Shef grinned malevolently as he shoveled dirt into his metal pail. It was midnight, the perfect time to retrieve dirt from the graveyard. The moon shone high in the sky like it did most nights in the cemetery. Shef had laid out his equipment on the grass; a small flat rock that was supposed to be a cutting board, and a large cutlass. Pizza, the most delicious food in the world, would now be made by Shef. After scooping another shovelful of mud into his bucket, he picked it up, his biceps bulging, and started kneading the ‘dough’. “My dough will be so crisp!” He cackled, drool dripping from his mouth and into the dough. Shef pound at the mud until it was thick and as creamy as dirt could get. Shef’s stomach growled, either in hunger or protest. “Yes yes, Billy, you will get your meal soon,” Shef reassured his belly. Billy grumbled again. Shef slapped his dough one last time and rolled it out with his huge burly hands, stretching the dirt to the size of a large plate.
“Now, to cook it cccrisp!” He rolled the c like he was British. Shef plucked a radioactive spot on his toque, a chef’s hat, and flung the green blob onto a tree. The tree went up in flames as Shef finished rolling the dough. He put the flat mud-cake near the base of the flaming tree, and it turned black as it dried and cooked. Shef cut a little piece of the cooked mut and spat it out in disgust, scraping his tougue with his claw-like fingers. “Disgusting!” he cried with disgust. “What chef made this meal?”
He stood silently as realization came down on him. Shef collapsed to the floor, weeping.
“It needs pasta sauce!” he concluded, wiping tears from his eyes. He pulled out a dried cow’s head from beneath his chef’s hat and placed it on the cutting board. Shef grabbed the long, curved cutlass, and swiped it down once. The cow’s head stayed in one piece for a minute, then split into two. Shef cried out in sudden pain as he held up his arm. It was bloody, and his hand was completely severed from his arm! Shef looked for the missing hand frantically, and found it pooling blood in the middle of the cooked pizza dough. He shrugged, his burly muscles rippling. “Blood adds more flavor than cooked cow’s head!” Shef spat on the pizza to give it his signature zesty flavor and slid the pizza into a cardboard box. The pizza had some trouble getting, in, thanks to the large bloody hand topping, but he stuffed it in. He scrambled to his witch’s broom and got on, struggling to hold onto the pizza box in one hand and to grip the wooden broom. Time to get some taste testing!
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