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Goumet Shef makes Spaghetti

Shef cackled with delight and he pushed the heavy metal spade into the ground. He was in the graveyard in the middle of the night. A full moon blazed down, illuminating the headstone where Shef was stationed. He wheezed with exertion as he heaved his flabby stomach into his foot, which pushed the blade into the ground. He grunted again and pulled the shovel from the ground, along with a bucketful of dirt. Shef poured the dirt into his iron bucket and bend down to examine his findings. He used his fingers to dig through the pail of dirt, until he came up at last with a juicy, fat worm. It wriggled in his claw-like fingers, trying to escape.

“Eheh!” Shef cackled again and held the worm up. He opened his mouth wide, and with a SLRUP the worm went down his gullet. He chewed for a minute, concentrating on the flavors of dirt and worm that coursed through his mouth. “It needs more salt!” He finally realized. Shef hauled the bucket of dirt off of the ground, his wimpy muscles straining with the effort of lifting a five-pound pail off of the ground.

He scrambled toward his newly erected shack in the center of the graveyard. He opened the creaky door and was blasted back by a wave of heat. The cauldron was boiling already, foaming algae and other nasty ingredients were cooking. Shef wiped the sweat from his brow, and carefully searched the pail for more worms. He found a handful, wiped off the dirt, and dropped them into the boiling cauldron.

He listened intently, thinking he heard the screams of the dying worms, but it was just the boiling water. Suddenly the flames roared, rising five feet into the air and singing both Shef’s arm hairs and the dry leaves that were the roof on Shef’s shack. Shef screamed and spat on the fire with his ink-like spit, trying to blow it out, but it was too big. The cauldron frothed over now spilling its contents over. The liquid stopped the flames completely, and Shef rushed over. Now that Shef’s Infamous Spaghetti was complete, he needed to make the sauce. He whipped out his dull, silver dagger, and sunk it five inches into his arm. He screamed in pain, and the blood spurted out right onto the spaghetti, making thick, chunky tomato sauce. After five pints of blood had been drained from his body, Shef collapsed to the floor, muttering an ancient chant to himself. He dipped a fork down into the cauldron and drew out a worm covering with his own blood and seasoned from the local duck pond. He bit into the worm, and grinned. He new spaghetti recipe was going to be a hit.

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