The first knife. It came down hard, pinning his left sleeve on the maple cutting board.
The second knife took care of the right.
The celebrated chef shook in his purple clogs, loving every second.
She loosened his belt next, watching his black-and-white houndstooth pants slide to the kitchen floor and pool around his bloated ankles.
“Knew you’d come around,” he smirked.
She stepped in close and reached over his shoulder, snatching his prized possession.
“You can’t!” he bellowed.
She waved the hand-written recipe book in his face.
“Come get me then,” she said before bolting out the back door.
The Weekday One Hundred 