The Conjuring of Platelette;

The Conjuring of Platelette

A Damascus bladed knife, long ago folded upon itself over seven million times in a sacred forge, tumbles end over end across a vast kitchen towards an industrial freezer. The surgically sharp blade parts the air before it in a deafening crack, thwapping deeply into thick steel with a heavy, thudding, skint. Through neither the sonic boom, nor the vulgar penetration following it, did one single molecule of the blade yield by the distance of even one micrometer. As the blade pierced solid metal, the silver pommel of the knife's rosewood handle was given a sharp boost at the tail end of the deafening cry that sailed across the room with it: a string of violent syllables, “WHERE IS MY LAMB SAUCE!?”

The words are harshly coarse in their authoritarian glory, and the greatest of dictators would have been proud to project so much raw power through an outburst. To say that Gordo's voice was “booming” would not be accurate, unless said “booming” were so powerful as to fold reality into a cone for use as a megaphone; piercing the veil into what lies beyond the beyond. Unless said booming were of sufficient frequency and amplitude to literally help bury something like a knife into a steel door.

The blade to this knife is the best ever created. A Muslim Ascetic wrought her from simple iron and ceremonial additives, generations ago; a mixture containing just a touch of his cremated tribal elders, along with crushed bones from those rulers the elders bested in Jihad. The priceless and artistic craftsmanship of his blades make any of their opulent handles appear worthless. The Muslim Ascetic was, and still is, world renowned.

Little does anyone know, however, the Ascetic is renowned far beyond this world. Generations ago, the blade Gordo has just hurled across the room caught the attention of Dguglio while in the fires of her creation. Dguglio, the God of Blades, returned to reality from a 16 thousand year hiatus to acknowledge her divine supremacy as the Ascetic pounded her mercilessly over upon herself, repeatedly. He had not visited Earth since the first wedges were honed to cutting edges by those people who wrought the very concept of a blade into reality; the first civilized beings to do so for billions of light-years in radius.

And little does anyone know that Dguglio had put a tiny speck of himself into one of the microscopic folds within the blade, mixed with the sweat of a pneumatic human pounding into her while entranced; an infinitesimally small fraction of his spirit, beat into a cross-dimensional singularity within a sacred forge, partially residing within a crystalline matrix of iron and the carbonized additives of human spirits locked in conflict.

What people do know is that Gordo inherited the knife from an obscure, art-collecting, relative. What people do know is that the more angry Gordo becomes, the more precise and quick he becomes with her. What Dguglio knows, wrathful wraith that he is, is that the indignation of Gordo's current exclamation is so righteous as to summon him to her to investigate. In all of her history, no one wielding her had ever displayed an outburst that could match those of Dguglio's. . . until now.

If Gordo had not blacked out from posession at the moment of Dguglio's conjuring, he would have heard the ascending tones that followed the nearly-obscene sound of a point penetrating solid steel. The ringing, like a choral synthesizer, rebounded Gordo's words through the entire kitchen in a cosmic, soprano, crescendo, “WHERE IS MY LAMB SAUCE!?” The words somehow sounded like a crystal goblet ringing out in lo-fi sounding light; flowing into the room, towards every direction, from the spaces between the surrounding air, sounding like an unattainable Moog setting for cyborg church-choirs. In other words, holographic and penetrating, as if from another dimension. Go figure.

If Gordo's ears had not ceased to register, he would have heard even more than an interdimensional sound repeating his words to him as a God descended into reality. For that matter, if his eyes had not rolled all the way back while the supernatural happening unfolded around him, then he would have seen even more than a smokey yellow spirit transferring from the blade to himself. In other words, he would be even more surprised than he currently is at the lamb sauce he finds mysteriously prepared beside him. He is currently dumbfounded, but satisfied, nevertheless. This isn't the first time he has blacked out in a screaming rage only to find his goals accomplished when he comes to; though it has never happened quite like this before. However, he doesn't think to ask himself why the kitchen is spotless.

During the unfolding Gordo missed, he was blaring forth an ancient language in a darkly sepulchar tone; like a deep gong heralding forth an eerily Latin version of Aramaic. Druglio's divine words emanated from Gordo, and at that surge of demonic vocalizations, the Damascus blade performed miraculous feats. His eery, dark, and deep, exhalations were so extreme that if Gordo had not been possessed, fortified by spiritual and Godly forces we mortals know nothing of, his vocal cords would have ripped in two from the bottom up.

As Dguglio exited Gordo's body, Dguglio etched a seal into the blade; a unicursal septagram, circled by a wreath of trailing, downward-facing triangles. As Dguglio etched the seal into the blade, he unleashed a stinging string of syllables that might as well be gibberish to the God, who does not know English. Dgrulglio could be heard over a mile away as he cackled triumphantly, in lowly, harsh, tones, and with Godly resonance, “WHERE IS MY LAMB SAUCE!?” For over seven seconds, the nearby hills responded “SAUCE! AUCE! Auce! auce! ss!”

Alone in the kitchen, on this day, Gordo did not witness those miraculous feats, and his vocal cords are not so much as sore. He did not witness as the lamb sauce now beside him was made from fresh ingredients. Neither did he witness what occurred after the sauce was prepared: before leaving Gordo's body, Dguglio's twisty-dark words caused the blade to scrape every surface and dish within the room, ever so slightly, before it carried the resulting debris to the trash bin. The seven seconds it took for the knife to complete this miracle within the expansive kitchen was a literal whirlwind of truly epic proportions, and not a speck of dust was spared. As the knife continued to compact particles into the bin, it eventually busted slightly from the seams.

The thinned and puree'd raw lamb's cheek puree, or, “lamb sauce”, is, like the blade that made it, the best that has ever been, and Gordo will always remember this day; even if he knows only that, and not how, his rage served him well, something he will always carry with him. If he had ever thought to run a record needle along the trail of traingles around the septagram, he would have heard his own voice, screaming out in an echo of interdimensional tones “WHERE IS MY LAMB SAUCE!?” The sound would have summoned a God. He never did think to do that, however, because Gordo is only concerned with mastering his craft. Over the years, Gordo will learn to channel his wrath on his way to a solid culinary career.

*** Years later. . .

Julio, a short Mexican national, built like a bar-back the color of leather saddlebags, is using the famed knife tonight, and he doesn't notice that his skills have reached a new peak. This is an honor never bestowed upon any staff member before him. The honor is Chef Ramskie's acknowledgment of Julio's recent lurch forward in knife-skill prowess, and everyone who surrounds the central, open air, kitchen, has definitely noted his supremacy. When he uses the knife, she now reacts to him as she does sometimes with Chef Ramskie; which is to say, almost inexplicably, and definitely ineffably. His hands, normally a blur, are now barely visible beside the shimmering glint of the blade. To say that he is going HAM on everything requiring the use of a knife would be an understatement; a rolling snare drum has nothing on him. And to say that this moment is monumental to his identity would be an understatement even more so.

A few onlookers have taken to cheering Julio on when his already dazzling skills pull off something particularly show stopping; though everyone knows he isn't putting on a show. This is not a series of tepanyaki routines, this is the grand opening of Chef Gordo Ramskie's newest restaurant: Platelette, a term his youngest daughter christened small meal courses. Everyone is running full tilt, and no one heard Chef Ramskie when he asked for his lamb sauce, five minutes ago. Depending on one's character, one might see this missed order as something marvelous or something grotesque.

Chef Ramskie is personally overseeing the course preparations for a table of posh foreign dignitaries, and his reality show is present to film the spectacle. Julio is pitching in for the meals of nearly every table, as well as running point, and the kitchen has become a raucous nightmare. Julio is a blur, though he is notably smooth and calculated, and his black uniform sticks to his sweaty chonks as he deftly maneuvers himself and the knife as one. His chef's hat is dripping down the back of his neck, and a barely noticeable trickle of sweat rolls down between his eyes and along the sides of his nose to stop at his thick, black, moustache. However frenzied this moment may be, Julio is equally as gloriously serene. Everyone is careening around the kitchen, and he is a bastion of chaotic respite among them. In a flurry, everyone weaves through each other, and squeezes past one another, parting around Julio. Julio is a star in this kitchen, a supernova sparking off, and most eyes are on him. But, even for all his calmness concerning calamitous chopping, Julio is nevertheless failing to keep track of the kitchen while Chef Ramskie attends to only the copyrighted “Platelettes”.

In other words, Julio has dropped the ball on the lamb sauce altogether. As things are, the entire staff is so frustrated, so overloaded, that no one would have had time to provide Julio with what he needed to make the sauce anyway, even if he had known to call out to them. As things are, the gnashing of teeth, and the slurping of mouths, rises up with the ambient sounds of music, trampling feet, and conversation; a deafening pitch like unto an animal trough in a five-star restaurant- and all the moreso for the swift footsteps trotting the kitchen.

Unheeded, Chef Ramskie has now become furious. “Furious”, in fact, is too weak of a descriptor to describe his emotional state. Indeed, “indignant” would not suffice, either, as it is not explicit enough, and “full of rage” would yet be too sterile. “Wrathful” is about as close as it gets, though even it falls short of something that should probably be described in a full sentence. At any rate, it is clear to him that the lamb sauce is not ready, though it “bloody well should be”. Positively furious, absolutely indignant, completely full of rage, and with all the fucking wrath ever, he unwittingly hollers through the ether: “WHERE IS MY LAMB SAUCE!?”. Time stands still at the question that is in every way a paranormal command aside from the question mark. ::cue dramatic bass tone dropping like the stomach of a teen caught masturbating ::

The words bounce around the room in an eerily holographic echo, and the septagram seal glows dark yellow along its channels, from an unseen source. Paused in time, the seal powers up as the otherworldly scream yet courses through the room. The septagram alights citrine-yellow from the bottom left point and clockwise around, while, simultaneously, the trailing wreath of downward facing triangles alights counterclockwise, starting from the upper right point of the septagram. The arcing traces finish their illuminating paths along the seal with the sound of interdimensional crackling, to end in a brilliant, dark yellow, flash bursting from the entire seal; with the sort of sound that accompanies the gleaming spark of a blade drawn from a scabbard in a cartoon from the “Anime Region” of Japan.

Chef Ramsey's ineffable indignation has once again pierced the veil of reality, and the air has fallen still of breath and sound; a disorienting drop from 79 decibels down to just 16, from nearly as loud as a lawnmower, to barely quieter than rustling leaves. As the cosmic interrogative exclamation slowly fades, the knife begins glowing up to half an inch around it in every direction, and the septagram seal is blinding as an eclipse if you look directly at it. Dguglio has possessed Julio, summoned to reality, yet again, at pure, righteous, wrath.

Julio's eyes rolled back as the words finished exploding through creation; and as the seal ceases to alight, an unseen breeze begin to reach through the silence, touching nothing but him in a swirl of food debris. Julio's hands begin to pulse citrine from the cintering blade. The energy surrounding his hands then snakes up in a surge from the seal and through his arms. The yellow waves circulate his body looking like the bottom of a pool reflecting the rays of a sun setting into a nearly-orange sky. Time returns, and the unseen wind around him picks. Like the knife, Julio now glows up to half an inch around his entire body. Unlike the knife, Julio begins chanting a strange language, magnificently, in an inhuman, demonic, timbre that leads many to bow even deeper than the tone of his voice in protective prayer. At his demonic heralding, the lights and the winds continue to increase intensity as ghostly energy circulates his aura.

Julio pauses and a devious grin spreads across his face as he looks up at the ceiling wildly through his whitened eyes, and he rests his hands to his sides, with the knife in his right hand. He continues his ominous vocalizations, and innumerable amber light points form in the center of his core, pouring back through his glowing arms and body in smoky waves, wrapping countless wispy tendrils around the knife in his right hand. He then pops into “Predator Pose,” and the light bursts around him just as spectacularly as do his words. At that same moment, he knife shoots out of his hand, twirling up to the ceiling of the restaurant; carried three stories up in a vortex of tracing streams from Julio's gleaming body and hands. A literal tornado, the knife cuts a hole into the ceiling within the space of five seconds, trailing a shimmering tail along the way like dark-golden, glowing, incense tracers.

From the hole now gaping through the forth floor, where the sounds of a Satanic Black Mass had been drowned out by the ambiance, a lamb falls and tumbles through the air. “Luscious”, needless to say, is shocked. Along with every other sentient being within eye-shot.

What occurs next can only properly be imagined in slow motion, though time certainly does not stop, nor slow, as it did during Dguglio's summoning.

Dguglio flits the knife in blindingly golden Fibonacci arcs along the falling babe, whirling countless slashes around Luscious' head as she tumbles. Plummeting, spinning, tumbling, she bleats in surprise as the knife cuts out her cheeks to prepare Ramskie's famed lamb sauce. In a blink and a half, the knife shreds out Luscious' cheeks, and the shape of her mouth changes a little with each successive chunk cut from it. Coincidentally, the vanishing mouth moves in such a way that everyone within earshot hears a cry like a wailing child's, bleating forth the anguished screams of a mortally wounded, innocent, baby, sheep, “HERESYURDA-AH-AHMN LA-AH-AH-AHMSOSSSS!”

Luscious sprays her life everywhere on her twisting somersault down to the floor, splashing the patrons in a horrific shower. Not a single person within line of sight of the blade is spared sanguine stains, and the flurry of virgin wool resulting from this spectacle floats throughout the room like some sort of morbid snow globe. Any semblance of slow motion now falls away along with the snowy down circulating the restaurant.

The raw lamb's cheek, pureed by the mystical blade as globs of it were freed from its host, splats into a bowl beside Julio, as a sludge. At the same time that the sauce fills the bowl, Luscious violently slams onto her back so severely that she bounces with the sort of cracking thud that makes people wince; or the kind that cause cartoons to comically bury into the ground. One of her front legs has been paralyzed entirely due to the violence of her fall, and one of her back legs is paralyzed from the knee down. The last four vertebrae of her spine quickly cleaved into seven shards a piece, with the sound of wood popping apart in two, sequentially, like osteo-dominoes.

Precious bolts upright, immediately, bounding around the room, slathering everything around even more so in her in thick, bright red, spurts, and her now-lame leg flops wildly as a result of her bucking hips. Resounding through the otherwise quiet room, the distinct sound of a lame lamb galloping along concrete mixes with the choking sounds of a bleating throat breathing its own blood through traumatic cries into death-rattling lungs. She is crashing against everything in her gory, pinball, path. A violent vomiting chain begins a slow crescendo around the restaurant, to accompany an already ghastly symphony: the gurgling, gushing, gagging shrills of Luscious set to the frenzied clacking of her hooves, and the crashing of objects, bouncing through an otherwise silent chamber of reflective surfaces along with the sounds of violent heaving. Terrifying, ricocheting through the restaurant and beyond, neither the vomiting, nor the haunting death-cries, sound anything like “WHERE IS MY LAMB SAUCE!?”

Nearly every surface is splattered in crimson, every eye is the opposite of shuttered, and not one muscle moves aside from those used for projectile vomiting or breathing. Not a single word is spoken until Luscious finally collapses, bleeding out in a cacophony. And once Luscious stops flopping around in the way of a fish, which is to say, once she lay motionless in the way of a meal, and once her ghoulish symphony has finally ceased, the first word out of anyone's mouth is an enthusiastic, “Cut!”, followed by a micro-pause, and then an equally enthusiastic “And keep rolling! Audience reactions!”

The knife cleans the kitchen, in the same cyclonic miracle it performed over a decade ago, before Dguglio leaves Julio in a display equal to the one that conjured him. Onlookers either gaped, or cried, or vomited, or cackled, and in more than a few cases they did several in sequence. Luscious was the only one harmed, however. . . by the knife, at least. The victim of asphyxiation died of a panic-induced asthma attack. The heart attack victims died of fright, and the person who was allergic to wool only survived because the strength of his shock provided so much adrenaline to him as to mitigate swelling entirely. Those who suffered seizures fell into comas, and their loved ones feared they would not make it. They, and others, will cringe in post-trauma for years every time they hear someone holler either of the now-viral catchphrases.