“And so to you, my friends, I lift my glass. I am honored to be, as always, the Host of the World.” LaRue sat down and poured himself a glass of red wine.
In front of him was a plate of pasta and a simple salad. “This season has allowed to reconnect with myself, but more importantly, I have reconnected with you.”
“This is why the meals this year have been different. Simpler.”
Twirling some pasta on his fork, “life gets complicated. Your meals shouldn’t be.” He takes a drink. “Until next time, I’ll keep a place set for you.”
“Cut.”
“De-Von, that was your best’n yet.”
“Thanks Mr. Melvin.” He slid the plate of pasta acr
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Killer Chef One
You know him or at least think you do. Devon LaRue has been on television longer than some of his fans have been alive. LaRue opened his first restaurant in 1992, his second three years later. By the end of the decade, world leaders and celebrities alike were vying for the best seats in his now three restaurants.But Devon LaRue was not what he seemed. It was as a young culinary student in 1982 that LaRue found himself at the scene of a murder. LaRue admitted later he had been high on a few drugs; he just didn’t remember which ones. The victim was Amie McAvey, a girl that had a history with LaRue. Amie and LaRue had dated and had broken up, dated and broken up, dated and broken up. Each breakup had been precursor by violent breakup arguments. When he came down, LaRue found himself in a cell, covered with blood. He had gotten sick, the drying puddle of vomit on the floor and on the corner of the long sleeve shirt he had borrowed from his roommate.
Killer Chef Two
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” LaRue began, “this meal can be eaten with both world leaders and factory workers. Everyone from farmers and faith healers can enjoy this. I know this, my friends, because I have enjoyed this meal with them all. I’ve often been called The Host of The World, but” he stopped and smiled that smile that he had flashed so often, his gray flecked strawberry blonde hair bounced back and forth. “But,” he continued as he held a glass of red wine in a salute gesture, “I am only gotten to be the Host of The World because you, my friends, have allowed me to become the Guest of the World, first.” He took a small sip and set the glass down. LaRue stood. His gray eyes sparkled. “This is the final show before I go on holiday. Although I regret that I will not be spending time with you each day, I always come back with recipe ideas and a renewed
Killer Chef Three
LaRue rubbed his eyes as he stepped off the plane. He had landed in Al-Bayda Airport several times. The country of Yemen was a sewer and he hated travelling here.He caught his reflection in the men’s room mirror. His blondish-red hair had been dyed black, his gray eyes now brown. He had grown tired of this play acting. The disguises, the aliases, the different accents. He loved the killing, the shot of adrenaline, the look in the eyes as the life leaves, never got old. He was here one final time. ‘Tommy’s final assignment,’ he thought. Tommy’s face drifted in front of him. ‘I would kill you slowly if you were here,’ he said softly. ‘You dragged me into this . .this . .” he gestured to the disguise he wore, “this acting shit.”He got into the nondistinctive sand-colored sedan and started pointing angrily at the figure in the mirror
Killer Chef Four
“Doc, Ray’s on 3 for you.” He watched Emily walk away, enjoying the way her body filled out her dress. LaRue remembered their first meeting. He had been interviewing just a few. He had only been out of culinary school for a year, but with his confidence and a loan from Tommy, the young chef felt ready to open his first restaurant, and needed an assistant. Emily had been his fourth interview and, honestly two of the first three were more qualified than she was. It was a basic mistake that made the difference. She had been running late, a trait that would haunt her off and on no matter how much she worked on it. She had misread his name and thought it was Devon Rue. To be clever, Emily thought she would make a joke and say since his initials were ‘DR’ she should just call him ‘Doc.’ One LaRue figured out her mistake, he knew she would be the one to hir
Killer Chef Five
Emily worked her way through the culvert. She wore only a sports bra and shorts. She had a small drawstring bag on her back that contained a change of clothes and her favorite 9 mm. She had received a call from LaRue just two hours earlier. The conversation was in an agreed upon code. “Hi Doc.” “Em. I just got off the phone with Ingrid House Publishing about my life story. God love Cooper, only a crooked old bastard like my agent could make me money from a book with materials that has been published about me a long time ago. I need you to pull all background files. Everything that might be interesting.” “Even things that not be interesting,” Emily said. “Right.” We that, LaRue
Killer Chef Six
LaRue was following much the same route as Emily had a few hours earlier. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he would do once he got there. “Oh, come on D, you’ll figger it out. You always have.” He saw himself with Grandpa Lou. This was their usual routine. Although young Devon had gotten too old and too bored with a bedtime story, Grandpa Lou continued to do so. Although the stories Grandpa Lou always told his grandson were Bible stories. Lou’s father had been a preacher, a ‘bible-thumper’ in Grandpa Lou’s words. Over the six years he lived with Lou, he had heard some of the same stories dozens of times. Tonight would be different, though. “Grandpa, I’ve heard these stories many times. But I have a question. Do you believe these stories?” That caught Grandpa Lou by surprise.
Killer Chef Seven
Emily drew in her breath to scream when LaRue came through the door. She had no idea who he was, but she was sure the game was up. “It’s me Em,” he whispered. “Doc?” she asked with a relieved laugh. “How is that look believable?” “Because, Em,” he said, the level of his voice back to normal. “These people live in the world of make-believe. The less believable your cover story or your disguise is, the quicker they believe it.” Besides the clipboard, she had placed everything she had found, except for one of the pistols and switchblades, into Travers left desk drawer. LaRue locks the door. “Travers has been killed by his own people. This office won’t be used until a new agent is brought in.
Killer Chef Eight
After his usual routine of revisiting all his previous kills, LaRue was ready. After last minute instructions to Emily, he slipped through into the corridor that led to McCoy. He had never been nervous before an event before. He didn’t believe McCoy was any better or worse than the many he had killed. However the difference was that now Emily was with him. She could get hurt or killed. LaRue promised himself he would not let that happen. Before they parted, LaRue had filled up a syringe. Even though he had brought a variety of poisons with him, he chose something from the medical field. It’s known as either suxamethonium chloride, or succinylcholine, it’s used during surgeries as part of anesthesia. It works by paralyzing muscles. Once the syringe was filled, he popped it into the hidden pocket inside his hemmed sleeve. La