Ultimate Despair
Hushed whispers amongst the front of house staff began to circulate as their latest guest stepped unassumingly through the door, both from the shock of recognizing a famed athlete-turned-television-star, and from the manner in which he trudged as if the leader of his own requiem march. Had he arrived for a meal and a moment’s respite, or to attend a funeral? His somber countenance suggested the latter, but that need for fulfillment defiantly shone through his eyes, perhaps against his own will. Teruteru had only the briefest moment to size up the diminutive man, but he knew that needy, hungry gaze all too well; a gaze equally hungry for sustenance both tangible and intangible, he supposed.
The waitress wordlessly received his order, and with an affirmative nod, presented it to Teruteru, who curiously peeked out of his station and into the dining room. So the rumors were true – the former tennis star, Ryoma Hoshi, now an inmate on death row, wanted something to eat. The chef’s heart ached for the man. To be subject to such passionless, soulless, clinical prison food, with nary a comforting hand or a gentle embrace to warm him – it was worse than hell. All of the unspeakable horrors he had witnessed as a member of Ultimate Despair paled in comparison to the unimaginable thought of someone in such a dire state of neglect.
“He requests you choose what you think is best,” the waitress said. It wasn’t a particularly extraordinary request; Teruteru loved surprising his customers with his personal picks or a new recipe he was eager to present. However, given the flat tone in which the waitress delivered the order to him, Teruteru believed the man was under the impression this meal was to be his last. He shook his head, chuckling. He knew the ghastly reputation of his restaurant preceded him despite all his efforts to prove he had become a changed man who no longer walked the path of despair. Nonetheless, like a conductor commanding his well-practiced orchestra, his hands began to move effortlessly over his ingredients as he prepared them with a delicate finesse. He cherished his ingredients the same way a painter loves their brush and palette, and his dishes were as much a symphony of flavor as they were a melody of visual delight.
For someone who had long forgotten the comforts of home and a loving touch, there was no greater match – his mother’s famed nikujaga, meticulously perfected by the graces of a three Michelin star chef. Teruteru deigned to deliver the meal to Hoshi personally. With an eager grin on his face and a softness to his eyes that defied his despair-worn demeanor, he presented the meal in his characteristic boisterous manner.
“Well, I’ll be damned! Had I known I’d be in the presence of someone of yer renown I’d’ve come out to greet’cha personally,” Teruteru remarked, as he sat the bowl down in front of his guest. “‘s one o’ my fav’rite things to serve folks, y’know. My mama’s recipe. Though…I’ve stopped servin’ meat. It’s too, uh…it’s too ‘spensive these days, so I hope y’ain’t mind seafood in its place.”
Looked exactly like everyone had said. Clothes of quality and the passionate exuberance of superiority to those around him. Should have expected nothing less, really. Crusty cackles leave his throat from a gritted frown- only a little, they’re drowned out as quick as they come, at the loathly revelation that he’s in the presence of someone that respects him. Hoshi’s stomach churns at the thought. To people that have maimed and tortured countless of innocent lives, cooked and played with their bodies as if it meant nothing, of course he’d be considered almost a similar figure worth to an idol to them. Not that any could compare to Ultimate Despair herself, but that’s a mercy he’d love to keep. It looks like his purpose may not be achieved here after all.
....The food itself looks delightful. It smells wonderful. He hates all of it. Even at the mercy that he’s not being served parts of the human body to his knowledge, but he can live the rest of his short life in denial and add it to the many regrets he holds in his heart, such sentimentality is merely a lost cause to placate what could never be. Clasping his hands in light prayer, making his quick dues of humility before eating with soft-spoken words; “Thank you for the meal.” He’s kept his manners before now, it’s better to be formal for the grave.
When chopsticks soon grasp a potato at random and popped into Hoshi’s maw, it’s the cruel realization at such a heartless punchline to his expense. The taste was just as much- better even, than he could have imagined it to be. The potato soft and melts into his mouth without a problem, warmth and comfort that had been missing long before the tragedy held the world in such a miserable state. A feeling that often rested with him despite how often he wished to escape its throes: Nostalgia.
Lips press into a fine line, staring intently down at the meal that could have been cooked by his own loved ones had he not seen the chef himself. What a damn cruel joke. Another sip of water, it burns less harsh than the guilty bile in his throat. He deserves nothing of this caliber. No wonder such a meal was given to him by a member of Despair. A deep breath, and he eats the rest of the meal without emotional qualms to hold him back so openly. It tastes wonderful. All of it, really. Although unconventional in the use of seafood, the fatty selections mend wonderfully into the varied selection of vegetables to make up for the unusual combination. Carrots are steeped with care and skill, onions practically drip with affection from a fine hand and delectable broth. The green beans provide a well-needed crunch, refreshing with noodles that feel hand-made.
He finishes fast, always better to eat food quickly- wastes less time behind the eyes of a guards or executioners. The water follows right after, cool and refreshing after such a warm meal that leaves him satisfied enough in his stewing misery. Chopsticks are placed upon the napkin next to the table, dishes displayed in front from usual routine. If the world were ever to return to normalcy, it’s better to be prepared for the lifestyle ahead. Hands clasp together on the table, and he takes a moment to think of what proper words for the dead he can say before he’s dissected. While empty, the bowl is a fine thing to look at while contemplating his thoughts.
“....The meal was wonderful. One of the best I’ve ever had.” A deep breath, gather your resolve and commit to the very end. You owe it to them. “But I will not accept your proposal. I’d rather be killed than become one of the Remnants. I’ll take my punishment accordingly.” Eyes finally turn to face the man who will execute the Ultimate Prisoner. Passionate and enflamed, desire even- craving for an ending which Hoshi envisions so brightly he can’t help but bring forth a smile that had been lost for years. “I’ll walk to the back to be executed appropriately. ”
