The Origin of Recipes

by Joey Peters

  To them it was completely reasonable that there existed, high in the Himalayas, a secret monastery of shape shifting Buddhist monks. Because it was really there.

  But Candyman's parents would have been flakey idiots on any other world.

  They learned of the secret monastery while Candyman's mom was still pregnant with him. I will give them this much—they knew a pregnant lady would not make the greatest adventurer. They waited until Candyman was born.

  When they reached Tibet the sherpas refused to help these clueless, oblivious idiots. They figured with no one to guide them these dumb white devils and their baby would simply give up and go home.

  But the power of stupidity is one of the most powerful forces on every world.

  Even without guides, they prepared and set off. The mountains were rough—but they could not give in. They forced themselves to climb higher and higher.

 

  The air grew thin. The lack of oxygen made them even stupider than they normally would be.

  A single column of smoke rose into the sky.

  They had come halfway across the world and turned away from anything resembling logic, but now they were just within their goal.

  So obviously, this was when everything went wrong.

  Through their entire trek across the Himalayas the weather had been calm. No wind. No snow. Suddenly a heavy chill wind roared across the mountains. Candyman's parents bundled him up as best they could. They figured their best bet would be to climb for the monastery.

  But then the snow came. The snow was accompanied with a sudden, warm breeze, just enough to turn the snow into heavy slush on it's way down but not enough to warm the travelers.

  This was too much for them. They couldn't continue on. They cowered in a nook in the rock wall and lit a flare.

  For one brief moment Candyman's parents realized what idiots they had been, but it was too late. The snow piled up around them—soon covering them entirely, except for the tiny stream of sparks from the flare.

  The couple huddled close to their baby and did everything they could to keep him warm, if only for a few scarce minutes.

  All the best superheroes are forged in the crucible of tragedy. The Pinnacle? He came from a doomed civilization. Splash? She's the last survivor of Atlantis. Green Gorilla? His parents are dead.

  And so it is with many of the lame-os too.

  Candyman's first memory was terrible cold consuming him—but before he expired a hadouken exploded in the air. Three monks from the monastery approached. They saw the doomed family's flare.

  "Sweet Jesus," said one of the Buddhist monks.

 

  "Not another one," sighed the second.

  The last said, "There's two of them and they're popsicles."

  The first one held his hand out toward the frozen couple and said, "No. There's one more. I can feel his chii or whatever dumb crap we believe in. He's alive."

  The monks peeled Candyman's parents off him and warmed him with hadoukens and yoga-flames.

  They raised him as one of their own. and Candyman's parents were right.

  This monastery trained in a secret art.

  Okay. The key tenet of Buddhism is that all the suffering in the world is caused by desire. They believed that to truly defeat desire one must become what they desire most.

  Somehow, Candyman managed to master this trick—but even so, he was the worst Buddhist monk in the world. The other monks couldn't stand him.

  So they sent him to America.

  Chapter Three

 

  Rob's phone erupted in a caustic series of beeps and bloops at four A.M. He'd set the alarm extra early. He would not allow himself to be late.

  Candyman slammed his fist into the wall that separated their bedrooms. He had finally fallen asleep ten minutes earlier.

 

  "Wuzzit—whuz wrong?" he groaned.

  "Only eleven and a half hours until all-you-can-eat-tacos," said Rob.

  Candyman tumbled back into his bed and tried to sleep.

  Rob first went to their living room. He blew the dust off his yoga mat and dug his set of free weights out of the secret corner in the closet.

  First, he did fifty sit-ups. Next, he did ten bicep curls with five pounds. Third—he collapsed in a heap.

  The better part of an hour passed before Rob could peel himself off the floor. In that time Candyman finally fell back asleep. Rob showered, then threw on some clothes, completing his ensemble with a trench coat and fedora.

  He stumbled down the stairs just loud enough to wake Candyman on his way out.

  Rob arrived at the taco restaurant at a little before five thirty. He only had ten hours to wait.

 

  The sun poked out above the Smart Family building in downtown Beantown City. The morning was warm and light.

  Around six a human form hurled itself down off the building's roof. The form smashed into the pavement with several sickening sounds, then it rolled upright.

  The figure was covered in gauze and ace bandages, tied tightly around his body. His eyes were a cool matte black.

  "Shatterguts!" said Rob, "Cool."

  "Whahuh?" the super mummy groaned, "You're supposed to be intimidated."

  "Why? I'm not a criminal or anything."

  "You look suspicious dude. And you've been waiting here for a half hour."

  "All you can eat tacos," said Rob.

  Shatterguts shrugged and continued on patrol.

  The neighborhood slowly shook itself awake. The bagel joint across the street opened up, along with the coffee shop at the corner.

  Through it all Rob dutifully waited for the taqueria to open.

  Around eleven Professor Black Hole turned the corner and saw Rob waiting. A sudden chill swept through him. He didn't exactly know why.

  He walked up to Rob and said, "We open at three thirty."

  Rob said, "I know. I wanted to be first in line."

  Professor Black Hole grunted vaguely in acknowledgment and entered his restaurant.

  From then on Rob heard fans and machines working inside the building. A group of college age kids arrived a little after noon and Professor Black Hole let them in.

  Candyman finally arrived at about three fifteen. He found Rob standing motionless. The look on his face reminded Candyman of the monks at the monastery where he was raised while they were enthralled in meditation—something Candyman never mastered.

  "You've been standing here the entire time, haven't you?" said Candyman.

  Rob nodded.

  Candyman knew trying to talk to him would only derail his reverent train of thought, so he leaned against the wall and waited.

  A few minutes later the door swung open and Professor Black Hole motioned for them to enter. He lead t hem to a couple seats near the back.

  Rob and Candyman sat down.

  "Would you like to see a menu—" Professor Black Hole began, but Rob cut him off.

 

  "Yes," said the professor, "but what kind of meat?"

  "Pork!" said Rob.

  Now is a good time to explain that Buddhist monks have the utmost respect for life and dedicate themselves to reducing the suffering of the universe. Pretty much every order I've ever heard of, including Candyman's sect, are vegetarians.

  Candyman said, "Yo, gimme some steak tacos."

 

  A college age girl soon brought out the first plate of tacos.

 

  Rob snatched up four tacos with his sausage fingers and forced them down his throat. Candy-man picked up a steak taco and sniffed it like a fine wine.

  The waitress stood absolutely still—stunned.

  Candyman finally took a bite of his first taco and savored it.

  Rob said, "...You gonna eat the rest of those...?"

  Candyman sighed.

  "Go ahead dude."

  Rob snatched up the three remaining tacos on Candyman's plate and forced them down his throat in he same mann
er he did with the pork tacos.

  "Could I get some more tacos, please?" said Rob.

  "O—okay," she said, then turned to Candyman, "And you, sir?"

  "You got any veggie tacos?" he said in a resigned voice. Rob was less likely to steal those.

  The waitress nodded and returned to the kitchen.

  Professor Black Hole watched all this from the door that separated the dining room from the kitchen. He wondered why this fat kid made him so uneasy. But before he could figure it out the door swung open. New customers stepped into the taqueria.

  Professor Black Hole stepped up to greet them.

  He did his best to focus on the other customers. The place didn't completely fill up, but soon half the seats were taken.

  The professor busied himself with checking customers' ID's and getting delicious beverages.

 

  New customers entered, ate a couple plates of tacos, the they went on their way. At most, the customers ate three plates—twelve tacos total.

  But still those two fat kids remained...

 

  The waitress motioned for Professor Black Hole to join her in the kitchen. He shuffled quickly across the restaurant.

  "Boss," she said, "We're out of pork for the tacos."

  Impossible! He had ordered enough for at least the weekend. A chill ran up Professor Black Hole's spine.

  "How did this happen?"

  "Those—those fat guys," said the waitress, exasperatedly, "the one with the black curly hair—I don't know how many plates of tacos he's eaten. I lost count at fifty-four."

  Fifty-four?

  Professor Black Hole said, "Get me a thing of steak tacos. I'll try and explain to him. Maybe he'll get all upset and leave."

  The professor took the platter of tacos out to Rob and placed them in front of him.

  Rob looked quizzically at them—those weren't pork, most delicious of meats.

  "I'm very sorry sir. Unfortunately, you appear to have eaten us out of our entire stock of pork," said Professor Black Hole.

  Rob reached over to the tacos and scooped them up in one hand. He pressed them past his lips. The professor watched in awed horror as Rob's throat stretched and the tacos slid down his esophagus.

  "That sucks," said Rob, "But these are pretty good too. Can I get some more steak tacos, please?"

  Professor Black Hole felt numb. Really? How many tacos had this boy eaten? And they weren't enough?

  He muttered, "More steak tacos," to the cooks and continued on to his office. He slid the blinds open and watched through the two-way mirror.

  Plate after plate after plate of steak tacos disappeared into the fat kid's gaping maw. Even his buddy, the other fat kid, seemed embarrassed by his friend's gluttony. But that didn't stop the first fat kid from ordering more tacos.

  Professor Black Hole looked at his cell phone. It was nine-fourteen. The had been the first customers in the building. Had they really been here six hours?

  Soon the steak tacos ran out, so the cooks switched to ground beef.

  The professor calculated it out. At ten bucks a pop he could still turn a profit on a person who ate five plates of tacos. He did the math quickly. How much did he spend on food? He figured in the money from the register—the money he made today.

  He made a horrible, inescapable realization. Even if the fat kid stopped right then he wouldn't have enough money to buy new supplies or pay his employees.

  The fat kid put him out of business.

  "Of course," muttered Professor Black Hole, "God hates me. The universe hates me. I can't even go legit."

  The professor clicked open his safe and removed a small machine. He'd built it during his supervillain days. Once detonated, this device would open a portal to a parallel universe. Any matter nearby would be pulled through the vortex.

  It was a dimensional bomb, Professor Black Hole's specialty.

 

  Professor Black Hole returned to the kitchen.

  "Oh man," said one of the cooks, "This dude's a machine."

  "Do we have the meat for one taco more?" said the professor.

  The cooks peered into their hotel pans and shook their heads.

  Would this fat kid accept veggie tacos...? The professor doubted it. He darted his eyes across the kitchen... did the soaking dishes contain a secret trace of taco meat? No.

  But finally the professor found his goal. A small pile of taco meat sat on the ground by the ice machine. The cooks watched in horror as the professor scooped up the meat with a spatula and slopped it into a tortilla, along with a tiny machine that they couldn't identify.

  He placed it on a platter and took it out to Rob.

  "Oh, man," said Rob, "That really hit the spot."

  Professor Black Hole approached with the taco-bomb.

  Rob said, "That's all right, garcon. I think I'm full. Can I get the check?"

  Professor Black Hole placed the platter on the table in front of Rob and said, "In a moment sir, but you really do want to taste this taco. It's very special."

  Rob said, "I really shouldn't. I'm trying to watch my girlish figure... but when you put it that way!"

  Rob snatched up the taco and devoured it. His eyes lit up with a Kirby-crackle.

  "You weren't lying. This is the best taco—"

  The air felt too heavy. It was almost oily somehow. Rob looked stretched and distorted.

  "Oh Dalai Lama," said Candyman, "It's finally happening. Rob ate so much that his stomach is as dense as a black hole. It's collapsing into a quantum singularity."

  A small belch escaped from Rob's lips and he collapsed backward on the ground. Dead.

  Professor Black Hole looked at the body for a long moment. A supervillain should feel accomplished, he thought. So why do I feel like a jerk?

 

  * * *

  Okay. You want to know the origin of Mr. Asparagus?

  His dad was a mad scientist. His mom was a stalk of asparagus. You don't want to know how they conceived a child, but they did.

  And the mad scientist was a lousy father.

  Chapter Four

 

  Rob heard a voice louder and more powerful than any he had ever heard before.

  "COME INTO THE LIGHT..."

  Rob was in a thin, black tunnel that seemed infinitely long. At the end, a pure, shimmering white light pierced the darkness.

  Yes. This was one of those standard near-death-experiences.

  Slowly Rob rose up through the tunnel, toward the warm beacon. For one brief moment Rob understood everything—why do roses have thorns? Why does every silver lining have a cloud? And why do clowns sing a sad, sad, song?

  Rob knew ultimate peace.

  He found himself floating upon a cloud. A silver bricked wall stretched out to infinity in front of him. The only entrance was a revolving door.

  The door seemed to be carved out of bone—pristine, bleached white bone, but bone none-the-less.

  The door said, "HIYA. I'M DEATH."

 

  Rob said, "I'm dead? That can't be right. I was just alive."

  "THAT'S HOW THAT WORKS," said the door, "NOW YOU'RE LIVING, NOW YOU DON'T. ANYWAY, HEAVEN'S RIGHT THROUGH ME."

  Reluctantly, Rob passed through Death, The Door.

  * * *

 

  Candyman watched the paramedics hooked Rob up to all sorts of strange machines. Whatever the results, they perplexed the paramedics. After they finished one test they'd move on to another even more esoteric test.

  "Uh, guys," said Candyman, "Can you give me an update on my buddy."

  One paramedic turned to him. He looked slightly angry.

  "Nothing."

  Candyman said, "Nothing? You guys have spent a half hour hooking him up to strange machines."

  "No," said a different paramedic, "All the readings are nothing. No heartbeat. No pulse. No brain waves. No blood pressure. No metabolism."

  Another paramedic chimed in, "And I just took some
blood." He held up a little white vial and added, "Except, I'm pretty sure this is sour cream."

  "But," said Candyman, "What does this all mean?"

  "In my professional opinion," said the first paramedic, "Your buddy's dead."

  "Yeah," said another, "Like wicked dead."

  "Super, super dead."

  At their prognosis, Professor Black Hole crumpled. The expression on his face looked like a dog that you caught mid-way through crapping on your carpet.

 

  "It's not your fault. Rob did this to himself. He shouldn't have eaten so many tacos that his stomach collapsed into a super-dense singularity," Candyman said.

  One of the paramedics grunted.

  "That would explain these readings," the paramedic said.

  The paramedics called in a hyper-weight dolly, one strong enough to lift the weight of Rob and all the tacos he had eaten, and, when it finally arrived they wrapped up Rob's body and sent it to the Beantown City morgue.

  Candyman felt a cold, empty void in his stomach. He watched the ambulance slowly hobble off into the distance. He needed something to keep his mind occupied.

  Rob hadn't just been Candyman's roommate. He had been the first person Candyman ever met that didn't think he was the worst Buddhist monk in the world. Rob was Candyman's best friend.

  Candyman walked off into the distance.

  Professor Black Hole watched him as he slowly walked away. He should have felt relief, at least he thought so. Candyman didn't even suspect his part in his pal's death. So why did he feel like such a jerk?

  The truth is, Professor Black Hole was never cut out for super villainy. He had too much guilt. Too many good intentions. But when his back was against the wall it was his only option.

  He knew he shouldn't have killed Rob... but now it was too late. Wasn't it?

  He retreated back into his office.

  His rent was paid up for the month so he could hide there for a good, long while.

  He sat at his desk, motionless, for hours. Slowly, the night faded away and morning came. He was perfectly alone. His employees had long since gone home.

  Finally, a sound tore Professor Black Hole out of his solitude. Someone was knocking on the front door.

  The professor took his every ounce of strength to pull him out of his chair. It proved even harder to step, one at a time, to the front door.

  Who was calling this early in the morning? Had the police or that other fat kid finally figured it out? Were they coming for him?

  What he fond when he opened the door was much worse. News vans. Reporters.

  Simon Simon stood at the front of them all, with his jittery little ginger cameraman.