I have always been a man who enjoyed his food. I’m sure you can tell by the size of me that my plate has rarely been half-full. As a child I had that layer of puppy fat that kids often do, and it was only when I grew into this frame of mine that it all levelled out.

Then, I became a traveller, enjoying different delicacies from across the many levels of Arcadia. Some tasty, some tasteless, some made me want to rip my tongue out of my mouth.

Then I made my way to OSW, and I ate to build and keep muscle. I changed the way I ate, but I still enjoyed that planning, that anticipation, that taste, and that feeling of fullness afterwards.

Then it all changed.

The day I became immortal was the day I stopped enjoying my food. Food was no longer something I ate merely for sustenance, no longer something I anticipated happily.

Instead food was merely a means to an end. A frantic devouring, to hold off the next ‘death’. Those deaths aren’t pretty, and they are not pain-free either. Food because a tactical resource, to save me from my own immortality, rather than a treat.

And then the food was taken. You will never meet a man as ravenous as I was behind that locked door, with no access to the resource I needed to stop me dying over and over again.

The rage I’ve shown recently? I guess you could call that a form of post-traumatic hangry, making up for those frantic, panicked days I spent dreading the worst.

So what does all this have to do with you, Anton Savor?

Let me tell you. I’ve come to know you Anton as a culinary savant. You speak very openly and emotionally about the food you prepare. You are proud of the time and effort you sink into each bite you serve to your patrons – I can see that when I look at you.

That defines you as a person.

But tell me this, Anton, when the patron sat in front of you has no need for seasoning, no care for garnish, no interest in flavour – what is the fucking point in a chef at all?

A chef is meant to be the man that brings in the punters, that makes everyone cream their little fucking panties for the taste explosions in their mouths. Well if you can’t bring in the punters, you are no longer of use.

I could just as well eat your ingredients straight out of the fucking fridge and it would give me what I need. Your skills are not required for what I need.

You are no longer needed in that kitchen, lay down your tools.

And you are no longer needed as Double Feature Champion, so lay down your belt, and let me devour it, flavourless and fucking glittering, so that I can stay one step away from another meaningless death.