Jump to Navigation

The Return of the King Edward.

Lance Striker's picture
Submission type:

One chip to rule them all,

One chip to find them,

One chip to bring them all,

And in the Waffelhus, fry them.


Both men laboured tirelessly in the smoke-laden chamber of the waffelhus. Theis, in the seat of his power, set

down a potato upon the anvil of his craft and swept a nervous wrist across his dewed brow. Shadow loomed

over his shoulder, bearing witness to a culinary power not seen since the previous age of Man.


A well-practised stroke of his blade severed the flesh of the potato – a second, a third. He turned it, gripping

it securely and graced the root thrice more until he was left with nine lengths of mortal potato, doomed to

fry. Both men gazed upon his craft, the apex of their machinations. Shadow nodded, as if commanding the

stilled breath of relief from Theis' lips.


Shadow handed him some paper towels, with which Theis bedecked The Nine in, drawing out the excess

moisture. The wispy rags hung from them in ruinous fashion, like starchy dessicated wraiths. Theis checked

the fryer one last time, satisfied at the temperature of the oil as Shadow removed the soaked tissue from The Nine.

It was time.


Delicately they fell from Theis' hands and into the basket. He lowered them into the oil, drowning and silent. Five

tense minutes passed, neither men uttered a word to each other and the only movement from either came as

Theis lifted The Nine from their darkness. They eyed their progress, nodding at each other, satisfied as Theis

raised the temperature higher and they waited...


Shadow grabbed Theis by the shoulder and pulled him down behind the counter, urging for silence. Theis

looked at him, confused and anxious. A brief silence gave way to a rapping at the door – a dark and curious

sound. It opened, the squeal of hinges gave way to footsteps, footsteps gave way to laboured breathing, and then...


Sniff, sniiiiiiiiiff.


Fat, swollen fingers ensnared the rear edge of the counter.


Sniff, sniff. Sniiiiiiiiiff.


Shadow gripped a spatula tightly, ready to leap into action. Theis, still perplexed at the situation, played

along and eyed the greasy tendrils release their grip on the counter, slide noisily across the surface and

retreat with their owner as laboured breathing gave way to footsteps, and footsteps gave way to the door

closing behind them. Shadow sighed, set the spatula down and nodded at Theis. They both rose, anxiously

eyeing the front of the waffelhus as they did so. Theis went to check on the now bubbling oil, Shadow's heart

was racing from the near-encounter – Ring-Waists, they are drawn to the power of the fryer, ever seeking it for their own.


Shadow joined Theis, folding his arms and giving the nod. The Nine sank once more into the forge, now

bubbling and boiling away in the oil. Their previous attempts had borne imperfections, yet now Theis

seemed determined, if only to get Shadow to leave him alone and keep Hyle off his case. A minute

passed – two, three, four, five. Shadow gave Theis one final nod as he brought the basket up, presenting

the men with purest gold.


He plated them up, caressed them with a generous helping of salt. Shadow approached them with the vinegar

when Theis held his hand up to stop him. He was right, they must stand on their own, he was glad that, at

least, had sunk in. It was on him, as the Englishman, to attest to the true power of Theis' craft, and he found

himself more reluctant than he should be to learn the fate of their day.


The crisp, gilded armour snapped as his maw came crunching down. The soft, fleshy interior burst and melted

like cream on his tongue. The subtle flavours, lifted by a dusting of salt, almost brought a tear to wide, lidless

eyes, wreathed in pride. After literally two hours of ceaseless toil, Theis had done it, he had perfected the chip. The

One Chip they would need to see this Fallen-Earth tamed by the culinary might of Hope Springs. Shadow gave

Theis an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and was glad of his fellowship.




Hyle Troy's picture

Vinegar !?!    Oh well, he is English. Why break the hobbits of a lifetime..  :)

I wonder how he feels when Hyle smothers the deep fryed wonders in remoulade ...

I would rather die peacefully in my sleep, like Grandad, than screaming, like his passengers

Joe Spivey's picture

((I see the heat has finally taken its toll.

... Can I have scraps with that?

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

JeassiahBlack's picture

((Gotta be careful, there is one Shotgun Bearing Waif out there who might be attracted by the Divine smell...  lol

Hellbilly's picture

(( I was thinking the same thing. :)

What doesn't kill me... better start fucking running.

Main menu 2

Blog | by Dr. Radut