Lantek: the national dish of the Lupinian palette, encased in dry ice from top to bottom based on their advertising. The customers of Dougland Bites exchanged rumors about how they would prepare such a meal of unorthodox proportions. Their most experienced cooks wasted no time showing them in the most fun way possible, and that fun way began with a 20-foot-long flat top emerging at the restaurant’s center.
Hajime admitted to himself the hidden compartment trick was unexpected for the cabin design they had going on. What was also unexpected were the words of several displeased minds around him. To them, lantek was like a slab of pale steak without a fair bit of seasoning. Some went above to claim it was an “exotic gimmick” accepted in their society solely to form better relations with a race that never wore shoes.
Scratching his head, he failed to comprehend their oddly specific complaints in any manner of conversation. But he supposed it was a given that people loved their excuses against outsiders, even in another world. “Does this ever bother you?” he turned to Farkas.
“On my first day, yeah, but all I feel for them now is pity. They’ll never enjoy the next thing on their plates because they don’t serve cheeseburgers here!” Farkas smiled for the foretold pity he had for those who locked eyes on his presence.
Hajime laughed at their expense if he didn’t already, hoping the restaurant’s double doors would hit them on the way out double time. “Well, they should’ve thought of that when they entered a place like this,” he said, stunned by the less-than-stellar logic of their complaints.
The cooks announced to everyone in the room that their “Lantek Specialty Supreme” would commence, their spatulas held high in presentation for what he could only describe as a non-vocal musical of spice and technique. The meat flew above their toques with every turn, touched with salt and pepper from the bottom just before they landed back on the grill. The sizzling beauty of their craft only got better with the aroma, as he was confident it would be enough to kill a man happy on their first whiff.
Then came the unorthodox, at least according to the uptight and ignorant. The cooks pulled several dividers across the flat top, assembling uniform rectangles that held each of the thirty steaks they made within ten minutes. Indeed, he counted the clock on his phone to see how long the final method would take after all that tossing and spinning.
The customers watched with full intent. Suffice it to say his heart wasn’t ready for what came next; a network of chrome tubes from the ceiling came down to give the meat the coldest shower they would ever get. In an instant, he saw the Ice Age recreated on their meal. Indeed, their advertising told the truth like a humble sinner, and his stomach began revving up a storm for this Lantek Specialty Supreme.
Many more chefs came rushing from the kitchen, setting the perfect table for the three contestants of their annual “Bite Freeze” contest. If there were any day Hajime wouldn’t shine his pearly white grin, he’d be six feet under thrice. Farkas and Paulie showed more or less the same face of childish excitement, not even bothering to walk with grace and dignity.
Standing before the table, the host cleared his throat as the lights dimmed around them. “Welcome, everyone, to this year’s Bite Freeze! As always, the rules are no hidden utensils, no hidden lighters, and no hidden malice. Fairness is next to godliness. Whoever triumphs with their bare hands wins 50,000 Quid in cash! Now, on your mark…”
Hajime set his sights on the prize the moment they laid out the seventeen plates he needed to finish within seventeen minutes. It was a Herculean task, to be sure, but a welcome one. His heart raced at the anticipation of the word go; before he knew it, he licked his first helping clean as though his senses had forgotten the chilling needles that were dry ice.
It was also a surprise that the meat remained warm and soft, a delectable reward for their voracious appetite. Although he could care less whatever chewing technique his friends used as an advantage, he could tell the noise of their mouths was equal to his competitive spirit. Five down and twelve more to go, the mess and mayhem only became louder. The crowd didn’t help much if they ever did.
However, like with all good things, there was a price. Despite being able to pry open the blocks of ice like cardboard, a growing sting washed over his palms. There was no doubt about it. The time came for the grueling numbness called chilblains, frostbite’s annoying little cousin, to take effect.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
It was quite the spirit breaker. To think when the remaining twelve steaks would become nearly impossible to finish at this rate. Luckily, his two friends didn’t fare well either, including Farkas, who appeared to have fought the temptation of a monstrous gag reflex. Seeing their purple-cheeked faces gave him the will to continue no matter what.
On Hajime’s tenth helping, the consequences were in full swing. There was little to no sensation left down to his fingertips, but at least he didn’t end up like Paulie, getting dragged by the paramedics. They were kind enough to call a military chopper to support his girth beneath a web of bungee cords. He supposed this was the final showdown, as Farkas finally finished the same amount.
With two steaks remaining on each side, the contestants took a breather, slumping on their chairs with a blank stare at the ceiling. He wouldn’t want to stop now, but his body insisted too many times already. “Bruh… I think my skin’s peeling off…” he said in a tone not unlike a bad case of sore throat.
“Yeah…” Farkas responded with a similar wisp. “Us having the strength of a thousand dinosaurs doesn’t mean much right now. Too bad for you, though.”
“Why?”
“Because I won’t back down for that extra cash!”
Magnificent. Hajime never would’ve thought Farkas had any other life motive beyond earning self-respect, but he supposed this was another way to go about it. It must be satisfying to become this year’s Bite Freeze winner. That was why he didn’t take chances, gobbling down his meal before the final plate. They had set the stage for this moment in perfect timing.
The audience howled. Although Hajime’s hands were still stiff as a roadkill rat under the sun, he gathered his remaining strength to shatter the ice with multiple blows faster than Farkas could. It was the only thing they could do. The host even drummed up the excitement with a 20-second countdown. His mind now got plagued with a mantra of demanding better speed than the last.
No matter the cost, he resorted to digging his nails through it like his Lupinian friend, who seemed already halfway through his meal. It was over, he believed, so much for earning that 50K Quid he could’ve used for a lifetime supply of protein bars. But his hands told a different story; they didn’t seem to stop at all, and as though it were a blessing, a slight tingle ran across his nerves.
It was quite an unexpected light show for everyone involved. Jolts of unmistakable lightning flew everywhere as Hajime roared for his rightful reward, which gave some customers sparking afros that would probably remain with them for a week. Once his senses caught up, he licked the final plate clean already.
The host, who cowered under his stand, stood with a smile wide as the moon. “He did it… He’s done it! We have our new winner!”
If he knew there were consolation prizes for the runner-ups, perhaps he wouldn’t have pushed himself too much. But with the crowd applauding his victory like an Olympic medalist—and Farkas joining in with a face of acceptance and gratitude—he was eager to bask in the glory for the whole day. After all, they served free brunslim for this occasion.
“Brunslim? The hell’s that?” he asked, nearing a whisper as he returned Farkas’ smile.
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll love it, assuming you’ve had a taste for cakes dipped in mounds of chocolate!”
The two shared their laughter throughout the night, finally united by a sense of belonging in another world.
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Resting on four king-sized beds at the St. Florence Medical Center, Paulie couldn’t help but giggle at seeing the joy of his friends through a live video call. He would’ve let them sit on his biceps for a photo shoot to remember. Right after their call ended, the hospital telephone rang next.
Paulie hoped one of the nurses finally found an interest in his pectoral flexing back at the ICU. Too bad it was something else entirely. “No way, are you serious?” he said, sweating bullets from his forehead. “But I’m not ready yet! I can’t meet with him looking like this. I have to—”
“Glad to see you’re still in good spirits, Paulie.”
It was already too late. Paulie knew that distinct voice of flowing honey anywhere, and as always, it came from his left side. He didn’t doubt it was the King of Agrima sitting beside him, who rested one leg like any aristocrat of unbridled sophistry would.
“Y-Your Majesty! My apologies for being, agh!” Paulie failed to prostrate himself properly in his bed. Then again, it didn’t seem appropriate in the first place.
“Please, call me Harald. How’s your stomach getting pumped?”
“Um, fine, actually.”
“Good. I prepared myself for the worst coming here, but I expect nothing less from your one-of-a-kind physique.”
Paulie laughed at the notion even if he had heard of it for the eleventh time this month. “Tell me about it, but I gotta admit that lantek stuff sure was more than I could ever chew.”
“Well, I don’t see that as you falling short in the contest,” Harald reassured. “Because of that, the Seven Miracles have taken a better liking with the young master, except one. I hope I don’t even need to tell you his name. It doesn’t take much guesses anyway.”
Paulie’s expression morphed into a mix of dread and disappointment, giving a long sigh for what was to come. “Oh, no. That sun-blazing dickhead is going to ‘test’ another one, isn’t he?”