Mississippi mud
By J. L. Young

I stand calming my frayed nerves. The cold air of the walk-in kissed my hot and sweaty neck. It was welcoming to this Chef. Fourteen hours into this week’s seventh double shift makes me long for my bed. My training has put me in some high-functioning subroutine freeing my mind to think about my family traveling back from Washington State in the middle of a terrible snowstorm.

It’s strange at such a time. An infection of pandemic proportions has spread across the globe, but people have to have their Mississippi mud pie. I guess it’s to die for, pardon the colloquialism.

A double-tap on the door, a code for I’m needed, drew me from my refrigerated nirvana. I punched the door button and pushed it open. Carlo, a good friend and my Sous Chef, passed by. He seemed nervous about something entirely unrelated to the relentless stream of orders. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Someone with a gun and they ordered everyone out of the kitchen or they were going to hurt somebody.”

“Everyone, do as they ordered.”

The others in the kitchen followed my order. Carlo paused. I said softly, “You too, Carlo.”

I turned off the ovens and moved to the swinging doors. Through the window, I saw a nervous woman holding a pink Sig Sauer 9mm awkwardly. Her raspy voice fit her anorexic body. I shifted slightly to the side and a well-built man, in a tee shirt with the sleeves torn from it, came into view. He was dual-wielding a pair of .50 caliber Desert Eagles. Cumbersome weapons.

When I entered, the big man rotated toward me, “Is there anyone else back there?”

“No. That’s all of us.”

“Ok, come over there and get on the floor. Try anything and you’re dead. You hear me.”

“If I try anything, I’m dead. Got it.”

I stepped around behind the gun-toting woman standing at the corner of the counter. As I approached, she was sweeping the room. My hand snapped up, cupped the slide, and my other followed striking the inside of her wrist. My finger slid onto the trigger and two rounds found their place in the big man’s chest and he fell to the floor.

The sights of the pink pistol were now on the anorexic woman. She let out an ear-piercing shriek, “Zane Ray!”

The man had fallen supine on the floor. His eyes staring, lifelessly. Carlo had pushed the huge pistols away from him.

I pushed the woman to the counter and pressed the hot barrel against her neck. “Someone call the police.”

“No, I can’t go back to prison. Kill me, like you killed Zane Ray,” the woman begged.

“Not gonna happen.”

Later, the police entered and I dropped the pink pistol on the floor. They looked over their face masks at the dead man. “Hmm… Zane Ray Reagan.” He pushed on him with the toe of his shined shoe.

“She’s with him. They tried to rob the place,” I said as I released the woman.

“That’s true,” Carlo said.

The officer looked up at the woman, “Stella Mae Sutton. What would your daddy think about you holding up places like this fine establishment?”

“Uncle Cash, I’m sorry. It was Zane Ray’s idea. I was under duress.”

“Don’t try that shit on me Stella, I know better,” Officer uncle Cash said as he zipped her hands together.

“What about me, Officer?” I asked.

He looked around, “You got one of them Mississippi Mud pies?”