The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard by Elijah Douresseau (top books of all time TXT) 📕

a terror somewhere. Maybe as an impediment. Seemed he was mostly all about taking the thematic approach.

The cook had something the man wanted. Letting him walk away was exactly what Pharaoh was going to do.

“And what makes you think I don’t still have Coco’s protection?”

The sand made a sizzle noise and distorted itself slightly. It appeared to be connected to the intensity of Pharaoh’s grip. A simple, mechanical order of function, but still inconceivable in its display. The thousands of collected grains abruptly fell to the ground between the two men.

“Alvin. I merely want your food. Can we not work something out? I will leave you a five-star review on Yelp. I will blast your name on social media. Anything?”

“Breakfast.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re a breakfast person, right?”

“I d believe in its nourishing capabilities atop a new day, yes.”

“Come to the diner at 6:30am. You’ll have a hot meal waiting for you. Off menu. In exchange, you tell me what you know about me, and how many others are likely to know what I’m doing here.”

“Excellent!”

“Not so loud.”

“I am most grateful. I shall be there promptly at oh-six-thirty.”

“You also have to get out of this town. I’m providing food only this once.”

Pharaoh was used to getting his way, wherever he usually presided. Calling the shots. At least flexing his muscles and sand, to be the one to affirm the terms. He expressed some mild unease. Alvin was still just a fry cook. ‘Villain’ was probably higher up on the totem pole – as fictitious a career path as it seemed to be a year ago. But Pharaoh appeared to be a bigger foodie than he was a career criminal. Hobbies could almost be to tougher to shake.

“I will…respect your wishes.”

“See you tomorrow, Pharaoh.”

“Never thought you would say that in your life. Am I correct?”

“You win.”

Alvin felt the smile form on the man’s face, as he resumed walking to his home. The B or C-list villain would not be a huge hurdle. But the chef had way more to worry about than breakfast for a bad guy – which, in his experience, he had plenty of time to get acquainted with.

How was he going to get to Coco? Why did he want to get back to her?

“You still fretting about that woman, Alvy?”

“Grandma?”

“Hand me some of that sausage, will you?”

“Where are we?”

“You don’t recognize your home when you’re in it? You’re probably playing that video game a little too much.”

As far as Alvin could tell, they really were nowhere. No sense of environment, or greater setting. Just him and his late grandmother. She was holding a large, candy-red mixing bowl. Half of a giant balloon.

“What are you doing here, if I’m an adult?”

“What does that have to do with anything? You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Grandma started to mix whatever was in her bowl. The more she stirred the contents, the more it wobbled in her hand. But it never tipped over.

“I do want to eat. Haven’t eaten anything in two weeks.”

“Then you must be famished. So hand me the tape.”

Alvin raised a hand. There was tape there. Scotch.

“Go ahead and toss it in.”

The cook obeyed. And when the tape reached the bowl, it started to have an earthquake. That was the only thing that came to Alvin’s mind. It vibrated, but it also shook from left to right.

“You must bless your enemies.”

“But I haven’t eaten.”

Suddenly, Alvin felt indignant. There was a lump in his throat.

“That’s because you have to eat with others. Then you’re gonna be satisfied.”

Grandma started to sway her hips to the music of the shaking bowl. But there was no rhythm to the activity.

“Almost done.”

“I don’t want to eat.”

“Dance with me.”

“But I don’t want to eat.”

“How can you not Proverbs 25?”

“No.”

Grandma stopped mixing. She stopped dancing. She was far away. A football field of distance between them. But she spoke like she was next to Alvin.

A disembodied voice sounded off next to him. It was Grandma’s. She was not yelling.

“You’re fussing so much about this girl, and she can’t even run around the burners with you.”

Dread started to creep in. The chef heeded his late guardian’s reasoning without knowing what she meant.

“The stove is warming up.”

“It is.”

“There is food you know nothing about. That’s why you can have this. Just in case, dear.”

Grandma tossed the red mixing bowl at Alvin, from far away. Grandma-style. The chef wanted to know what was inside. What had her in such an odd mood.

The bowl landed not too far from her – to be expected. Something dark spilled out, edging towards Alvin. It was pooling at him. But not fast enough.

An urge warmed in the cook. A sense of anxious immediacy. He started to run towards the liquid. But he was caught in some invisible mud. He was not moving half as fast and as hard as he knew he was exerting himself.

Alvin’s surroundings flooded back to something familiar. A painless drowning that replaced a white space with a living one. He was back in his off-the-grid mobile home. Awake.

***

“HEAVENLY. You just—ghomp – fffpt.”

Alvin did not have much time to interpret his dream from the night. Among the most vivid he could recall in a long time. It was only an hour and a half after, but Pharaoh would not give the cook a moment’s peace from his incessant, full mouth of praise. Even in an empty diner.

“How do you do this, you marvelous man?”

In Alvin’s limited interactions with the villain, he observed there were two Pharaohs. One on and the other, off. Breaking the law was just work. And Pharaoh’s royal demeanor was mostly affected. Delight his senses, or make him abruptly angry, and you got the Pharaoh who went by his government name at home. The one who had to keep the lights on, had to take out his own trash, and still had to pay taxes.

“Mmmmm! Listen, if I start crying, I want you to know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m only human.”

“So you’re enjoying your breakfast then?”

Another exclamation of euphoria.

“I hate to move this along,