THG: 3.6 Don Texas

Don Texas 3.6

John Soprano

The clock ticked down and the bell rang. Each of my seven contestants stood in a neat row, ready to present their dishes. Well, most of them. Narwhal had other places to be. Or she used her job as an excuse to ditch. Probably a bit of both.

“You know, we’re supposed to be the ones doing the eating,” I said, waving at myself and the other judges.

Mars stared me down. She picked out a particularly crispy piece of fried cod and took a noisy bite, message clear. By the looks of it, she nailed the recipe. The fish was flaky and juicy and the tartar sauce had the perfect consistency and sheen.

“Oh, no. What a tragedy. How will I ever cope without a magic toothpick,” she drawled blandly.

“You’re no fun, Mars.”

“If I want a sun, I’ll make one myself, thanks. You owe me a house. With furnishings.”

“Fine. I can respect the hustle. Go sit down, then. Great job on the fish sticks recipe.”

“Thanks, they’re pretty good. I think the tartar sauce needs more herbs though. And maybe a tad bit more lemon juice.”

I chuckled as she strolled to the bleachers. She plopped down next to Jess and offered her coworker a fish. That left five.

People were complaining and muttering, but that was on them. Who told them to take this contest seriously? I sure as shit didn’t.

“Alright, here’s how this works. You’re each going to come up and present your dish,” I began. “I’m looking for the blandest, sorriest mashed potatoes known to man, the kind of tasteless slop that might be served in a military campaign during an era where toilet paper didn’t exist and beating a child was called good parenting. It can’t be good. It can’t be bad. It must be perfectly, inoffensively tasteless. In fact, I want it to be so bland that you start to lose your ability to see color.”

“Please tell me you don’t actually have a mashed potato recipe that makes the eater colorblind,” Vista said, quite reasonably. She looked to be about done with today and it was delightful.

“Of course not… Wait, hold on… Maybe? No, never mind. Magecraft can do a lot of things but I don’t think anyone’s ever done that to food before. Weird, this sounds like the kind of thing Morgan would do to fuck with Artoria.”

“This makes no sense. You make no sense. Your historical fanfiction makes no sense. Can we get on with this so my world can start making sense again?”

“Fine, spoil my fun. Let’s get started then, left to right.”

Legend floated to us with a smile of wry amusement. He presented his dish with an elegant flourish. “This is certainly the most interesting contest I’ve been a part of. I won’t lie, I didn’t expect the criteria to be who has the worst mashed potato.”

“Not the worst, just the blandest,” I said. “Would you believe me if I said it’s actually harder to make something completely tasteless?”

“How so?”

“You need to balance different flavors in such a way that they cancel each other out. Sure, an unseasoned, boiled potato is pretty bland, but you need to try a little harder than that to get something ‘Gawain-like.’”

“One of these days, I’m going to want to hear the whole story. That sounds pretty entertaining,” he said with a chuckle. “I guess I lose then; my husband’s mashed potatoes are great.”

“Definitely. They smell wonderful.”

Vista, Shirou, and I each helped ourselves to Legend’s potatoes. They were fluffy, seasoned to perfection, and with a wonderfully nutty note that came from the grated parmesan. 

“This is perfect, Legend,” Shirou complimented. “Would you mind giving me the recipe? I’m not the biggest fan of western food in general, but this is decadent without being too much.”

“Why, thank you,” the rainbow hero said. “I’m sure my husband would love to hear that. You’ll have to ask him though, family recipe, you understand.”

“Of course. Recipes are serious business,” he nodded solemnly.

I chuckled at that. Shirou was good enough at structural analysis that I wouldn’t be surprised if he already knew. Then again, he was honorable to a fault and this might count as stealing in his mind.

The judging proceeded swiftly. Gallant, under Armsmaster’s instructions, had outplayed himself with a dish that didn’t even have potatoes in it. Narwhal, Chevalier, and Cinereal had mashed potatoes, but each executed horribly.

Narwhal wasn’t even here. She’d left earlier on one of Dragon’s transports, citing some pressing urgency that amounted to “anywhere but here.”

I didn’t even want to know what was running through Mouse Protector’s head. Though to be fair, it was certainly the most memorable dish of the bunch, what with it looking like Mickey Mouse and tasting like briny mush. 

“Well, I think we all know who won, right?” I asked my co-judges.

“I still think Gallant deserves more points,” Vista pouted, not at all biased.

“He literally doesn’t have any potatoes,” Shirou pointed out.

“His reasoning is flawless!”

“His? Or Armsmaster’s? At least Chevalier’s potatoes were edible, and potatoes.”

I chuckled as the two bickered. “You’re just saying that because you think Chevalier is the best at using a sword.”

“No comment.”

“Be honest. Did you use Structural Analysis on his cannonblade?”

“Yeah, the history is solid, even if the weapon is somewhat impractical. He prefers historical European martial arts, but heavily edited to suit his sword.”

“Oh? Considering taking on a student?”

“Hmm, no.” Shirou hummed. “Like I said, he’s a good swordsman in a purely mundane sense, but I’m not sure that he’s suited for the mystical side of things. I also think he relies too much on his power to compensate for such an impractical weapon.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to try something similar to the Kaleidosticks. You know, something to let him take on the Saint Graph of a Servant, at least in part.”

“That’d be useful. You’re going to have to be careful not to influence his mind. A bit of bleedover is inevitable though if you’re trying to teach him Gawain’s swordsmanship on the fly like that.”

“That’s the idea, though I personally think Narwhal should win. She made very sad potatoes. The ‘no fucks given’ energy was on point, exactly what I was looking for.”

“She made hash browns from every variety of potato you had in stock then mashed them together.”

“I mean, they’re literally mashed potatoes,” I pointed out helpfully.

“But they’re not bland. I’d say they’re pretty interesting, texture-wise if nothing else.”

“True… So we’ve got a vote for Chevalier, Narwhal, and Gallant. We’re eliminating Gallant. He thought way too hard about the assignment. I really did want potatoes.”

“Not fair,” Vista grumbled, arms crossed. I ruffled her hair and she slapped my hand away. She perked up a moment later. “Wait, so if Shirou votes for Chevalier and you vote for Narwhal, does that mean I’m the tiebreaker?”

“I guess it does. So? Who’ll it be? Who’s got the blandest, lamest potatoes?” I asked with a smile. I took the sword and placed it in her hands. 

The whole gymnasium turned to Vista. The snitch hovered closer. Shirou looked at me with a disappointed sigh. He knew what I was doing.

Vista looked ridiculously cute. Magical doodad aside, Caliburn was a normal sword. It could be wielded with two hands, but the blade wasn’t very long; even a twelve year old girl could carry it at her hip.

In contrast, Galatine was the taller, chubbier cousin of the Sword of Selection. It was a greatsword in truth, meant for grown men. It sometimes looked modest in the hands of Gawain, who was a bear of a man, but the opposite was true here. In Vista’s arms, the greatsword looked positively titanic.

Vista tried to hold the sword with some dignity, only to nearly tip herself over. She looked out over the crowd and gulped audibly. Only now did it dawn on her that she was about to make a truly monumental decision.

This was a cooking contest, a patently ridiculous one in which not one participant had been told how they’d be judged. The required dish was silly in its simplicity, stupid in its execution. Hell, the venue hadn’t even been decided on until this morning when I hijacked the university gymnasium. Hell, it wasn’t even supposed to be publicized; Leet just kinda showed up.

And yet, all of that sloppiness was overshadowed by the fact that this was the first Holy Grill War. The prize was Galatine, sister-sword of Excalibur. It was the kind of weapon that defined a hero’s legacy. This was a WMD that could be favorably compared to the sum total military might of a country.

And a twelve year old girl was being told to pick the wielder.

Maybe it was a little cruel, dumping this on Vista. Shirou certainly didn’t approve. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel that this was appropriate. Who better to choose Galatine’s wielder than the one who bears the Sword of Selection?

Besides, this was also meant to teach the young king wisdom and discernment… or something. If Shirou asked, that’d be my excuse. I could amuse myself and teach important life lessons at the same time.

Vista looked unsure. She eyed the sword in her hand, then Chevalier, and then Narwhal’s “mashed potatoes.” It was obvious she was looking for an answer that wouldn’t offend anyone.

“Clock’s ticking, shorty,” I teased.

“You’re a jerk,” she growled. “I look up to them!”

“So pick one. You can’t go wrong then, right?”

“I… Uh…”

“No rush, Vista,” Legend said comfortingly. He had a warm, reassuring smile that made me think he’d missed his calling as a schoolteacher.

Vista took a deep breath and shoved Galatine into Chevalier’s hands. “Here! Chevalier wins because… Narwhal isn’t here! She forfeits! There! Are you happy, John?”

I clapped happily. “Very. I’ll get the Saint Graph ready soon… as soon as I come up with a cute magical girl catchphrase for him.”

“You don’t need to do that,” the hero in question coughed awkwardly. “I already know how to use a sword.”

I said nothing. He would learn soon enough. The difference between a “good swordsman” in the modern age and a Knight of the Round was the difference between a chicken and a t-rex.

And so, the first Holy Grill War came to an end, not with a grand flourish, but with an abundance of burnt potatoes.

X

Phillip Michael Sawyer

John Soprano was a strange man. I knew that, of course; I’d read the briefs. But reading a file about the eccentric chef didn’t prepare me to experience his weirdness personally.

When he shot an arrow through my office window like some kind of weird, brisket-smoking samurai, I didn’t expect his grand tournament to be a cooking contest. I most certainly didn’t expect to win. My department was rooting for me, but I wasn’t much of a chef.

In fact, my main goal going into this was to ensure that the winner wasn’t some insane villain. So long as the winner was a hero, and could be trusted to be responsible, orders from up top were to play along.

Somehow, I won.

I hadn’t planned on it, but I did.

I now had a “legendary sword,” not that I’d ever heard of an “Excalibur Galatine.” Apparently, there were more than one Excaliburs, with the “main Excalibur” belonging to King Arthur… Queen Artoria…?

I didn’t know. It all sounded like nonsense, and a whole lot of “shit that wasn’t my problem.” I’d let the analysts and shrinks figure out if there was some hidden message he was trying to tell us. 

No, what was my business was John. And Shirou, too. Those two were unique in that they had no shadows, no trigger events that overlapped their bodies.

The PRT didn’t talk about this aspect of my power because my mere existence made a mockery of the unwritten rules, but every cape had one, a shadowy overlay that hinted at their triggers. It often gave me an idea of their traumas, helped me to avoid stepping on any toes. Sometimes, these visions were distinct enough for me to tell what their powers were.

John and Shirou had none. At first, I thought it was a consequence of something John was wearing, one of his weird tinkertech that guarded the wearer from thinker powers, but that didn’t seem likely. 

Vista had Caliburn and Shirou had nothing I could see. I saw Vista’s trigger while Shirou was a blank. If it was something the two men were wearing, I couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t share it with her. Or Mars, who I knew worked for John directly.

Only one conclusion made sense: John and Shirou weren’t natural triggers. Nor were they vial capes. They were something else entirely. Suddenly, John’s claims of magic didn’t sound entirely like nonsense anymore.

I kicked it up the chain as soon as I returned to Philadelphia. Not ten minutes later, I received a call straight from DC. They knew, and this was as classified as the chief director’s identity. 

I pulled Galatine a few inches out of its sheath. John had been kind enough to give me a sheath for the greatsword, one that didn’t look too ostentatious. It was made of simple, sturdy leather, with steel clasps and fittings. It suited the greatsword well, I felt. No frills, a tool to be used rather than displayed.

“Are you ready, Chevalier?” the head scientist called through the safety glass.

I eyed my trusty cannonblade. It had been partially disassembled, with the more finicky cannon component set aside. If Galatine reacted poorly to my power, I wanted the expensive ranged weapon kept safe.

John said the cannonblade and Galatine probably wouldn’t merge, but I had to try. Not only would having a single sword be more convenient, it might provide some insight into the source of his powers.

If nothing else, I was curious.

“Yes, I am,” I called back.

“Then please proceed. Let’s see how magical this sword really is.”

I placed a hand on each weapon and focused. I felt my power take hold of the two swords. My old sword shimmered, ready to phase into Galatine. For a moment, I thought it’d work.

Then, the fireball enclosed in Galatine’s pommel, he’d called it a miniature sun, shone brighter. It flared bright like the sun it was purported to be. I didn’t have the chance to scream before I was surrounded by an inferno that scorched the very air from my lungs. The heat was so intense that I thought this would be the end of me.

In that blaze, something reached out. It was as if a hand gently took hold of both me and my power, before prying my fingers apart. Then, like a chiding mother who’d caught her son reaching for the cookie jar, it slapped the back of my hand scoldingly before withdrawing. And with it, the flames went as well, leaving me baffled but otherwise unburnt.

I couldn’t say the same for my sword. Thought it had been made from the finest materials, with various properties mix-n-matched for an optimal balance between practicality and durability, it had melted. It was molten slag now, fused until it was indistinguishable from the workbench.

I stared down at my hands. As I’d expected, Galatine was fine, as pristine as ever. It was comfortingly warm to the touch, as if I was holding someone else’s hand. 

I took a deep breath. Somehow, I had a feeling a second attempt wouldn’t be met nearly so gently. “Okay… Lesson learned… Don’t fuse the swords…”

“Chevalier? What happened?” the lead scientist called.

“I think I was chided like a schoolboy, doctor… Say, what if I used this sword and fused my cannon into a shield?”

“A cannonshield doesn’t sound as impressive as a cannonblade.”

“But I’d get to keep my futuristic knight theme.”

“True… Why don’t you go talk to the director about a change in equipment loadout? I don’t think we’ll be experimenting with that sword anytime soon.”

“Yes, thanks, doc. I’ll go do that.”

X

Shirou Emiya

The cooking contest was good for me. John probably hadn’t meant it to be, but it allowed me to introduce myself to the city at large with unambiguous backing. So when I began my patrols the very next day, the general public recognized me as a new hero.

That was nice, but I found myself dissatisfied with it. It felt cheap, a label that I hadn’t earned yet.

Being a hero was… It wasn’t a job to me, a nine-to-five that I could just come home from. Even calling it a passion sounded insufficient. It was a lifestyle? An obsession? The meaning of my existence?

Still, I put my reservations out of mind. If I felt that I’d yet to earn the title, then all I had to do was to go earn it. It wasn’t as if this city lacked opportunities for heroics.

“Fuck! It’s Possibly Satan!” I heard a robber curse. “Oi! We’ve got Possibly Satan coming in hot!”

I felt my eyebrow twitch in annoyance. One day, I’d pay John back for that. No one even knew what he meant, but the stupid name stuck. The robber had been standing watch in the parking lot while his buddies held up a convenience store. He was more attentive than others I’d seen so far.

I grunted in annoyance and flared my circuits. Three black keys appeared in each hand. I tossed one into his shadow before he could raise his gun and headed inside. The rest of my keys found their mark, leaving four immobile robbers for the cops.

One of the men had grabbed a nearby man to take hostage, but the hostage just walked free after that. If his heel slammed down on the robber’s foot harder than necessary, I didn’t call him on it.

“Shirou. My name is Shirou. Is that so hard to remember?” I grumbled.

“Aw, but Possibly Satan sounds so interesting,” Vista quipped as she stepped into the store. “You’ve got to admit, it’s got character.”

“Character? I think you’re just happy John is making fun of someone else for a change, Vista-chan.”

“Don’t ‘chan’ me, Shirou. I’m not a kid.”

“I meant no offense. ‘Chan’ is a common honorific in Japanese.”

“Yeah, for kids!”

“You are young. It’s appropriate.”

“I’ve been a hero longer than you, you know,” she huffed.

I smiled knowingly. “That’s true. My apologies, Vista-senpai-chan.”

“Ew! That sounds gross!”

“‘Senpai’ means ‘senior,’ though. How is that gross?”

“I don’t know! It’s weird!”

“You don’t like ‘chan.’ You don’t like ‘senpai.’ Would you prefer ‘your royal highness?’”

“You’re making fun of me.” She growled like an angry kitten. It might have been threatening to her peers, but she was a far cry from the lion I used to keep in my house.

Since we shared an acquaintance in John, the PRT had assigned her to be my “guide” while I remained in the city. Truthfully, I was pretty sure she was supposed to try to convince me to sign on fully, but she hadn’t even bothered. 

I didn’t mind her company. Her mobility helped me save my prana reserves. The quality of my circuits had improved greatly thanks to John, but I still felt better about myself when I conserved as much prana as possible, a habit carried over from years of magical combat.

She also provided a great deal of information about the city that I lacked. Not only did she know the city’s streets like the back of her hand, she could also tell me the unmarked borders between gang territories and knew many of the police officers we ended up working with. Having her around smoothed over many interactions.

I smiled as we continued our patrol. There would be time for a more dedicated cleaning of this city. Specifically, at night, when the little king went to bed. But for the moment, I was content to entertain her.

Author’s Note

Chevalier is an odd duck in that his first and last names are unknown. But, his middle name is Michael. He’s the head of the Philadelphia branch, so I decided his name’s Phil. I don’t know why I picked Sawyer.

As far as I understand it, magical swords of Galatine’s caliber tend to have a pseudo-conscience even if they’re not explicitly described as sentient. Either that, or protections forged into the fae-steel by the Lady of the Lake keeps it from merging with Chevalier’s cannonblade. One way or another, I can’t imagine any other outcome.

Behold, the adventures of King Vista and her royal knight, Possibly Satan.

Animal Fact: Let's add one more animal to the list of drug addicts. Red-ruffed and black lemurs (two separate species) in Madagascar use millipedes to get high. Usually, they do not eat the millipede, instead taking a small bite to coax it to produce more toxins.

The lemurs have also found that though they are too big to be harmed by the milipede's toxins, the parasites living in their fur are not. So they rub the millipede all over their bodies like loofahs, taking a shower in their poison. It’s like doing shrooms, then rubbing the leftovers into your pits to get clean.