Bad morale lingered in the kitchen like an unwashable stain, but Head Chef Hamsey didn't care. Les Schargo's Eatery was a 5 star restaurant and if it cost an endless river of blood, sweat and tears to keep the critics satisfied, he would willingly spend it from the eyes, veins and glands of his hapless employees.

But tonight the esteemed rating of the restaurant faltered and it was all his fault.

It was Hamsey's notorious anger management issues that had cost them half a star and it irritated him worse than the effeminate manner of the owner, Mr. Dupree. He even had to stay late to explain to Dupree what had transpired to give them a less than stellar rating.

The customer who had damned them was a portly young woman with the help of the review app Yowl. Hamsey had underestimated her standing and when she acted uppity, he clapped right back with his famous chains of expletives. He did not realize she was in the top 15 certified Yowlers in the state.

In the dim lighting of the kitchen, the blond Hamsey clenched his hairy fists over an aluminum cutting table. Everyone had gone home except for him, and now, he was left alone with his own thoughts. Admittedly, he knew he had done wrong. If he had not snapped at that large girl, she might not have given him that bloodcurdling review.

He pounded the table. "Now it's gonna be my head!" he snarled.

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A sharply accented voice echoed through the kitchen. With a laugh sounding like 'oh ho ho,' the voice taunted the disgraced head chef. "Eet will be your head indeed!"

"What the devil-ed eggs?!" Hamsey shouted turning around. "Who's there?"

Hamsey's beady eyes surveyed the room. He heard a clatter over by the dishwasher and quickly turned to face it. There was no one there, but a pile of freshly cleaned plates.

He heard that familiar sharp laugh again. This time it came from the wall of knives. He faced the polished wall, just in time to see a large knife-one reserved for cutting thick rib-eye steaks–be removed by a gloved hand.

The sound of boots treaded lightly on the floor. An imposing figure dressed all in black loomed towards him from within the shadows. Hamsey began to whimper, a rare sound to escape from the burly man's vocal chords.

"Now," the figure said, "eet eez you who will be whimpering like a leetle girl. 'Ow fitting for your last moments!"

"Wait a minute…" Hamsey said, his flustered mind snapping to a conclusion. "It's you!"

The figure remained in the darkness but they thrust their large knife into the light. It gleamed brightly, ready to do its awful deed. And before Hamsey knew it, he was dead.

***

"Zere is only one way to get a-head in life, and zat is tres murder! And zis, was the chef's kiss!"

The figure laughed to himself as the head chef's body lay at his feet, devoid of a head. With his gloved hands, the figure placed the head inside a box fit for cake. It was closed up tight. "Now for zee piece de resistance! I can blame zis on her!"

The figure placed a small butterfly keychain on the table. Written on the keychain were the following words: "if lost please call Trudy Cumberson."