Instead, you get transcriptions of International Shack of Pancakes and two entirely new episodes of this fabulous disaster of a sandwich shop/deli/delicatessen.
INTERNATIONAL SHACK OF PANCAKES:
EPISODE 2
"The Shrewsburys Taste Like Shrewsburys!"by William Bunker
"I heard there's an even shadier restaurant in Shrewbury."
"That's impossible. We have the highest rodent-to-patron ratio in the tri-country area. Even more than The Massive Broomcloset Eatery. And who could match our collection of dead *fake* plants?"
"I dunno... it might just be a rumor, but I heard the chef cooked for the Navy in Okinawa. They say his beef stroganoff once inspired thirty seamen to jump overboard."
"Wow... I once drove out eleven goth kids with my cheese fires ala mode," I said, as I flipped a codfish sizzling on the grill.
"Well Stan, you'd better watch out. Sounds like your reputation is on the line."
"Whatever, trashy waitress. We'll see what this dude's got. What did you say the place was called?"
"Um, I think it's a Windy's."
I got a far-off look in my eye, and held it deliberately until the codfish began to sputter and emit a thick dark smoke that threatened to set off the 'tastiness alarm' on the ceiling, at least until Boss disabled it. This meant that its hickory-flavored deliciousness was ripe. Then I chiseled it from the grill's warm embrace and slapped it on a plate.
"Here, woman. ORDER UP!"
I was plagued by the notion of this terrible chef for the rest of my shift. He haunted my dreams as I slept in my secret hiding spot behind the furnace. He distracted me as I was yelled at by The Boss when I retuened from the nap. He even mocked me as I pelted The Boss' car with salamis later. I had to find this Windy's and its legendary chef.
So I drove with no delay to neighboring Shrewsbury and found the disturbing Windy's that trashy waitress was talking about. If I could learn his cooking techniques without alerting him I would gain the upper hand. I approached the drive-thru.
"Kherble cruf-sher furble?" came from the perforated clown's face.
I spoke into the clown, "Yes, I'd like a small burger with pickles and mustard, a Foothill Dew, and an order of radish rings."
"Ferburd urkle serdurner?"
I had to ask the clown what he meant. "Did you just say, 'serdurner'?"
The clown eventually responded, "Well, yes... Fergurkle zu murkle zurger?"
"No, I'm in a hurry. Maybe next time."
Fortunately, I spoke the chaotic and staticky drive thru clown language.
"Murkle derk, gerv burgyhurd."
I 'gerved' up to the next window and handed the grizzled old man behind the window some money. He shook open a small plastic trash bag and carelessly tossed a hamburger into it, missing one side of the bun. No straw for the soda. Four pathetic, uncooked radish rings graced the bottom of the trashbag. Upon closer inspection, the 'burger' was not meat at all, but a hastily disguised pigeon's nest.
I was in over my head. It didn't even have mustard. He obviously knew what was tasty far better than I did, and had the guts to prove it.
I devoted the entire next day at ISOP to perfecting my chefmanship. Now, by 'perfecting', I mean 'neglecting entirely and harboring a powerful disdain for anyone who places an order'. Nothing would distract me from inadvertently proving to the world that I was the worst chef alive. I had to challenge this culinary evil genius to a cookoff.
There is a certain... je-ne-sais-pas to the art of being a bad chef. You are not allowed to actively sabotage the foods you make, or you fall into the realm of 'evil chef', which is sinister, and an entirely different league with entirely different rules. One becomes a master bad chef only through true neglect and a strong disbelief in the mere existence of common cooking practices and standards. It takes a bold man indeed to combine summer squash, Dannon yogurt, and pork rinds over a platter of finely aged scrod. Unless you have played cards with a stranger until seven burritos that you stuffed into a toaster pop up black and drilling green fluid, and then push them back down yet again, you are not a true bad chef. I have spent years wandering the farthest depths of the most abandoned delicatessens searching for that one 'special' turnip, obviously hidden from the light of day, or left in it purposefully, and that one 'ultimate' cut of pork, the reamining portions never actually used by their original owner because they were 'too greasy'. Sorry, when I said 'greasy', I meant to say 'good'. Now this man threatens to claim my throne.
It would be twelve more hours until my shift was done and Frankie the Baby took over for me. For once I almost longed to smell the melted plastic of his toys forgotten on the grill and hear the chatter of martbles as he scattered them on the floor. Finally, he sauntered into the restaurant, backpack teeming with comic books and treasure trolls, or whatever crazy charms those children collect these days. Without a word I bolted from my post like an underpaid bodyguard, leapt into my blue-with-pink-racing-stripes Festiva, and sped to Shrewsbury. I crashed my car into the handicap parking sign halfway up the curb and marched into the Windy's.
The restaurant was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that significed customers were wise to avoid this food vendor at great personal cost. I heard the crinkle of tray paper and whirled around. Behind me stood a robed man with a chef / veteran's hat on. It was amazing. It had some small medals, grease stains, insignia, and the poofy top. It was certainly intimidating to a young chef such as myself. His grayed hair and irrationally long foomanchu moustache flowed in the wind, even though we were indoors. His nametag read, "Sarge".
"I know why you have come here, Staniel-san." Said the Sarge.
"How do you know my name, and why did you add two syllables?"
"I know much, and I add or take away many things from the proper recipes..."
I confronted him. "You are obviously a master, I will grant you that. But I must inform you that we are enemies. I challenge you to a cookoff!"
"HMMMMMM....."
Sarge rubbed his chin ponderously and opened his eyes very wide as he considered the challenge. "It must be so! We will meet tomorrow, at sunrise, on the griddle of honor!!"
"um, is that... the Windy's griddle?"
"YES.""cool... ... so, can I get a biggie fry?"
"That will be dollar-nineteen."
I barely slept that night... especially considering that I live in a Ford Festiva. Tomorrow came too soon. I was not prepared enough to meet this challenge. However, when I arrived at the Windy's all I found was a smoldering pile of debris. I later learned that Sarge died in that terrible greasefire.
I dug from the rubble the one relic that still testifies to his culinary might: the spatula bearing his real name, which I will never reveal, and which I have never to this very day actually washed.
The End
International Shack Of Pancakes:
Episode... 6?
The Case of the Seasick Car Thieves
by William Bunker
"Stan! Man the drive through!!"
"...I'm sorry, I must be tripping, The Boss. Did you say 'man the drivethrough'?"
"YES!! It should be arriving in... oh, 5 seconds."
"What? You can't install a--"
"4 seconds."
"drivethrough?"
"3, 2--"
And suddenly there was a massive explosion coming from the south wall
