The golden handcuffs were chafing again, but what could Chef Maxwell do? Every time he complained, his boss would toss around compliments. Followed by loads of cash.
“No one does what you do…” the Senator would praise.
He was right, but the strain was unbearable. It wasn’t the day-to-day meal prep. It was the monthly dinners with a who’s who of Capital dignitaries in attendance.
Chef Maxwell gazes at the massive hunk of meat rotating slowly over a roaring flame. Winces as a puff of smoke wafts in his direction.
He’ll never get used to the smell of human flesh.
The Weekday One Hundred 