It's a wierd world out there

“I just can’t help it. It’s the way I’ve been born. I—”

The metal pans of bread, which oil and garlic goodness wafted through this crazy place made its way to the oven, was carried by someone, who barked at two people running around with a pad of paper and a pen. Three other waiters were scurrying out of this kitchen towards a table, a cake with six candles on it barely making it to the table as the family’s eyebrows went up and mouths dropped open, sighing in relief as the cake had made it alive to the table. Up went voices as all around the table sang happy birthday to a blushing, hand-squeezing six-year-old who then plunged his fork into the sticky, sweet goodness of a chocolate circle with vanilla white icing rung around the top, middle and bottom layers.

“Was grown—”

“Grew up this way. Come on, Augustus. I know you’re from Germany, but have some manners, please!”

The other chef, crossing his long-sleeved, ironed-shirted arms, looked firmly at Augustus. Augustus pursed his lips and kicked his polished, business-shoed foot against the ugly linoleum the manager promised to replace, like, three weeks ago.

“Sorry, sir. I—”

“What are you putting in that food?”

“Um…powder!”

The other chef’s eyes went huge. “No wonder my eyes glowed green when I was washing my hands in the bathroom. And I could go speedy-quick. I—” He checked himself and whirled around. “Anyone else around here eating powder—”

But no one heeded. Waiters and waitresses in their black aprons and starch-white long-sleeved shirts and skirts (if waitresses) or pants (if waiters) ran back and forth with checks, dodging plates, utensils, pads of paper and pens and, finally, cakes for birthdays. A lot of birthdays happened here. Today’s was one of the chef’s nephews. Everyone celebrated.

Except Augustus and Simon.

“Simon,” Augustus said, clapping his hands together. “Please trust me.” He went over to a shelf in the back room where all the financial papers lay staring at the popcorn ceiling, waiting for the pen to scribble some numbers and monetary symbols upon its finely pressed whiteness. He emerged back outside in the kitchen with Simon raising his eyebrows.

“Look.” He presented him with a purple liquid, shaking a little. “Do you believe me now?”

The chef stared a little longer, and then said, “Yes, yes! I…” He grabbed some chicken, hoping no one would notice. “Now, let’s see…”

But Augustus was looking at him, he sensed, for he looked at his fellow coworker.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“So I have to prove myself to you—”

“No!” Simon patted Augustus’s shoulders with a friendly arm, having gone over to him. “Please—no. I’ve had too many people in my life quiet me down from comedy. I couldn’t laugh, couldn’t joke and certainly couldn’t become a comedian myself. But anyway—” He clapped his hands loudly. “—you can’t make me wonder!”

Augustus laughed as Simon put the chicken out before the German chef and squealed in excitement.

“Put it on!” He demanded, hardly being able to hold the pan.

“Alright, alright!”

The purple liquid rose up in a mushroom cloud as Augustus and Simon stared in awe at the grape-purple goodness seeping into the raw chicken. They looked at each other, and then Augustus grabbed some knives in a knife block over by the rack of napkins and dishes hanging from a wall, cutting into the meat. Once he had prepared it, Augustus told Simon he’d save it for a special. “It’ll be our special, Simon. Special of the day!”

Simon agreed whole-heartedly.

The next day, Augustus, having served it by telling a waiter to carry it out to someone who he heard order the special of the day, watched in fascination. He jumped a little when Simon, who apologized, had reached him. “I was—”

“Shhh!” Augustus threw a finger to his lips, and Simon went quiet.

The purplish chicken was eaten. The guests started shapeshifting into dragons, and then they had to leave, for their nostrils were releasing black smoke. Excusing themselves and apologizing profusely, the guests spread their massive wings, crashing into other tables and smashing windows all around them and kicking up chairs and sending drinks and plates of food flying. Guests screamed and demanded the dragons be shot, but Augustus and Simon had crashed to the floor, tears pouring from their eyes, unable to stop the hysteria. When they had finally caught their breath, they stood up.

“What is all this?”

Augustus and Simon stared at each other, horrified. Their boss was going to fire them!

“What is all this?” The boss had stormed up to them. He was extremely short, half their height. Yet his fiery eyes flashed with fury, and his fist released a finger to jab both of them in the nose. Not even ducking or forcing the boss into a fit of rage, Augustus and Simon slowly peeled off their aprons after untying them and handed them over.

“Sorry, chef. I just thought a little comedy—since I allowed any—would make the day better.”

“No—no. my restaurant is ruined!”

Augustus and Simon shook their head. No one gets it. They both left but not before storming up to the boss and telling him in a demanding tone, “If you can’t handle such—”

“No more potions!” The boss screamed up at them, and stormed off. Someone said he needed a nap.

No more you. Simon glared at the boss as he slammed the door to the manager’s office. Augustus and he started laughing, and they all told the waiters and waitresses to start making the food with the potions in them. Each color contributed to a certain magical power.

Orange would enable the guests to control the weather. Red allowed for them to manipulate fire and heat in all the ways such elements could be used. Green would apply to the earth, where plants and all other environmental factors would be either wiped away or taken somewhere else, pink would allow for the guests to talk to animals, yellow would make the guests be able to communicate in all languages, brown would allow the guests to breathe under water and see in the dark, blue would allow the guests to be skilled professionally in anything they wanted, white would allow the guests to be transparent and invisible and clear would allow for the guests to master any weakness or succeed in anything they have usual trouble winning in.

But no one wanted anything to do with these weirdos!

So Simon and Augustus started anew with their own restaurant, being the manager and chef, recruiting new, excited coworkers.

The guests were impressed.

The children were thrilled, and the animals were allowed back in the restaurant.

That boss was gone—forever.