Mallard Cassiopeia
A luminous, warm light emanates from an upscale-looking French café. Patrons mill about, calmly eating their food, talking, and generally enjoying themselves. A person enters, expecting delicious, French food. His name is Mallard Cassiopeia, and he makes a living off reviewing restaurants just as this one. He walks in, surveying the homely restaurant with precarious intent, not wanting to overlook or misjudge even a single, precious detail. After sitting down, one of the more inexperienced waiters of the staff takes his order. “The highest quality dish on your menu,” he politely requests, to the surprise of the waiter, who nods and rushes to the kitchen. A pale pink steak with droopy garnishes sprawled across it soon emerges from the back.
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He calls the waiter over a second time, demanding an explanation. “This is… Well, it’s just bad,” he stutters, seemingly to the utter offense of the waiter. “Your food is perfectly fine,” they again insist, despite the accusation. To this, Mallard shakes his head in resignation. Unfortunately, his voluminous afro turns what would be a serious situation into a comical one. His action was, however inadvertently, a lot like a poodle playing tug-of-war. Seeing the waiter’s stifled giggles, he realizes this, and his face turns beet red. “T-this is bad,” he says, before breaking down laughing. “You said that already,” the waiter comments, laughing as well. “Well, it seemed worth repeating,” he sassily replies, still cracking a smile. The waiter takes a deep breath, trying to gain their composure, and returns to the kitchen; this time, Mallard follows them, hoping to see exactly what is going on with the cooks. Inside, he sees unimaginable horror: the chef is duct-taped to the ceiling, screeching, while huge, sentient carrots with tree branch-like arms man the various stations, ruining the food with scum and dirt pulled from the stoop
He calls the waiter over a second time, demanding an explanation. “This is… Well, it’s just bad,” he stutters, seemingly to the utter offense of the waiter. “Your food is perfectly fine,” they again insist, despite the accusation. To this, Mallard shakes his head in resignation. Unfortunately, his voluminous afro turns what would be a serious situation into a comical one. His action was, however inadvertently, a lot like a poodle playing tug-of-war. Seeing the waiter’s stifled giggles, he realizes this, and his face turns beet red. “T-this is bad,” he says, before breaking down laughing. “You said that already,” the waiter comments, laughing as well. “Well, it seemed worth repeating,” he sassily replies, still cracking a smile. The waiter takes a deep breath, trying to gain their composure, and returns to the kitchen; this time, Mallard follows them, hoping to see exactly what is going on with the cooks. Inside, he sees unimaginable horror: the chef is duct-taped to the ceiling, screeching, while huge, sentient carrots with tree branch-like arms man the various stations, ruining the food with scum and dirt pulled from the stoop