OPEN WATER

Sheltered within the deepest bowels of the kitchen lived Khris the Chef.

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He had fingers like brittle twigs, long and sharp, that he used not just to stir his bubbling pots, but to jab and poke at any traveler foolish enough to wander near his pass. “Too thin!” he’d sneer, prodding a passerby’s ribs. “Too soft!” he’d cackle, poking another’s arm as if testing dough.

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Khris the Chef lured teammates with his cooking, promising feasts beyond imagination. The scent of savory breads, roasted meats, beautifully blanched vegetables, and the warmth of ovens drawing passersby ever nearer.

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Once in range, the bullying began. Circling them with his bony fingers, tapping, pinching, and scolding as though they were poorly prepared prime rib. 

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A band of 310ers, tired of his cruelty and eager for a future safe for snacking, gathered just beyond the kitchen’s door. They brought no weapons, no fire, no words. Only tri-colored chips from the office snack stash.

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And there, together, they began to eat. Loudly. Crunching, chomping, chewing with exaggerated delight.

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The sound echoed off the Combis, an orchestra of unapologetic appetite.

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Khris burst from his office, clutching his ears. “Stop it! Stop that dreadful noise!” he shrieked, his bony fingers trembling in the air. The louder they crunched, the weaker he grew, until at last he collapsed, defeated by the noise of the nacho bar he built.

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The kitchen settled into a new peace. Water unable to boil on the broken stove, delicious meals crafted from the boniest of fingers.

 

Some say if you’re brave enough to venture into the kitchen post-event you can still hear Khris the Chef’s menacing laughter coming from the cold, dark depths of his office.