything. Unfortunately, that S.O.B. couldn’t cook to save his life.”