The Daily Carrot (IC)

[Main Nation Ministry]

The Daily Carrot

Tribute to Dearest McKennedy Smith
Written by Jean-Marc Consommer

It is perhaps of deep sorrow to know the death of a fellow staff member of the Daily Carrot. While we had our own tragedies in the past, nothing can amount to the death of Editor In-Chief McKennedy Smith. For McKennedy Smith, he was a man of his own worth. A patriot. Adventurer. Journalist ahead of its time. Great man. Did he die doing what he loved? Yes. Even though, dying in the Bermuda Triangle is a fate destined to those who are victim to the curse that the area had to offer, McKennedy and several others didn't back down. However, it was a mistake to ensure your trust on a seaplane that was practically already a death trap. Several FAA investigators were willing to provide accident reports, after the wreckage was found. "Practically made out of sticks and loose bolts", they told me, as they had examined parts of the wreckage.

For McKennedy, he had prepared many things to his will. Even after he might have forgotten that he taped it over a copy of the movie White Chicks, though McKennedy wanted to go old school with using VHS, he still gave his last testament from an old TV on a wheeled cart in the church.

---

"Hello, if you watching this, I have died under certain circumstances. For the Daily Carrot, I will let you give my sympathies from the many staff that supported me. By now I had died before I had officially retired, though this is what I can say is my permanent retirement which all of you are attending now. I have already planned on selling some of my antiques to some worthy buyers that have been listed with help of my attorney. Now, for the role of editor in-chief, I have to pick someone who I knew who would be eligible for the job".

"Come on..come on.." Frisk Papperman said to himself, as he was reading McKennedy's last will with some of the other Daily Carrot staff. "I hereby announce that my role of editor in-chief will be transferred to my legitmate son, Francis Smith."
"WHAT?!!??!" Frisk yelled at the top of his lungs, alarming the rest of the funeral patrons. "Sir, this is a funeral, people are mourn-" a staff member of the church tried to politely say to Papperman, until he punched him. "Mourning my ass! I wanted that job! I'm entitled to have Smith's job! Me! ME ME ME!"

It was then that the overzealous priest immediately appeared with a loaded shotgun, aimed squarely at Frisk. "Leave, you heteric.." the priest said in a bloodthristy manner on a verge to exterminate all of the heterics in the world in a crusade. Frisk was forced to comply, as the priest and some of his aides escorted Papperman out of the church. The attorney to McKennedy continued playing the video.

"I know it will come as a shock for many, however I admit to have a son. We had never met, however I was aware of his prescene after a letter from a former spouse. Knowing he is now grown up, I believe that due to the magic of my job, he can find some happiness that I was unable to give him, if it helps. I have notified my attorney to contact Francis Smith as specified in discussions addressed while writing this will. Now for how to properly bury my body. As you may know, my body is to be shipped towards cremation. The purpose is that I know for the fact that while I intended to be buried in a sacrophagus, I fear that my own dead feet will be severed, just to fit in the ancient Egyptian coffin."

"For that reason, I intend to go out the same way as Hunter S. Thompson!" McKennedy's last words echo in the altar, as many funeral patrons realize in confusion and bewilderment.

---

To debate on how McKennedy wanted his ashes to be taken care of, it wasn't something I could chew and shallow. McKennedy's ashes were mixed with gunpowder and loaded into several rockets. Mostly orange colored fireworks. While some of him was taken to Disneyland, he was blown sky high above the church. Some of the falling sparks landed at the nearby greenery, so us at the Daily Carrot will apologize to Mrs. Longbottom for accidently burning down her greenhouse. And we pay respects to Mr. Anderson's new car, after a rocket accidently was sent into his priceless sports coupe.

Some workers left the Daily Carrot after McKennedy's funeral, especially that scheming parasite Frisk Papperman. To where he gone after he was fired, no one knows. Some wished him well, but some of the staff left. New ones popped up, but it's obvious for someone like me to know there is now great change in the air.

Jean-Marc Consommer is a food critic and journalist for The Daily Carrot. He is known for several reviews applauding several restuarants in the Anywhere City business district. One can find him feasting on such exotic delicacies, much to the dismay of many average-minded individuals. You can contact him below this article, if you like to schedule an interview with him or have information to provide.

---

Francis Smith

Francis arrived early for his gig at The Daily Carrot, as he entered, wearing a shirt and tie. A white-collar gimmick, but it was something he wore trying to peddle Ford Pintos. After taking the old elevator, he walked straight to his office. The words "Office of the Editor" plastered on the window of the door in bold letters. He adjusted the blinds, as the early morning was shining above the city. He been here for several days and was just getting used to the ropes. It was better than being in several dead-end jobs. City does have a nice view of the Hagia Sophia and the third Statue of Liberty.

Now, he needed some coffee..with lots of sugar and cream. It helps him think. At least, he got to make sure the coffee machine wasn't full of tricks.

[Voxija]

Isaacarine Domeka Rosenberg, the youngest employee of the Daily Carrot, stared at the drinking bird toy on her desk out of boredom. Up... and down... Up... and down. Just like her life. One minute, she had a great life at the circus, and now she lived in a small apartment in Anywhere City, a city very new to Isaacarine. At least she got this job.

The old boss had hired her, but now the old boss was dead. Isaacarine had heard about the new boss, how he got the job because of nepotism, and how he hadn't even heard of his father. Eh. Isaacarine did not want to get involved in office politics. Or any politics. That was why she wanted to cover human interest stories, interviews with famous people, and rip apart trash books. Sorry, Isaacarine meant literary criticism.

Isaacarine got out of her chair. Now was the time to explore Anywhere City, and research a heartwarming article she wanted to write about a girl who threw a pool party for the bigwigs of Anywhere City.

Ouch! Isaacarine stubbed her toe. "Dang it!" Isaacarine did not swear. Everyone made fun of I.D. (one of Isaacarine's nicknames) because she didn't swear. Isaacarine was fourteen! What was she supposed to do, let loose with a cluster f bomb every time she stubbed her toe?

Isaacarine decided to walk off the pain. She sauntered out of her office and walked down the dilapidated hallway, ready to get to know the city more closely. Isaacarine found Anywhere City to be a beautiful town, with its harbors and mountains and bridges and parks and skyscrapers. Anywhere City was the metropolis for I. D. Rosenberg.

[Talchyon]

DeMarcus Clark

A tall, African-American man entered the decrepit building the same way he had for years. Late. He normally justified it as a business matter. If he was writing the sports columns, that meant he had to stay up and watch the late games, and then type everything up and select the right pictures, yada yada yada, which meant that he could come in to work late every day after a game. And most every other day at that. Because, again for work related reasons, he could always claim he was working overtime even in the offseasons, even if he was just doing one of his hundreds of fantasy football leagues at night or salivating over who he wanted teams to draft. And since the Daily Carrot was notoriously cheap, and the boss didn't like paying overtime, it made for a good working relationship for DeMarcus Clark.

That is to say, it had been a good working relationship for DeMarcus Clark. But now that his former editor, McKennedy Smith, had gone and gotten his bucket kicked, that is to say, he had gone and bought the farm, bit the big one, said 'sayonara'. Metaphorically, his old editor was pushing up daisies. But it could only be said metaphorically, since DeMarcus was sure that cremations didn't count for that, and especially not when their remains were blasted all over Disneyland. Regardless, McKennedy Smith had always grunted at DeMarcus coming in late, and didn't care.

But there was a new editor in town. And not that prick Frisk Papperman, either. Who knew what position he was going to have now at the Carrot? Maybe they'd stick him on something trivial. Useless. Something no one would want to read. The latest declarations from micro-nations, perhaps. But the new editor? Some guy named Francis Smith. DeMarcus was hoping the old "nod and wink" system going on at his habitual tardiness would go on. But who knew?

That's why DeMarcus was stopping in at the editor's desk first thing that morning. He had a story in hand, about a trade rumor involving three teams: the NBA's Atlanta Hawks, MLB's Tampa Bay Rays, and the NFL's Cincinnati Bengals. The Hawks were going to send the Rays a forward, who then would ship a draft pick (in the baseball draft!) to the Bengals, who would respond by sending the Hawks a backup defensive tackle. And while it sounded crazy, DeMarcus actually thought that that was the kind of trade that could benefit all three teams, since nothing else was seeming to work for those franchises. DeMarcus even had a picture, a pic he himself had photoshopped, somehow combining the jerseys and logos of the Hawks, the Rays and the Bengals together on one baseball-pantsed, basketball tank-topped, football helmeted wearing player. Who cared if it wasn't accurate? He simple said it came from an anonymous source.

Knocking on the editor's door, DeMarcus came in. He was wearing his traditional outfit - shorts, flip flops, a button up shirt, with three buttons undone and his undershirt showing beneath; a nice blue suit jacket. Getting the man's attention, whom DeMarcus assumed was the new head honcho in charge, he said, "Hey man. 'Sup. I'm guessing you're the new editor here? I'm DeMarcus Clark. Usually I'm the Carrot's sports reporter, and sometimes I do other articles too. Got my latest story ready for you, but I don't have your email yet."

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

I gazed into that orange-red flame, and it gazed back into me. We seemed to speak, that fire and I, as if I spoke one last time with Master Smith. Staring into that blaze told me more about his final wishes than any testament every could. The inferno was like a pyre to my ancient Viking ancestors of old, who would take all their possessions with them to Valhalla, leaving only their blood behind, knowing it would conquer like he had conquered.

It is a sacred text, a final will and testament. The last breath and influence, beyond one’s blood, a person will ever have on its earth. If we could see Time in its full and expanded glory, we would see these moments as the thick paint on a canvas, the colouration connecting one part with the other in the artwork of humanity. The greatest details and the brightest colours being provided by such great lineages as that of Master Smith.

The music plays on, and we enter a new meter in the grand symphony. Mister Smith lives on through his honoured son, who will be my treasured companion in time to come. Just like me, although perhaps in a lesser extent, he carries on his shoulder the legacy of generations. I wish him the best. May we see such majesty as that of McKennedy again. Such majesty.

“Such majesty…”

Maximillian August Wolfgang Schubert Müller, Count of Schwarzberg-Hinterhausen, stood firm in the soft blowing of an evening wind. The flames of orange licked the pink-amber sky, which was illuminated by sudden flashes from exploding fireworks. Grey-coloured specs floated down from the sky, a regrettable side effect of human ash not being flammable.

There was a time to come, and a time to go. As Max saw Frisk Papperman squirming on the floor, he knew it was time for him to go. He stepped over his colleague of two days, soon to be his former colleague, and began walking towards his car. However, before he could reach it, a rather angry-looking man stood in his way, his face red with tomato-like fury.

“Yes, my good man?” the old Max said, adjusting the half-moon spectacles adoring his nose. He threw his gigantic scarf over his shoulder, nearly smacking a passing bicyclist to the floor as he did so. It took a few moments for the man to catch his breath, so furious was he. Even then, for the first few seconds, all he could do was point at the artful pyre that was burning on the side of the road.

“THAT. WAS. MY. CAR.” He bellowed.

“Ah” Max replied, turning his head slightly. Now that the man mentioned it, the few remaining parts of the car that were not blackened by soot did look rather shiny and expensive.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK. DID. YOU. DO!” the man shouted out, releasing a bit of impolite spittle as he did so.

“My friend, I am awfully sorry to bring this up now” Max began, wiping some of the spittle off with a McDonalds napkin that had been self-embroidered.

“But you should really end a question with a question mark. For style, you could add the exclamation point before…”

Max saw the right fist of the car owner approach his face, just in time for him to bend over backwards, allowing the strike to pass by harmlessly. The owner of the car lost his balance and fell over, too dazed to make any more use of his expansive rage. Now, Max bent over forwards, and patted some dust from the man’s shoulder.

“Your car has served to be part of a beautiful piece of art, my friend, to rival the works of the great painters of old! Like… Rubens… and… you know… Anyway, I will of course give you something in return”

The face of the man lit up as Max moved his hand into his inner coat pocket, from which he withdrew what looked like a small black glasses case. With a pop Max opened it, withdrawing a small piece of metal suspended on some fabric. It looked suspiciously like a medal.

“It is my honour to award you the Honorific Cross of the House of Schwarzberg-Hinterhausen for the Benefit of Those who Contributed Masterfully or Otherwise to the Furthering of the Arts, Liberal or Otherwise, with Merit and 2nd Rank”

With the dexterity of someone who had performed the action countless times, Max pinned the medal on the breast pocket of the man’s shirt. A firm pat on the shoulder was enough to make it official, and before the man had time to respond, Max got into his Type S75 Atlanta Coupe, the famous word ‘Buggati’ adorning the steering wheel, and drove off.

The next morning, Max entered the office with a heavy heart, and an even heavier standing clock dragged in his wake. The screeching of the metal legs on the stone floor made anyone younger than 40 shiver, but his advanced age and deteriorated ears safeguarded Max from such inconvenience.

"Dang it!" Isaacarine shouted, apparently stubbing her toe. Max thought highly of her. She was a very well-behaved girl worthy of nobility, and he hoped she would make a match for one of his own grand-children one day. He lamented that betrothals had gone out of style, otherwise he would have gone to her parents at once.

“Good girl!” Max said, heaving with the exertion of dragging the clock with him. At exactly 9, a hideous raven-looking bird exited the clock, and gave nine terrifying shrieks that would have done well to accompany the apocalypse. After the ninth shriek, the raven cried out “Aye, nine there were, and in fifteen, another day closer to the grave!” Max did not listen much to the bird. He would be glad to have it out of the house, where it kept him up late at night. At midnight, it would cry twelve times, and say something morbid about death. Better let him do it here than back home.

After some heavy lifting, he got it into his office. There was barely any space to put it, though. Over the past three days, Max had loaded the office with knick-knacks from his home. Furniture, ancient vases, about three clocks to which he was adding a fourth, paintings of long-lost relatives… Finally, Max managed to squirm the clock between a cupboard and a globe showing the political situation in 1990, the most useless globe ever made. The globe was slightly dented, North Yemen in the process. Having finished that task, Max climbed over a few chairs and squished himself between his office chair and his desk, looking down at his typewriter.

“Another day…” he muttered, and he started writing down the notes he took the day before.

[Mediama]

Caroline Digby
CONTROL Regional Headquarters

Caroline Digby, alias Agent 73 (or was it the other way around? She wasn't sure herself) walked into the dilapidated building that served as the supposed regional headquarters of Sweet Nothings Co, Ltd. A greeting card company that served as the front for Anywhere City's Branch of CONTROL.

Today there was more to offer other than the usual briefing from the Chief of CONTROL.

Today was also the day she was going to introduce herself into her new job that was conveniently across the hallway from their headquarters.

She was rather excited to get the position after somehow acing the interview (She accidently spilled coffee on the interviewer's shirt, caused the door to the interview room to somehow disconnect from its hinges, and accidently set the wastebasket on fire after trying to light a cigarette).

Today was supposedly a somber day though, apparently the head honcho for the Daily Carrot had supposedly disappeared without a trace when he and his team tried to investigate the Bermuda Triangle (Maybe she should check in with the Bermuda branch of CONTROL to see if KAOS did anything, or they really DID disappear, wasn't really that uncommon in that area anyway). Nevertheless, she reminded herself to try to approach her new boss gently as she went through the multitude of reinforced doors, elevators, false entrances, and the like to meet up with the Chief.

One briefing and near accidental homicide later, Carol left the offices and walked across the hallway. She took a deep breath and told herself "You're going to do good today, you're going to do good today, just stay calm. You're the top agent of CONTROL, so you should do good enough here." She kept repeating herself like it was a mantra, before she checked her various hidden phones, cyanide pills, hidden cameras, hidden gadgets, and the Colt Detective Special hidden in her garter belt.

She gave a sigh, fixed her 1960's style dress, and walked into the office, she looked around before she found the door to the new Head-Editor's office, then walked towards it. She then knocked, and the door opened, to the face of a pretty woman.

"H-Hello, I'm Caroline Digby, I'm pretty new here, is this the editor's office?"

The woman shook her head, "No, that would be the next office over." She pointed to the door where someone else was already waiting outside.

"O-Oh, thanks." Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.

[Voxija]

Isaacarine Domeka Rosenberg

Isaacarine heard Maximillian say "Good girl!" Isaacarine frowned. Stubbing one's toe is good? Anyway, that German seemed a bit creepy. Like he was going to perv on her. And why was he dragging that gigantic clock anyway? He'd just scrape the floors. Isaacarine had heard a bit about her coworker. Mostly that he was German and he insisted on behaving like a royal brat. I. D. was fourteen and even she wasn't that childish.

Mind you, it would have been a compliment if Max wasn't German. A contradictory—and sometimes quite strange—attitude towards Germans and Germany was the only recognizably Jewish thing I. D. Rosenberg had inherited from her father. Besides the fact that she never ate pork. But that was different.

Isaacarine walked out of the ugly old Daily Carrot offices and observed her new home of Anywhere City. The beautiful foggy—no, it was just smoggy—sky. All the lovely old car wrecks in this part of town. And look—Isaacarine Rosenberg could see the Hagia Sophia in the distance. What a lovely city.

But enough blathering. I. D. Rosenberg had a story to research and write. In the circus, she'd learned a bit about gonzo journalism. Now it was time to apply what she'd learned.

The Daily Carrot

Local Girl Throws Pool Party for Anywhere City Bigwigs!

Written by I. D. Rosenberg
Now

Isaacarine Rosenberg walked the streets of Anywhere City. She once read a novel where a character memorized a map of the city, but I. D. didn't do that. The young journalist walked carefully, so not to stub her toe. Isaacarine always stubbed her toe during the worst moments. She hated that.

Isaacarine's destination was 42 Peachtree Lane, in a suburb of Anywhere City called Nowhere Land. Nowhere Land was considered part of Anywhere City by everyone except for certain people from out of town. A little girl named Isis Kerra (born before the rise of the Islamic State) living at 42 Peachtree Lane is throwing a pool party—right now! for important people living in Anywhere City. The pool party had gone viral 5 minutes after it started, and now—Isaacarine Rosenberg looked at her watch—it was thirty-nine minutes after it had gone viral. Hopefully the pool party would not have ended by the time I. D. got there.

Isaacarine Rosenberg heard a cry. "Help, please help me!" The fourteen-year-old did not ponder whether she should answer the cry for help. Isaacarine knew that journalists report on the news but they never make the news. So, she completely ignored the woman being murdered in Trictobothnia Building.

Isaacarine walked through Ellesmere Park, a beautiful grassy area surrounded by skyscrapers and honking cars. The cars looked like they were stuck in a traffic jam. Isaacarine Rosenberg was glad that she was walking. It was probably faster than the car. Isaacarine was so focused on not stubbing her toe that she tripped on something instead.

As the young journalist fell to the pavement (sidewalk, for you Americans), a teenage boy caught her. "Here, I'll help you up." As Isaacarine got up, she saw the face of her savior. It was an ugly pimpled face. Naturally, Isaacarine Rosenberg had to make a smart remark, and it had to be unexpected.

Isaacarine said, "I'm glad you helped me up. Teenage boys these days are too politically liberal to show chivalry." Hey, unnecessarily making something political is unexpected.

"Wait, what?", said the boy. "If I could vote, I would have voted—" then the boy saw Isaacarine's face. Although the journalist was merely average-looking, teenage boys are often so hormone-driven that they think every girl they see (or guy, if they're gay) is pretty. The boy continued the sentence. "I would have voted for you."

"Don't be silly," said the sometimes silly and usually hypocritical Rosenberg. "You delayed me while I was going somewhere important." Isaacarine feared the teenage boy would call the police and report the Daily Carrot on charges of child labor if she told him why she was going somewhere. I. D. stuck out her hand like a schizophrenic businessman. "I'm Isaacarine, but don't call me Sugar. What's your name?"

It was Gianni Bondier. Isaacarine, like she usually does, analyzed the boy's ethnicity in a heartbeat. Half-French, half-Italian. The two most romantic nations. Isaacarine asked Gianni's address and phone number, and got them. The journalist asked Gianni's Social Security number too, but Gianni didn't know his.

"See you later, Gianni." "You too, Id." Isaacarine walked away.

The rest of this walk to Peachtree Lane is boring, so I'll just take you into Isaacarine's thoughts for a bit.

He called me Id! I like being called Id! We're going to be good friends! There's no time for romance in work. I usually never see people of mixed ethnicity. Or race.

Okay, okay, I'm going to stop before it gets all lovey-dovey and/or culturally insensitive.

Isaacarine Rosenberg reached the path leading to the front door of 42 Peachtree Lane. The two-story house was colored peach. Isaacarine could hear screams of glee—or were they terror?—coming from the backyard. That must be the pool party.

Camera around her neck, Isaacarine walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. A Black American woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties answered the door.

"I'm Isaacarine, and don't call me Sugar," said the fourteen-year-old. "I'm a reporter for the Daily Carrot. Is this your house where the pool party is?"

Of course the woman knew which pool party. She was Violet Kerra, the mother of Isis Kerra, and she was proud of her daughter for going viral. "Yes, it is," said Violet Kerra. "But aren't you a little young to be a reporter?"

Isaacarine Rosenberg was delighted to get a chance to reference Phineas and Ferb. "Yes, yes I am. So, you're Mrs. Kerra? Miss Kerra?"

"Miss?" asked Ms. Kerra. "I'm flattered. Call me... Miss Kerra." Ms. Kerra giggled. Isaacarine was glad that a single mother, for once, called herself "Miss" instead of the artificial title Ms. Why'd anyone make up a new term when there was a perfectly good one already in use? But that wasn't important.

Isaacarine Domeka Rosenberg walked to the backyard, where the pool party was being held. It was an amazing sight! There was the Mayor of Anywhere City, and the owner of Cabbages and Kings restaurant, and, O! The inventor of the Thingamajig! And they were all swimming in the backyard pool with a young girl who looked about eight. But then... the reality came upon Isaacarine. These bigwigs didn't get their status from their looks. In fact... they all looked terrible in their bathing suits!

"Oh... hoogahooga." Isaacarine still did not swear, but the reporter decided not to take photos of the bigwigs. She walked over to the pool, being careful not to fall in. "So, Isis Kerra, how did you get the idea to hold this pool party?"

The little girl swam over to Isaacarine. "You see, big reporter lady, I just heard about how the Mayor and the inventor of the Thingamajig and other people wanted to make people's lives better, and all they got were jerks saying they were evil and mean. So I threw a pool party for them!"

Isaacarine interviewed all of the bigwigs, but they all said the same thing about how they were grateful to be here and how Isis was adorably precocious. It would be boring if I wrote it all out, so the interviews are summarized here.

Finally, Isaacarine D. Rosenberg had all the material she needed for a heartwarming human interest story, with some added unfortunate implications for controversy. Let's just hope it helps keep the Daily Carrot from failing.

[Main Nation Ministry]

Francis Smith

The knock at the editor-in chief's door alerted Francis, as he scrambled to maintain a professional posture. "Ahem! Come in!" Francis Smith said, as he put his hands together. Smith's office was more overly formal than the late predecessor. A scale model of the Daily Carrot offices was on a shelf, among several books of a variety of topics and information. Several artworks of ocean and animals motifs were hung and put in the office to give a theme. The door to the liquor cabinet was open from Francis adding some booze to his coffee to try to get the sleep out of his eyes. A radio playing a song on a low volume and a goldfish bowl was on his desk, along with his computer. For Francis Smith, he tried to look normal. Even if being normal isn't a thing here.

"Hey man. 'Sup. I'm guessing you're the new editor here? I'm DeMarcus Clark. Usually I'm the Carrot's sports reporter, and sometimes I do other articles too. Got my latest story ready for you, but I don't have your email yet."

"Yes. Yes I am. My name is Francis Smith. I will be the new editor here staying from yesterday afternoon. I had to make sure things suited my needs here in the office. With the sports season this year, it always would be good to do coverage in the country and in Anywhere City. Especially since they are making e-sports an official sport from the looks of it. If you got your story already in print, I'm happy to convert to digital for you, so it can be added to the newest issue. Let me put down my email for you, though." Francis got out a post-it note and pen and started to jolt down an email, however halfway in writing it down, he immediately crossed it off before he wrote another email down on the post-it note. "Sorry, the one that's crossed off is an email for a website I used.. Not that it matters. But this is my work email. Use it to contact me."

"Now for sporting events, I think there some stuff happening in Anywhere City related to sports. Just do what you would do best to get people invested in the magazine." Francis Smith, though he isn't aware that it might go over Clark's head. Meanwhile, it seems Caroline was recovering from her minor nose injury, as she was waiting outside of the office.

[Pax Nerdvana]

Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel sat at his desk, whittling a stick with an old Barlow pocket knife. Whittling helped him think. He trying to figure out the best way to start an article about the joys of hiking. It would be his first article as an actual journalist, seeing as he had been hired just a day earlier. He set the pocket knife down on his desk, and drained his coffee. He shifted his weight in the chair, and felt his uncle's Vietnam War era M1911 press against the small of his back. His Columbia light jacket did a good job of hiding the bulge. He carried out of years of habit, and recent attacks on journalists had made him a little nervous about safety. He began whittling again, making sure the shavings fell into the trash can next to his desk. He sat up straighter with a start, and said,"I have it!" He folded the blade on the pocket knife, and dropped it into his pocket. He set the partially whittled stick next to his laptop, and began typing...

[Talchyon]

Editor's office
DeMarcus Clark

Getting a good look at the new editor's office was something else. Guy had some serious issues, judging by things. The taxidermy specials throughout the room, perhaps. Or maybe it was the sad attempts at a Latin salsa dance coming from the guy's portable radio. Though he did have what looked like a liquor cabinet open at maybe 9:30 in the morning, so maybe there was hope for him yet. His personality? Well, that was something else.

Francis Smith

The knock at the editor-in chief's door alerted Francis, as he scrambled to maintain a professional posture. "Ahem! Come in!" Francis Smith said, as he put his hands together. Smith's office was more overly formal than the late predecessor. A scale model of the Daily Carrot offices was on a shelf, among several books of a variety of topics and information. Several artworks of ocean and animals motifs were hung and put in the office to give a theme. The door to the liquor cabinet was open from Francis adding some booze to his coffee to try to get the sleep out of his eyes. A radio playing a song on a low volume and a goldfish bowl was on his desk, along with his computer. For Francis Smith, he tried to look normal. Even if being normal isn't a thing here.

"Hey man. 'Sup. I'm guessing you're the new editor here? I'm DeMarcus Clark. Usually I'm the Carrot's sports reporter, and sometimes I do other articles too. Got my latest story ready for you, but I don't have your email yet."

"Yes. Yes I am. My name is Francis Smith. I will be the new editor here staying from yesterday afternoon. I had to make sure things suited my needs here in the office. With the sports season this year, it always would be good to do coverage in the country and in Anywhere City. Especially since they are making e-sports an official sport from the looks of it. If you got your story already in print, I'm happy to convert to digital for you, so it can be added to the newest issue. Let me put down my email for you, though." Francis got out a post-it note and pen and started to jolt down an email, however halfway in writing it down, he immediately crossed it off before he wrote another email down on the post-it note. "Sorry, the one that's crossed off is an email for a website I used.. Not that it matters. But this is my work email. Use it to contact me."

"Now for sporting events, I think there some stuff happening in Anywhere City related to sports. Just do what you would do best to get people invested in the magazine." Francis Smith, though he isn't aware that it might go over Clark's head. Meanwhile, it seems Caroline was recovering from her minor nose injury, as she was waiting outside of the office.

DeMarcus took the post-it with the new editor's email, with an one eyebrow raised, like this (but only kind of, because obviously that's not him). "Right. I'll get my story to you soon. And I'll look into some of those stories on e-sports. Enjoy your hard liquor."

But as Demarcus turned to go, he opened the door and saw a woman standing there, rubbing her nose. White girl. Skinny, shortish brunette hair, in a either horribly retro or blazenly cutting edge hairstyle, not like anyone could tell the difference.

Caroline Digby
Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.

DeMarcus said to the woman, "Uh, if you need a kleenex, the ladies' room is down the hallway." Then he shuffled on back to his cubicle.

On the way, the screeching of something heavy grated on his sanity. "Great," he thought. "There's only two things that make a sound like that, and I'm pretty sure no rabid pregnant hyenas are here. That leaves Max." Max would be the erstwhile kook who was dragging a heavy grandfather clock which looked like it had been sitting in some seventh-rate antique shop in a geriatric community. Max had been working at the Carrot about as long as DeMarcus, and even after this time, nothing about the guy made DeMarcus want to spend any more time with him than was possible. Max was as close to certifiable as you could get without having certificates available. And it was just DeMarcus' awful luck that his cubicle was right next door to the nutcase's office. The man got an office! He got to put all his - well, the stuff that somehow must have appealed to the lalas living in his head or something - in that office. He could spread out. But DeMarcus? Ha! He had a cubicle. Same cubicle he always had.

Once, he had gone to his old editor and asked why Max got the office and he didn't. McKinney was all political, talking a lot of crap about good working conditions and good will, but the only thing DeMarcus could figure out was that he was keeping Max in that other office because it was the furthest from the editor's own.

Which didn't sit well when DeMarcus' office was practically just a smidge closer.

When he got to his cubicle, though, there was a strange man sitting in his chair. With a knife!

[b]Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel sat at his desk, whittling a stick with an old Barlow pocket knife. Whittling helped him think. He trying to figure out the best way to start an article about the joys of hiking. It would be his first article as an actual journalist, seeing as he had been hired just a day earlier. He set the pocket knife down on his desk, and drained his coffee. He shifted his weight in the chair, and felt his uncle's Vietnam War era M1911 press against the small of his back. His Columbia light jacket did a good job of hiding the bulge. He carried out of years of habit, and recent attacks on journalists had made him a little nervous about safety. He began whittling again, making sure the shavings fell into the trash can next to his desk. He sat up straighter with a start, and said,"I have it!" He folded the blade on the pocket knife, and dropped it into his pocket. He set the partially whittled stick next to his laptop, and began typing...

DeMarcus coughed politely. Then coughed a bit louder 'cause the guy was still typing. "'Scuse me," he started. "I think you got the wrong desk. That's my cubicle. See?" And DeMarcus pointed to some of the pictures on the backboard of the cubicle, showing fanboy shots with DeMarcus trying to get pictures with uncomfortable looking professional athletes.

[Mediama]

Editor's office
DeMarcus Clark

[b]Caroline Digby
Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.

DeMarcus said to the woman, "Uh, if you need a kleenex, the ladies' room is down the hallway." Then he shuffled on back to his cubicle.

Carol nodded and mumbled out a thanks. She looked back down the hallway, down to the ladies room. Do I have time to freshen up real quick? Probably not, I'm already a little late as it is. She decided to blindly dig into her purse to take out a handkerchief to wipe her nose as she pinched her nose to stop the bleeding.

Instead of pulling out a handkerchief, she accidently grabbed another woman's sleeve, prompting a shriek and a loud slap to sound across the offices.

Carol quickly said her apologies, and groaned as the lady left, her own cheeks burning from embarrassment and from the sharp pain that come from the slap. She dug back into her purse, her hand right on target this time, and pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her nose clean from the bleeding. After cleaning herself up, she gave a little knock before she quakingly walked into the office.

"G-Good morning Mr..." She quickly peered behind the door to look at the nametag on the door before she leaned back into the room "Editor, Mr. Editor sir!" She said, she attempted to walk forward and reached out a hand to shake, before she tripped on a fly, resulting in a summersault toe-jump towards the editor, true to her gymnastics training, she landed on her feet like a cat as if she never tripped at all.

She looked around dazedly at the room, taking in the happy-go-lucky, yet annoying song coming from the radio, to the kinda-yet-not-really clean room filled with paitings that tried to make the room look facy, and the various books that made the editor look a little more studious than he probably seemed, to the alcohol cabinet opened so early in the morning. Never too late for a drink, I guess. She thought as she shook her head to get herself out of said daze, and reached her hand out to shake again.

"I-I'm Caroline Digby. I-I applied to become a journalist and a comics artist for you paper before the... um..." An awkward silence filled the air, "Accident?" She asked meekly in an attempt to try to soften the blow to her boss' father's fate. "I-I know it's your first day here, i-it's mine as well, so I just wanted to introduce myself before I got started." She smiled meekly in hopes that maybe she hasn't screwed everything just yet.

I mean, it's so early in the morning, it can't all go wrong immediately, right?

[Pax Nerdvana]

Editor's office
DeMarcus Clark

Getting a good look at the new editor's office was something else. Guy had some serious issues, judging by things. The taxidermy specials throughout the room, perhaps. Or maybe it was the sad attempts at a Latin salsa dance coming from the guy's portable radio. Though he did have what looked like a liquor cabinet open at maybe 9:30 in the morning, so maybe there was hope for him yet. His personality? Well, that was something else.

Francis Smith

The knock at the editor-in chief's door alerted Francis, as he scrambled to maintain a professional posture. "Ahem! Come in!" Francis Smith said, as he put his hands together. Smith's office was more overly formal than the late predecessor. A scale model of the Daily Carrot offices was on a shelf, among several books of a variety of topics and information. Several artworks of ocean and animals motifs were hung and put in the office to give a theme. The door to the liquor cabinet was open from Francis adding some booze to his coffee to try to get the sleep out of his eyes. A radio playing a song on a low volume and a goldfish bowl was on his desk, along with his computer. For Francis Smith, he tried to look normal. Even if being normal isn't a thing here.



"Yes. Yes I am. My name is Francis Smith. I will be the new editor here staying from yesterday afternoon. I had to make sure things suited my needs here in the office. With the sports season this year, it always would be good to do coverage in the country and in Anywhere City. Especially since they are making e-sports an official sport from the looks of it. If you got your story already in print, I'm happy to convert to digital for you, so it can be added to the newest issue. Let me put down my email for you, though." Francis got out a post-it note and pen and started to jolt down an email, however halfway in writing it down, he immediately crossed it off before he wrote another email down on the post-it note. "Sorry, the one that's crossed off is an email for a website I used.. Not that it matters. But this is my work email. Use it to contact me."

"Now for sporting events, I think there some stuff happening in Anywhere City related to sports. Just do what you would do best to get people invested in the magazine." Francis Smith, though he isn't aware that it might go over Clark's head. Meanwhile, it seems Caroline was recovering from her minor nose injury, as she was waiting outside of the office.

DeMarcus took the post-it with the new editor's email, with an one eyebrow raised, like this (but only kind of, because obviously that's not him). "Right. I'll get my story to you soon. And I'll look into some of those stories on e-sports. Enjoy your hard liquor."

But as Demarcus turned to go, he opened the door and saw a woman standing there, rubbing her nose. White girl. Skinny, shortish brunette hair, in a either horribly retro or blazenly cutting edge hairstyle, not like anyone could tell the difference.

Caroline Digby
Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.

DeMarcus said to the woman, "Uh, if you need a kleenex, the ladies' room is down the hallway." Then he shuffled on back to his cubicle.

On the way, the screeching of something heavy grated on his sanity. "Great," he thought. "There's only two things that make a sound like that, and I'm pretty sure no rabid pregnant hyenas are here. That leaves Max." Max would be the erstwhile kook who was dragging a heavy grandfather clock which looked like it had been sitting in some seventh-rate antique shop in a geriatric community. Max had been working at the Carrot about as long as DeMarcus, and even after this time, nothing about the guy made DeMarcus want to spend any more time with him than was possible. Max was as close to certifiable as you could get without having certificates available. And it was just DeMarcus' awful luck that his cubicle was right next door to the nutcase's office. The man got an office! He got to put all his - well, the stuff that somehow must have appealed to the lalas living in his head or something - in that office. He could spread out. But DeMarcus? Ha! He had a cubicle. Same cubicle he always had.

Once, he had gone to his old editor and asked why Max got the office and he didn't. McKinney was all political, talking a lot of crap about good working conditions and good will, but the only thing DeMarcus could figure out was that he was keeping Max in that other office because it was the furthest from the editor's own.

Which didn't sit well when DeMarcus' office was practically just a smidge closer.

When he got to his cubicle, though, there was a strange man sitting in his chair. With a knife!

[b]Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel sat at his desk, whittling a stick with an old Barlow pocket knife. Whittling helped him think. He trying to figure out the best way to start an article about the joys of hiking. It would be his first article as an actual journalist, seeing as he had been hired just a day earlier. He set the pocket knife down on his desk, and drained his coffee. He shifted his weight in the chair, and felt his uncle's Vietnam War era M1911 press against the small of his back. His Columbia light jacket did a good job of hiding the bulge. He carried out of years of habit, and recent attacks on journalists had made him a little nervous about safety. He began whittling again, making sure the shavings fell into the trash can next to his desk. He sat up straighter with a start, and said,"I have it!" He folded the blade on the pocket knife, and dropped it into his pocket. He set the partially whittled stick next to his laptop, and began typing...

DeMarcus coughed politely. Then coughed a bit louder 'cause the guy was still typing. "'Scuse me," he started. "I think you got the wrong desk. That's my cubicle. See?" And DeMarcus pointed to some of the pictures on the backboard of the cubicle, showing fanboy shots with DeMarcus trying to get pictures with uncomfortable looking professional athletes.

Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel turned and said,"Sorry, I'm kind of new around here", and began to stand up. He continued,"Would you be so kind as to point me towards where my desk is." Daniel turned, so as to be able to shake hands. "I'm Daniel Van Dyke, but people call me Dutch."

[Main Nation Ministry]

Francis Smith

"Right. I'll get my story to you soon. And I'll look into some of those stories on e-sports. Enjoy your hard liquor."

"Right. Righ-" It wasn't until Francis realizes that DeMarcus knows about Smih's little drinking habit. This wasn't a bit good. He wanted to try to maintain a positive friendship with his fellow workers, but he needed to look more presentable. It wasn't until he heard a little knock a while later, was when he tried to maintain his professional posture again. "Come in."

"G-Good morning Mr..." She quickly peered behind the door to look at the nametag on the door before she leaned back into the room "Editor, Mr. Editor sir!" She said, she attempted to walk forward and reached out a hand to shake, before she tripped on a fly, resulting in a summersault toe-jump towards the editor, true to her gymnastics training, she landed on her feet like a cat as if she never tripped at all.

"I-I'm Caroline Digby. I-I applied to become a journalist and a comics artist for you paper before the... um..." An awkward silence filled the air, "Accident?" She asked meekly in an attempt to try to soften the blow to her boss' father's fate. "I-I know it's your first day here, i-it's mine as well, so I just wanted to introduce myself before I got started." She smiled meekly in hopes that maybe she hasn't screwed everything just yet.

"Well, I'm not Mr. Editor, but-" it was then that Smith saw the weirdest thing. Carol managed to trip over a pebble-sized fly, where with some gymnastics, she somersaulted towards his desk. Smith was dumbfounded at first, but he tried to welcome this agile woman into the job. "Right! My name isn't Mr. Editor. Only Francis Smith. But I am the editor, still." Francis Smith, getting into the groove. "For comic artists, here's my advice. As long as you know how to use Mircosoft Paint. That's the only requirement to be a comic artist here. You could bring some fancy art program for the comics, but as long as people can be interested in the comics, you should be fine."

"Also, please don't trip on anything on the way out. I don't want any new workers having any accidents that could lead to some lawsuits." Francis Smith said to Carol.

Jean-Marc Consommer

The elevator opened up at the floor of the Daily Carrot, as the great Jean-Marc Consommer strolled out with some french music to mark his arrival. With the cane as he walked, he entered to see the many workers going about with their own shenanigans. He required some fine Pinot Noir from the year of 1898 to get his nerves working. Entering his office with the fine antiques from his years of working in the Daily Carrot, he started to check his computer for what restaurants are offering to let him review their establishments. A long pile of business cards and matchbooks from many restaurants he reviewed. Now what restaurant was on the top of his list for reviewing?

"Let's see.." Jean-Marc checked his email. A recent one happened to be from a restaurant in Anywhere City's Arts District. Jean-Marc read the description, but he knew that something about it wouldn't be pleasant.

"Rosario's House. Experience a new form of Mexican cuisine in avant-garde style! Exclusive opening at the Anywhere City Arts District!"

Avant-garde was a bit of a red flag for Jean-Marc. He wasn't no Maximillian August Wolfgang Schubert Müller, Count of Schwarzberg-Hinterhausen, but even if the food that Consommer ate was works of arts, he knew avant-garde when he saw it. He might as well schedule a reservation. Perhaps with the new editor in-chief? And maybe he can convince some of his fellow co-workers?

[Main Nation Ministry]

Jean-Marc Consommer

"Alright! It's best I should ask the fellow editor in-chief and my colleagues, if they wish to head to Rosario's House for a review of their dinner menu! Now let's-"

It was then that a badly-edited jump cut occurs, where Jean-Marc, Francis and several others now found themselves in the evening at the Arts District.

"-see if there are interested in- Oh bon sang! What in the world?" Consommer exclaimed, as Francis Smith appeared next to him, as they were out in the middle of the street. "We're here at Rosario's House. Place doesn't look like a Mexican joint to me.." Smith said, where-

---

"HOLD ON! What was that jumpcut!? Was that...? Was that supposed to be a reference to something? Like that 1960 french film Breathless that barely anyone of the audience would know about?! You do also realize that doing jumpcuts like this removes the opportunity for character development!" Jean-Marc Consommer complained to the director, as he had to walk on stage to calm the actor playing Jean-Marc Consommer down. "Jeez, what is it?"
"You can't have the editing team suddenly chop up the film like this! I didn't arrive from France to be meddled by some B-List director!"
"Phillipe.. If you have a problem, tell the producer. You didn't even write this frickin' script. Now stop complaining and continue on with the scene." the director said, before turning to the viewer of this site.

"Deeply apologize for the inconvenience. Let's roll this scene again. Start at when they arrive at the restaurant."

---

A Night at Rosario's House
Written by Jean-Marc Consommer

"Here we are. Rosario's House. I'm sure all of you have empty stomachs!" Jean-Marc said, as Francis looked around, uneasy. "Jean-Marc. Why is there someone vomiting into the fountain over there? Also, is that guy T-posing?" Francis said, noticing the oddities centered around the restaurant. "It's a sign that this restaurant is a tourist trap! Je ne peux pas me tromper. Come now, everyone. I booked us a reservation." Jean-Marc said, as he opened the door and entered. However, for the oddest of reasons, as Francis was walking up to assist with reservations, some woman that was leaving, aggresively shoulder-shoved him. Before Francis can react, he suddenly felt someone slam a glass beer bottle over his head, shattering into hundred of small pieces.

As Jean-Marc was explaining what table he wanted him and the people with him at, Francis Smith popped up in a daze. "Hey, I think someone assaulted me. What the hell just happened?" Smith said, as he was too confused to be shocked or mad. "I think we need a table by the bar." "Ok, gentlemen. You and your party may come." the waiter said, as they were led to their table.

The overall interior didn't even look like some Mexican joint. It was more of the pompous old-fashioned 4-star look that a lot of pricey restaurants would look like. But the food has to be good, right? Taking a seat, Smith looked at the menu and immediately noticed a red flag. So did Consommer.
"Uhhh.. They serve pork blood tacos? How does that work?"
"Order it. It's listed as a special and I must examine how they prepare it. Clearly if they are doing Mexican cuisine in the style of avant-garde, then they must have some passion!" Jean-Marc said, as he was examining food on the menu. Most of the selections were recipes that not even a college dorm munchie man would come up with.

[Talchyon]

The restaurant - Chez Trashy, or whatever it was called
DeMarcus Clark

That was weird. DeMarcus could swear that one moment he was hustling some noob rookie out of his desk, and now, all of a sudden he was at lunch. Didn't he just get to work, like, what was it? 10:08 on the dot? (Early, in other words?) And now, it was like, noon-ish? He checked his watch. Yep. Noon-ish. He still couldn't understand why it felt like he had been zoning off for, I don't know, several months at a time or something. Which probably meant that he didn't get anything really done this morning. He hoped the new editor wouldn't notice, or care, or both.

The restaurant was called "Rosario's House." But that's probably because "Disheveled Crime Scene" was probably already taken. Ducking as a stray dart from the dartboard game went really far astray, DeMarcus took a look around him and wished he were blind. Some things you just can't un-see. Two guys at the far table were trying to outdo each other with what appeared to be a contest to prove who could stuff the largest amount of chimichangas in their mouths at once. It looked like both were up to 8 or 9, that had been squished one on top of the other with half of the conglomerate hanging out of their mouths. Then at a table next to them, several guys were passed out. Another table was knocked over, and a fight was starting with two or three drunken sailors trying to push each other and not being steady enough to do so. A guy was in the corner urinating on the wall.

DeMarcus didn't want to stay there longer than they had to. "Who picked this place? Man, this ain't right." He sat down at the table and took a sticky, disgusting feeling menu. As he looked at everything the dumpster fire of a lunch place offered, the only thing that he knew he might possibly want was the number for the state board of health.

"Yeah, I lost my appetite." Then, figuring that a glass of water couldn't be messed up that bad, DeMarcus ordered that and that alone, much to the annoyance of the waitress. He looked around at his colleagues at the paper, and the new editor. "So, we havin' a staff meeting or is this just your way of saying 'I'm glad to be with you'?"

[Voxija]

Isaacarine Rosenberg

The young journalist was writing down her pool party article and walking toward the Daily Carrot offices when she just bamfed over to this freaky restaurant place. At least she was going to be working directly with the new editor, although Isaacarine did wish she could've traveled by map.

She looked at her much older colleagues, and although she was paranoid, Isaacarine decided who cares? Kids did seem to grow up faster in this town, and with all the oddities in this restaurant, police probably weren't going to come in and arrest the Daily Carrot for child labor and its staff for pedophilia.

The menu was strange. Pork blood tacos were the least of it, although that did catch Isaacarine's eye first. Isaacarine didn't much enjoy pork, but that was because pigs are the smartest animal on the farm if the farmer voted Libertarian. And blood? Isaacarine hadn't been a vampire since she was 12 and read Twilight. Isaacarine Rosenberg liked cheese, and she was here for the quesadillas.

But all Rosenberg could do was look at the menu. She really didn't want to look at anywhere else in the restaurant. Despacito was playing as background music. Did that even count as Mexican music? All in all, Isaacarine had one thing to say.

"Oh, fudge."

[Mediama]

Jean-Marc Consommer

"Alright! It's best I should ask the fellow editor in-chief and my colleagues, if they wish to head to Rosario's House for a review of their dinner menu! Now let's-"

It was then that a badly-edited jump cut occurs, where Jean-Marc, Francis and several others now found themselves in the evening at the Arts District.

"-see if there are interested in- Oh bon sang! What in the world?" Consommer exclaimed, as Francis Smith appeared next to him, as they were out in the middle of the street. "We're here at Rosario's House. Place doesn't look like a Mexican joint to me.." Smith said, where-

---

"HOLD ON! What was that jumpcut!? Was that...? Was that supposed to be a reference to something? Like that 1960 french film Breathless that barely anyone of the audience would know about?! You do also realize that doing jumpcuts like this removes the opportunity for character development!" Jean-Marc Consommer complained to the director, as he had to walk on stage to calm the actor playing Jean-Marc Consommer down. "Jeez, what is it?"
"You can't have the editing team suddenly chop up the film like this! I didn't arrive from France to be meddled by some B-List director!"
"Phillipe.. If you have a problem, tell the producer. You didn't even write this frickin' script. Now stop complaining and continue on with the scene." the director said, before turning to the viewer of this site.

"Deeply apologize for the inconvenience. Let's roll this scene again. Start at when they arrive at the restaurant."

---

A Night at Rosario's House
Written by Jean-Marc Consommer

"Here we are. Rosario's House. I'm sure all of you have empty stomachs!" Jean-Marc said, as Francis looked around, uneasy. "Jean-Marc. Why is there someone vomiting into the fountain over there? Also, is that guy T-posing?" Francis said, noticing the oddities centered around the restaurant. "It's a sign that this restaurant is a tourist trap! Je ne peux pas me tromper. Come now, everyone. I booked us a reservation." Jean-Marc said, as he opened the door and entered. However, for the oddest of reasons, as Francis was walking up to assist with reservations, some woman that was leaving, aggresively shoulder-shoved him. Before Francis can react, he suddenly felt someone slam a glass beer bottle over his head, shattering into hundred of small pieces.

As Jean-Marc was explaining what table he wanted him and the people with him at, Francis Smith popped up in a daze. "Hey, I think someone assaulted me. What the hell just happened?" Smith said, as he was too confused to be shocked or mad. "I think we need a table by the bar." "Ok, gentlemen. You and your party may come." the waiter said, as they were led to their table.

The overall interior didn't even look like some Mexican joint. It was more of the pompous old-fashioned 4-star look that a lot of pricey restaurants would look like. But the food has to be good, right? Taking a seat, Smith looked at the menu and immediately noticed a red flag. So did Consommer.
"Uhhh.. They serve pork blood tacos? How does that work?"
"Order it. It's listed as a special and I must examine how they prepare it. Clearly if they are doing Mexican cuisine in the style of avant-garde, then they must have some passion!" Jean-Marc said, as he was examining food on the menu. Most of the selections were recipes that not even a college dorm munchie man would come up with.

Carol was unnerved by the sudden change of scenery to say the least. One moment she was in the newsroom, getting ready to go find where her cubicle was located (if she even had a cubicle), maybe take up that offer that the French journalist was offering (Consumer was his name? Certainly was odd); the next she found herself at the offered restaurant, or at least the set as the actor for Consumer was yelling angrily at the director, she could only slowly process what was going on as she just stared at the perceived camera and just smiled, before the film went back to its course.

---

Returning back to the show at hand, Carol could only look at the ensuing retching, brawling and general Capital K KAOS unfold before her. She eyed the scene before her and shrugged, being a CONTROL field agent meant that she had faced a multitude of weird situations, whether it be creating ice ages with a simple common fan, attempts to annihilate the nation's potato supply, or just littering, she took it all in stride.

As they walked in, however, she began to notice another oddity Wait a minute, I thought this was supposed to be a Mexican restaurant. Her thoughts voiced exactly be a further enraged Consumer. She looked around for a moment, and found the décor to be more French than Mexican. Guess this is just another part of Mexico then? she pondered. As Consumer was engrossed in confirming the reservations Carol looked around, then looked back towards the group, "Excuse me, I need to freshen up a bit I'll be back." she turned and left, not noticing that Francis just got clobbered by a beer bottle. As she found a secure place, a little restroom/fountain area. She looked around making sure the coast was clear, before she took off her heel, took off its heel, and then unfolded the receiver and turned the rotary dial for CONTROL headquarters.

She looked around again then a bit loudly reported in, "This is Agent 73 calling CONTROL, this is 73 calling CONTROL, come in CONTROL, over."

"This is Chief 73, what seems to be the problem?"

"Chief, I'm at that new Mexican place that just opened up, Rosario's house."

"Yeah go on?"

"Chief, are Mexican restaurants supposed to look like French restaurants?"

"What Kind of question is that?! OF COURSE NOT!" Carol grimaced and briefly held her shoe phone out at a distance.

"In that case, I might've just found a front for KAOS."

"Carol, KAOS has plenty of hideouts already, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be that obvious with their hideouts."

"what about that ti-"

"Carol, you've got to stop bringing up the cuckoo clock incident! We all know what happened! And that was the only time something like that happened!" A sigh was heard through the earpiece, "Carol, just relax, and keep an eye out for anything strange, if anything happens, call me immediately, and I can have some CONTROL agents arrive on the double."

"Right Chief, I'll keep my palette phone ready." Carol was almost about to hang up, before she realized something, "By the way Chief, do we happen to have an extra supply of anti-sodium calcium chloride and anti-pro-anti sodium calcium chloride tablets and the like?"

"We do, why?"

"No reason, just in case." She folded up her assembly, reattached the heel, and slipped it back on, before turned to find that a clearly confused woman was staring at her.

Carol blushed, then waved it off and said, "Just had a call from my husband, get some groceries and the like... nothing to see here..."

"Uh huh...." The woman said, before she pushed past Carol and slipped into the ladies' room.

She sighed in relief, checked to make sure her detective special was still in her garter holster, took her mirror out to make sure everything was in order, then walked back towards the group, to which they were led towards their table.

Immediately as soon as she was handed a menu, her eyes quickly darted down towards their selection of alcohol.

Like her father always said, you weren't a real spy unless you slammed down alcohol like an athlete slams down steroids, or a businessman slams down coffee, or a gamer slams down Redmountainmonsterbulldew.

It also didn't help that she was an expensive girl at times.

Plus, it wasn't like she was out of her issued Absorbo pills, so any ill-effects from the beverages she ordered should should be mitigated to an extent. All the while she peered over her menu to see if there were any suspicious KAOS-like agent around, basically any shady person with a Russian, Chinese, Latin, or Germanic accent (or maybe hadji? God she was losing track of the number of branches KAOS had, and the amount of threats CONTROL had to deal with on the daily).

When it came to making a decision on what to get, a bit blind on Mexican cuisine, she fell back to her training, and that was the fact that Taco Bell was just as Mexican as they come.

That or whatever garbage the public schools dished out.

"I'll have a quesarito, a crunchwrap supreme, or nachos, whatever's available. Maybe some tequila to go along with that." As she ordered, she distinctly remembered that there was an important facet that the editor mentioned that seemed to be alarming to her, but she shook her head at that and metaphorically kicked the can down the road for later.

It couldn't be that important, can it?

[Main Nation Ministry]

Francis Smith and Jean-Marc Consommer

"Let's see..." Jean-Marc adjusted his spectacles, as he analyzed the menu. "I shall take the peanut butter, cheese, jelly, and broccoli special. One chicken burger." Jean-Marc putting some emphasis on the burger, where Francis slowly turned towards Jean-Marc as the former's expression was that of confusion and disgust. "One sushi taco. The pine needle salad with baby shampoo dressing. And I shall take the pork blood tacos with packing peanuts on the side." Jean-Marc finished saying his order to the waiter, as Smith went up next. "I think I take a water with a plain taco of any meat, please." Francis said, as the waitress shot him a bit of a nasty look, before leaving with everyone's orders on a notepad.

"Well, to answer your question, Clark. I guess this really is another way of saying 'I'm glad to be with you and knowing about what happens here' type of stuff." Francis said, trying to cheer up the atmosphere at the table, as the place looked like it had a C health rating. "I mean..." Francis said to get nervous when speaking, because he didn't want to jinx anything. "I mean, the dining room here is a disaster, but I think the food will be great!" Smith said, as the waitress appeared with drinks of water for everyone.

It wasn't before Smith was about to take a sip was when he noticed something weird with the water. "Uhhh..waitress? I think someone spat in the water?" Smith asked the waitress, but she immediately ignored him. Jean-Marc, who seem ignorant to the situation, as he sipped his water that contain a noticable glob of yellow-green phlegm. "A nice dash of lemon to clench my throat." Jean-Marc said, as he was writting some notes down on his notepad.

[Voxija]

The waitress came over to Isaacarine Rosenberg when she was still in shock.

"Oh, fudge, oh fudge."

Isaacarine noticed the waitress looking confused at her, and then said, "Oh, I didn't actually want fudge, I want a quesadilla with some plain water."

The waitress gave the young journalist two fingers (the British way to flip someone off).

When the waitress came back with the water, Isaacarine looked at hers carefully. It was too brown to be water. Maybe it was sewage. No, it didn't smell like sewage. In fact... it smelled like beer. Isaacarine was obviously underage, so she probably would have preferred sewage.

I. D. saw Jean-Marc writing down his thoughts. Isaacarine had good hearing, since she performed in the circus and had to hear orders over the trumpeting of elephants and the roar of the crowds. Was he... preparing to write a favorable review?

"Uh... Monsieur Consommer?" Rosenberg would have to stop using ellipses in her thoughts and speech so often. "Although I haven't tried the food yet, I would still like to give my opinion. Even if the food is the best ever, this place deserves only one star for the ambience alone."

[Talchyon]

The restaurant
DeMarcus Clark

It turns out that even ordering water wasn't safe here. Not with the globule of phlegm floating in the Carrot's esteemed food critic's drink. Not that Jean-Marc Consommer was the brightest of bulbs in the room to even notice. As for DeMarcus, his own water had nasty looking brown streaks rising up from the bottom of the glass, from some crud on the bottom of the glass that had obviously not been cleaned. As the waitress slopped down his drink and spilled some of it on the table, she glared at him with an uppity look that seemed to say, "That's what you get for not ordering anything real."

Suddenly, he lost not only his appetite, but also his thirst. "Ah, hell no!" he shouted, looking at the rancid drink as a family of cockroaches claimed their territory near that cruddy water, set it up as their nest, and began to drink from the spillage on the table.

Francis Smith and Jean-Marc Consommer

"Let's see..." Jean-Marc adjusted his spectacles, as he analyzed the menu. "I shall take the peanut butter, cheese, jelly, and broccoli special. One chicken burger." Jean-Marc putting some emphasis on the burger, where Francis slowly turned towards Jean-Marc as the former's expression was that of confusion and disgust. "One sushi taco. The pine needle salad with baby shampoo dressing. And I shall take the pork blood tacos with packing peanuts on the side." Jean-Marc finished saying his order to the waiter, as Smith went up next. "I think I take a water with a plain taco of any meat, please." Francis said, as the waitress shot him a bit of a nasty look, before leaving with everyone's orders on a notepad.

"Well, to answer your question, Clark. I guess this really is another way of saying 'I'm glad to be with you and knowing about what happens here' type of stuff." Francis said, trying to cheer up the atmosphere at the table, as the place looked like it had a C health rating. "I mean..." Francis said to get nervous when speaking, because he didn't want to jinx anything. "I mean, the dining room here is a disaster, but I think the food will be great!" Smith said, as the waitress appeared with drinks of water for everyone.

It wasn't before Smith was about to take a sip was when he noticed something weird with the water. "Uhhh..waitress? I think someone spat in the water?" Smith asked the waitress, but she immediately ignored him. Jean-Marc, who seem ignorant to the situation, as he sipped his water that contain a noticable glob of yellow-green phlegm. "A nice dash of lemon to clench my throat." Jean-Marc said, as he was writting some notes down on his notepad.

DeMarcus looked up at Francis as he spoke. "Well, man, you want to know what's going on here? Jean-Marc over there is our food critic. Can't wait to see his recommendations on this place when we're done. You know I do sports. Shorty over here," he said, pointing to Isaacarine, "she does a lot of in depth pieces. Last one I read from her was on about some TikToks she found funny, that right?" And then, pointing to Carol who seemed to have disappeared, DeMarcus said, "And then, new girl over there, I don't really know her."

Looking back at Isaacarine, DeMarcus said, "Sorry 'bout that 'Shorty' bit. I still can't believe you're the legal age limit to actually work, but some people just look younger I guess."

[Voxija]

Isaacarine Rosenberg glanced at DeMarcus's rancid drink. Yes, the fourteen-year-old had been lucky to only get beer. Isaacarine had a notion floating around in her brain: this restaurant was Satanic. But that notion quickly fled when DeMarcus addressed her.

DeMarcus looked up at Francis as he spoke. "Well, man, you want to know what's going on here? Jean-Marc over there is our food critic. Can't wait to see his recommendations on this place when we're done. You know I do sports. Shorty over here," he said, pointing to Isaacarine, "she does a lot of in depth pieces. Last one I read from her was on about some TikToks she found funny, that right?" And then, pointing to Carol who seemed to have disappeared, DeMarcus said, "And then, new girl over there, I don't really know her."

Looking back at Isaacarine, DeMarcus said, "Sorry 'bout that 'Shorty' bit. I still can't believe you're the legal age limit to actually work, but some people just look younger I guess."[/quote]

"Eh, it's okay. You can call me Shorty. I've been called worse in my time." Isaacarine definitely had. As a mixed-race girl with a Voxijan mother and a Jewish father, she'd been called a shekelgrabber, a Vozo, a mutt, and some other epithets unsuitable for a family-friendly forum.

"And as for being old enough to work here, I'm surprised myself. I've had a lot of experience in the circus, so you know. It's just... I feel I can't tell anybody my occupation or else they'll arrest you guys. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Thinking this 'restaurant' is Satanic is pretty paranoid."

Wait, Jean-Marc Consommer didn't respond to ID's remark. Isaacarine felt like she slipped into another universe. No, she remembered doing so, the weird feeling in her stomach was hunger combining with being grossed-out. Isaacarine sipped the beer. It was her first beer. It tasted like urine. She shoved the beer away quickly.

[Main Nation Ministry]

Francis Smith and Jean-Marc Consommer

"Ok.. This is bad.. This is ready bad.." Smith started to say to himself, as he was observing the situation. "This restaurant is already worse than that one place that was featured on TV. I forgot the name, but it was in Arizona and the owners were pyschotic." Smith said, as Jean-Marc didn't seem to take any issue.

"Uh... Monsieur Consommer?" Rosenberg would have to stop using ellipses in her thoughts and speech so often. "Although I haven't tried the food yet, I would still like to give my opinion. Even if the food is the best ever, this place deserves only one star for the ambience alone."

"I do admit that things don't appear satisfactory, but this is supposed to be an opening. I do wonder why the ambience is...like this. But I'm sure the food is top-quality. The young people these days have like, what? Doordash or whatever it's called. They can just have their food at home." Consommer explained, unaware that the restaurant itself seems to already be a cesspool.

"Look. Let's not drink anything. I don't think this place is certificated by any health department officials. But it's still an interesting experience to know a lot of the Daily Carrot." Smith said, trying to raise the mood a bit to a positive one. It wasn't until he noticed that Isaacarine appeared to have a different drink was when he was starting to believe in her suspicions that the place was sanatic. "Let me check that, quick? Did you get a coke by accident?" Smith asked, as he borrowed the drink quick to examine it. He took a sniff of it, where he grew worried.

It wasn't water. It appeared to be some form of beer. However, when Smith sniffed the drink, he could tell that something was wrong with it, but didn't want to taste it to find out. "Jean-Marc. They just served beer to a minor. Shouldn't you be concerned?" Smith said to Jean-Marc, as a suspicious hooded figure entered the restaurant and went through a "Staff Only" door. "Nonsense! There's nothing wrong with a minor having root beer!"

"Uhhh, I don't think she got served root beer.." Smith said, now nervous.

[Voxija]

Isaacarine Rosenberg was glad her employers took away the beer. Even one small sip was enough to leave Isaacarine with the impression that beer tasted bad. It wasn't that a minor got served beer, Isaacarine's parents met in Italy and had told stories about 15-year-olds drinking wine, but that beer was not what the young journalist ordered.

"Yep," muttered Isaacarine. "This place is Satanic."

Francis Smith and Jean-Marc Consommer

"Ok.. This is bad.. This is ready bad.." Smith started to say to himself, as he was observing the situation. "This restaurant is already worse than that one place that was featured on TV. I forgot the name, but it was in Arizona and the owners were pyschotic." Smith said, as Jean-Marc didn't seem to take any issue.

"Uh... Monsieur Consommer?" Rosenberg would have to stop using ellipses in her thoughts and speech so often. "Although I haven't tried the food yet, I would still like to give my opinion. Even if the food is the best ever, this place deserves only one star for the ambience alone."

"I do admit that things don't appear satisfactory, but this is supposed to be an opening. I do wonder why the ambience is...like this. But I'm sure the food is top-quality. The young people these days have like, what? Doordash or whatever it's called. They can just have their food at home." Consommer explained, unaware that the restaurant itself seems to already be a cesspool.

"Look. Let's not drink anything. I don't think this place is certificated by any health department officials. But it's still an interesting experience to know a lot of the Daily Carrot." Smith said, trying to raise the mood a bit to a positive one. It wasn't until he noticed that Isaacarine appeared to have a different drink was when he was starting to believe in her suspicions that the place was sanatic. "Let me check that, quick? Did you get a coke by accident?" Smith asked, as he borrowed the drink quick to examine it. He took a sniff of it, where he grew worried.

It wasn't water. It appeared to be some form of beer. However, when Smith sniffed the drink, he could tell that something was wrong with it, but didn't want to taste it to find out. "Jean-Marc. They just served beer to a minor. Shouldn't you be concerned?" Smith said to Jean-Marc, as a suspicious hooded figure entered the restaurant and went through a "Staff Only" door. "Nonsense! There's nothing wrong with a minor having root beer!"

"Uhhh, I don't think she got served root beer.." Smith said, now nervous.

Isaacarine rapped the table. "It sure was beer, Mr. Smith. I've haven't tasted beer before, but I have tasted root beer before and that didn't taste like it. I only took one sip and that beer tasted like liquid human excrement. I hope the food I get is actually the quesadilla that I ordered. Unlikely. Give a bad review? Maybe we should call the police."

Isaacarine stared at the family of cockroaches who were beginning to dance a jig in Mr. Clark's water spill. It was better than listening to the worst ambience Isaacarine had ever seen outside of the tent where the circus people had kept the elephants. They had pooped a lot.

[Mediama]

Caroline Digby

Carol visibly gagged at seeing Consumer willingly drink the water that clearly had phlegm in it, then saying it was a lemon. Despite being a field agent having been deployed internationally, she was bound to see some things...

Just not a dumpster fire as bad as this...

She looked over her menu and nodded her greetings, saying "Hello, I-I'm Carol." timidly to the... little.... girl....

Did they hire children to be a part of their staff, too?

Granted, CONTROL had a children's division as well, but that was mainly to train children to become future agents. The youngest they sent people out were at 6, with parent permission, of course. But the girl herself looked to be fourteen, even younger possibly.

When the drinks came, it shocked her even more that she was given what looked to be beer... for a minor...

Welp… she'll have to remember to try not to shoot any FBI agents that would come barging in at this rate. Some of them were her friends after all.

She felt sympathetic for the girl as she grimaced at her first sip of beer, rule one to going into liquor was to not have beer as your starter...

You start with a Bacardi.

She took a look at the tequila that she was served.. or at least tried to, the waitress slid the glass to her, only for her to miss her chance at catching it. The glass slid over the table, and landed on the floor with a crash, the ensuing puddle seemingly bubbling, steaming, and starting to leave a noticeable hole in the floor.

Whatever was in her drink wasn't tequila.

She was starting to get a little worried, and tapped her left fingers against her thigh, in case she needed to grab her revolver, and looked around, still thinking that maybe KAOS had a hand in this... maybe...

At the very least she'd probably leave behind some C4 Mentos as a parting gift and burn the place down... or don't leave behind a tip she didn't know.

She turned to focus on her fellow reporters as she kept one eye on the room around them. "Maybe we should leave? I think I know some people who could investigate this... maybe shut it down? At least call an ambulance?"

[Main Nation Ministry]

Francis Smith and Jean-Marc Consommer

Pretty much most of the journalists sitting at the table wanted to call for an ambulance, health department, or police to shut the place down. However, Jean-Marc appeared to be completely ignorant to the whole situation. "I got an idea. After we leave, I can make a phone call to the health department to have them investigate the place." Smith said, as he was trying to value the safety into his own employees. Smith immediately leaned close to the table to whisper to the other journalists. "Even if Jean-Marc writes up a positive review, I write up a negative article to send these callous bastards running this joint down." Smith immediately said sat back down, as a trolley with food was moving towards table.

"Your main courses is served!" the waitress said, as she started to put the dishes onto the table. However, the appearances of the dishes though....

Very...unappetizing looking.

"Hmmm, interesting.." Jean-Marc muttered as he was examining the 5 dishes he has been given. He didn't seem to be put off by how the meat on one dish appeared green. Almost rotten. Smith looked at what his taco was to see that the meat inside looked suspiciously normal. But he can't distinguish which animal it came from. Carol's food didn't even look like traditional Mexican food. Isaacarine's quesadilla appeared normal at first, until for a second of looking away, Smith thought the thing actually moved an inch on Isaacarine's plate.

"Not good..." Smith said, as the waitress left to the kitchen. "Come on, Smith. Perk up! The chef has given us a fine array of food for us to eat." Jean-Marc said, until Smith got frustrated. "I feel like a pig about to eat this!"
Jean-Marc jabbed his fork onto his so-called "peanut butter, cheese, jelly, and broccoli special", which actually looked like brown slop. "Don't be ridiculous. Don't assume that appearances affect the taste!" Jean-Marc said, where he took a bite of the slop. "Oh.... Oh dear...Tastes bad. Well! Surely, they weren't mind that they won't get a star or two."
"How does it taste?"
"I don't taste what the name of the special implies."

"Shit." Smith immediately thought, as he knew that he might have to find a way to dine and dash.

[Talchyon]

The health code violation restaurant
DeMarcus Clark

Seeing the entrees brought in, DeMarcus was glad he didn't chance ordering, even with the psychotic glare given him by the waitress (? - or was it a waiter in drag? Hard to tell). If there was anything resembling a culinary school in this neighborhood, the proprietors of this establishment had never stepped foot inside it. Not that it seemed to bother the Carrot's food critic.

"Eh, it's okay. You can call me Shorty. I've been called worse in my time." Isaacarine definitely had. As a mixed-race girl with a Voxijan mother and a Jewish father, she'd been called a shekelgrabber, a Vozo, a mutt, and some other epithets unsuitable for a family-friendly forum.

"And as for being old enough to work here, I'm surprised myself. I've had a lot of experience in the circus, so you know. It's just... I feel I can't tell anybody my occupation or else they'll arrest you guys. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Thinking this 'restaurant' is Satanic is pretty paranoid."

DeMarcus nodded, a little surprised that the obviously underage girl had both worked in a circus, and had been served a beer too. "Yeah, I can see that. If you start tellin' people that the Carrot hired you, they'll probably think you just have a paper route or something and won't sweat it. As for Satanic? This dumpster fire? It's a lot of things, but Satanic may be pushin' it."

However, at that moment, a creaturely, primal shriek emanated from the kitchen. It was like some small animal was being tortured or something. No one else was looking in that direction, their eyes all on their food or Isaacarine's urine-beer. But DeMarcus saw it. Two figures in red hooded robes carrying lit candles looked out from the kitchen, glanced around the room, and nodded. One took some kind of ash powder and started sprinkling it on the doorframe, while the other brandished a bloody butcher's knife. Then, chanting some low tone that sounded like, "Yum," the two mysterious strangers darted back inside and the primal shriek intensified sporadically. It was as if the red, hooded figure with the bloody knife was killing some poor rodent that had been bound up and surrounded by pentagrams and lit candles.

DeMarcus's jaw dropped, and then he said under his breath, "But maybe you're onto somethin', callin' this place 'Satanic.'" Now he was really glad he wasn't trying the mystery meat.

Fortunately, the new girl piped up at about that time and got his mind off the disturbing scene he just witnessed.

Caroline Digby

Carol visibly gagged at seeing Consumer willingly drink the water that clearly had phlegm in it, then saying it was a lemon. Despite being a field agent having been deployed internationally, she was bound to see some things...

Just not a dumpster fire as bad as this...

She looked over her menu and nodded her greetings, saying "Hello, I-I'm Carol." timidly to the... little.... girl....

Did they hire children to be a part of their staff, too?

Granted, CONTROL had a children's division as well, but that was mainly to train children to become future agents. The youngest they sent people out were at 6, with parent permission, of course. But the girl herself looked to be fourteen, even younger possibly.

When the drinks came, it shocked her even more that she was given what looked to be beer... for a minor...

Welp… she'll have to remember to try not to shoot any FBI agents that would come barging in at this rate. Some of them were her friends after all.

She felt sympathetic for the girl as she grimaced at her first sip of beer, rule one to going into liquor was to not have beer as your starter...

You start with a Bacardi.

She took a look at the tequila that she was served.. or at least tried to, the waitress slid the glass to her, only for her to miss her chance at catching it. The glass slid over the table, and landed on the floor with a crash, the ensuing puddle seemingly bubbling, steaming, and starting to leave a noticeable hole in the floor.

Whatever was in her drink wasn't tequila.

She was starting to get a little worried, and tapped her left fingers against her thigh, in case she needed to grab her revolver, and looked around, still thinking that maybe KAOS had a hand in this... maybe...

At the very least she'd probably leave behind some C4 Mentos as a parting gift and burn the place down... or don't leave behind a tip she didn't know.

She turned to focus on her fellow reporters as she kept one eye on the room around them. "Maybe we should leave? I think I know some people who could investigate this... maybe shut it down? At least call an ambulance?"

DeMarcus nodded at Carol. " 'Sup," he said. "I'm DeMarcus. Sports reporter. Maybe you caught my story last month about how Bill Belichick of the New England Patriots truly is being controlled by the Mafia? I even had like, a source, too. I don' wanna brag, or nothin', but that just might get me a gig at ESPN when my time here is done."

"Oh, and you're idea about leaving? Definitely. Let's get outta here." He didn't know how much more he could stomach, and he wasn't even eating anything.

Francis Smith and Jean-Marc Consommer

Pretty much most of the journalists sitting at the table wanted to call for an ambulance, health department, or police to shut the place down. However, Jean-Marc appeared to be completely ignorant to the whole situation. "I got an idea. After we leave, I can make a phone call to the health department to have them investigate the place." Smith said, as he was trying to value the safety into his own employees. Smith immediately leaned close to the table to whisper to the other journalists. "Even if Jean-Marc writes up a positive review, I write up a negative article to send these callous bastards running this joint down." Smith immediately said sat back down, as a trolley with food was moving towards table.

"Your main courses is served!" the waitress said, as she started to put the dishes onto the table. However, the appearances of the dishes though....

Very...unappetizing looking.

"Hmmm, interesting.." Jean-Marc muttered as he was examining the 5 dishes he has been given. He didn't seem to be put off by how the meat on one dish appeared green. Almost rotten. Smith looked at what his taco was to see that the meat inside looked suspiciously normal. But he can't distinguish which animal it came from. Carol's food didn't even look like traditional Mexican food. Isaacarine's quesadilla appeared normal at first, until for a second of looking away, Smith thought the thing actually moved an inch on Isaacarine's plate.

"Not good..." Smith said, as the waitress left to the kitchen. "Come on, Smith. Perk up! The chef has given us a fine array of food for us to eat." Jean-Marc said, until Smith got frustrated. "I feel like a pig about to eat this!"
Jean-Marc jabbed his fork onto his so-called "peanut butter, cheese, jelly, and broccoli special", which actually looked like brown slop. "Don't be ridiculous. Don't assume that appearances affect the taste!" Jean-Marc said, where he took a bite of the slop. "Oh.... Oh dear...Tastes bad. Well! Surely, they weren't mind that they won't get a star or two."
"How does it taste?"
"I don't taste what the name of the special implies."

"Shit." Smith immediately thought, as he knew that he might have to find a way to dine and dash.

Leaning in when Smith whispered his plan of writing a real write-up that would call this hellhole what it truly was, DeMarcus was all business. "Yeah, Boss, I hear you. Maybe get some pictures on your phone with what lunch looks like while you're at it. Like, do you know what that mystery meat really is? 'Sthat like, processed raccoon meat there?"

DeMarcus was getting more than a little creeped out being in this place, so he got up to leave. Only, his shorts stuck to the seat. Whatever sticky substance was coating that chair was not about to let him leave any time soon. Not the way he came in, that is...