Mafia 88: Imperial Kitchen

Welcome everyone to the latest edition of Imperial Kitchen!

Twenty-six contestants walk in, only one can walk out the winner and take home the coveted Imperial Chef trophy!

The motto of this year’s edition is “Anyone can cook!”, the title of the best-seller cooking book by the late, great chef Auguste Gusteau. To test this theory, professional chefs, food critics as well as home cooks of all ages and backgrounds agreed to participate. Some are even already dead!

Introducing the contestants is our host for this year’s edition, the winner of 16 Michelin stars and chef extraordinaire, give it up for Gooooooooordon Raaaaaaaaaaaamsay!!

“Hello ladies and gents, I’ll be your host for this year’s edition of Imperial Kitchen! Here standing in front of me are 26 of some of the best and possibly the worst chefs ever in history. One of you will walk out the winner, and the rest will be losers just like every other day of your pathetic lives.”

Gordon: “Now over to you! You there with the bad haircut and 40 extra pounds, I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?”

Jamie Oliver: “Hello everyone, my name is Jamie Oliver and I make real tasty food with random ingredients and no real recipes. You all know me as the best british chef alive.”

Gordon: “Right. You there, I recognise you from a TV show.”

Soup Nazi: “No soup for you!”

Gordon: “Ok then. And you, you’re are a cartoon?”

Remy: “Not only that, but I’m a rat. The greatest rat chef ever!”

Gordon: “Well I was about to call the exterminator, but now I’m curious. And you sir, in the back, you look like a proper gentleman.”

Hannibal: “Good evening. My name is Hannibal Lecter and I am fan of haute cuisine, good wine and out-of-the-box ingredients.”

Gordon: “I believe you. Well then, I hope you enjoyed the preview of the most diverse lot of contestants ever to enter this kitchen. One of them will walk out the winner, the others may not walk out at all! Stay tuned for more, soon on Imperial Kitchen!”

1 Like


Sun Goddess


Soup Nazi: roleblocker, can choose to roleblock any player every night phase. Cannot block the same player two nights in a row.

I am Mr …Soup? My name is not important. What? Shut up. I have no name. I said shut up. I am just here to make soup. No. I have nothing more to say. No, I don’t care that you insist. Just get my kitchen up to these specifics. Yes, it’s a binder. You’ve never seen one? Feel about it as you like, it’s irrelevant to me. Shut up. I’m done with you. Comply with the binder.

Chef Jerome McElroy (from South Park), aka Chef: doctor, can choose to heal a player every night phase. Cannot heal the same player two nights in a row.

Hello everyone. I’m Chef and I’ll be making gravy. My special love gravy, oh yeah! I’m gonna get those juices flowin. Makin love gravy, love gravy love gravy love love love, ooh! Open up a packet of my gravy, baby it’s burnin’ just for you child. Would you like another helping of gravy? Say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Watch out, don’t let it get in your eyes now!!

Margot: cop, can choose to investigate a player every night phase.

Ich bin Frau Margot Wölk, and I used to be Hitler’s food taster. Der Führer, ja ja. I was tasked with some other girls to do zis. Ze service personnel filled ze silver platters with ze vegetables, Kartoffeln, sauces, noodle dishes and exotic fruits, placing them in a room with a large wooden table, where ze food had to be tasted. Ze food was of good quality … very good. But we couldn’t enjoy it. Because there was never meat. Hitler was a vegetarian and very adamant about it, and would oblige everyone to eat only his terrible farty food. And he would preach about it endlessly while you ate it. Gott im Himmel, he was literally Hitler.

Halotus: backup cop, will inherit Margot’s role should she die. They know each other form the start.

I am Halotus. I was a servant to the Roman Emperor Claudius, and… What? Yes. OK, I see. I barely get a sentence in, and you don’t want to know about how it wasn’t me who poisoned Claudius, but Agrippina, oh no. Not about my rise from slave to procurator, no no. Not interesting. You don’t see the human interest in a fascinating rags-to-riches story in a really complex society, no. You just want to know if I am truly a eunuch. You want to hear about my balls being chopped off and bouncing off the floor like glass marbles. You know, people don’t change. Here, let me show you. Here’s the beef thermometer, the skin flute. But as you see, no acorns eh. An empty knapsack. No yams in the bag. Happy now?

Marcus Gavius Apicius: revenge killer, if targetted at night will take his killer down with him

The name is Marcus Gavius Apicius. Ave! I really have no idea on how I came to be here. I’m supposed to have died about 2000 years ago. I did write one of the first cookbooks ever, and was a famous glutton, but that’s it. I guess one of the producers really really has a big ass hard-on for Romans and decided to break the laws of time and physics to get my long decayed body back here. My favorite things are olive oil, olive cheese, olive tapenade, olive bread, olive salad, olive puttanesca pasta, green olives, black olives, nocellara olives, olive cacciatore, deep-fried olives, stuffed olives,… and garum! You remember garum, don’t you? The roman fish sauce?

Remy: Has a one time ability to cook ratatouille for Anton Ego, the godfather - aka 1 time ability to kill the gf. Will only succeed if the target is the gf.

Remy the Rat, that’s me. Yes, I am an actual rat. Rattus norvegicus to be exact. For the purpose of the show, I’ll be controlling a human by pulling said human’s hair and hiding under the human’s hat because you people don’t like rats. Please don’t look so disgusted. it annoys me a bit how people like squirrels but not rats. At the end of the day they’re the same thing, except that squirrels have a nicer tail . And better publicity. Goddamn Chip and Dale. I’ll try and show you we can cook just as good as anyone!


Anton Ego: Godfather and also the food critic from Ratatouille. Investigation immune, and night-time kill immune. Will decide who the Mafia’s target for assassination is.

*I am Anton Ego. I’m here apparently to witness wannabe chefs making a pathetic populist theater out of a sublime art. The art of combining the right ingredients in the right way, with a carefully and dedicated nurturing of the rare combination of artisanship, instinct, experience and a touch of genius. *


*We’re not talking about throwing a third rate hunk of meat into some overheated frying fat and boiling root vegetables to a mush, to just inhale it 20 min later and forget about it 5 seconds after that. *

That’s not cooking.

*We’re not talking about ooh-ing and ah-ing about a relatively simple sautéd shrimp while 15 cameras with filters follow an idiot around whose greatest merit is to be able to appeal to bored housewives wasting their lives looking at daytime tv by reflecting the lowest common denominator of their skill, or lack thereof. *

That’s not cooking.

I had enough of that. I joined this circus with one goal and one goal only. If no one will call this perversion to the divine process that true cooking is to a halt, burn it down with fire and parade the disgraceful wannabe chefs through the streets to tar and feather them, then I will. I will show no mercy. I will show you… cooking.

Jamie Oliver: mob roleblocker, can choose to roleblock a player every night phase. Cannot roleblock the same player two nights in a row.

Hi, I’m Jamie Oliver. I’m famous for making a great fuss about collecting ingredients and telling little stories about them and what you can do with them and how amazing it all is. Can you please instruct the camera crew to keep the camera on me at all times? Even if I’m an overweight Englishman with a 35 BMI that inspires anything but appetite, I insist. Since the show has to involve some actual cooking unfortunately I’ll make sure the dishes won’t take too much time, and to throw the ingredients I fawn over quickly together in mediocre dishes that require no skill to make and overload them with fat and salt, haha. Good stuff!

Nigella Lawson: mob cop, can choose to investigate a player 3 times over the course of the game.

Hi, I’m Nigella Lawson. I have two large assets, and cooking isn’t one of them, hahaha. Are we getting a good camera angle on my cleavage here? That’s about the main thing I’ll be bringing here. I’ll make sure to regularly slowly taste some chocolate sauce and dripping fruit bits too. Apart from smiling into the camera and saying nothing , that’s about it for me. Ta taa!

Wolfgang Puck: mob hitman, can choose to kill a player during any phase of the game. One time ability only.

Wolfgang Puck here. I’m an Austrian, born after WW2, and made my career in the States. I was married and divorced a couple of times; won a lot of awards and I like to show some muscle in the kitchen. But I really want to waste no time on this intro and get started. Let me get that cleaver and the that meat and to the cutting block, and … NO. IT IS TIME. LISTEN TO ME. GET TO THE CHOPPER!

Marco Pierre White: revenge killer, if lynched will take down the last person who voted for him.

Yes, I am Marco Pierre White. An intro? Haha, I need an intro? Are you fucking kidding me. See Ramsay over there? I trained him. I thought him his one trick; cursing like a heretic peasant who just hit his thumb with a hammer. That’s just the one thing he’s good at. I trained a lot of top notch chefs, but I’m the best there ever was. I was the youngest chef ever and the first British chef ever to be awarded three Michelin Stars. That’s how good I am. I’m not actually longer cooking, but I came on here to remind you there’s only one that’s the best, and that’s me. I’m basically the Manchester City of the cooking league. Go Citizens!

Paul Bocuse: no abilities

Je m’appelle Paul Bocuse. I am here to admit I am famous by accident. I feel the time is here to reveal my secret, how I became what I am. One time I was too hung over from drinking too much Picon to properly cook or go buy ingredients the next morning. So I threw some heated up leftover sauce hollandaise on one raw asparagus and served it to some people. I then called it a new way of cooking, not too opulent, une veritable nouvelle cuisine hon hon!. And I got away with it, hon hon hon. Millions of people bought in to this crap, parbleu!.

Julia Child: no abilities

Hi, my name is Julia, Julia Child, and I would like to show you some more on French cooking. It isn’t as easy as it looks like, which is why I would like to recommend my 1505 page cookbook, available now at… What’s that dear? No promotion? Oh. What a disappointment.Really not? No? Pity, but, I surrender. It doesn’t mean I will be unable to tell you all about all the best ways to really enjoy snails, garlic, pungent smelling cheese, frogs, foie gras, aubergines and the best fleur de sel! I also love to cook with wine. Ha, sometimes I even put it in the food.


Hannibal: investigation immune and night-time kill immune. Can choose to kill a player every night phase.

*Here’s mr H. Lecter, last minute participant! Mr. Lecter, take it away! *

Hannibal just stands there, staring into the camera, smiling. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t acknowledge the questions, he just smiles. His steady eery gaze instead brings the message: a terrible resolve, a promise of horrible and unspeakable acts.

The Rules

- Your objective is to win the competition! There can only be ONE winner, so even if one faction is wiped out, you will still have to be the sole survivor!

- Each day phase, every contestant must vote for whoever they think should be lynched; this person will be eliminated and no longer be a part of the game

- In the event of a tie in the number of votes at the end of dayphase, all players with the most votes will die. THERE WILL BE NO EXTENSIONS

- If we come to the final day phase with only 3 players left alive, they will all have to cast a vote. Failure to do so will result in the offending player’s death

- You cannot miss two votings in a row; should this happen, you will be immediately removed from the game, and lynch will still commence based on voting.

- The voting deadline is just that, a deadline. Day phase will finish at 1200 GMT, this means that if you vote at 12:00:01 GMT your vote will be excluded. This is irrelevant of whether the game moderators have posted that voting is closed.

- You are NOT allowed to make public the message sent you by the game moderators to tell you your role, either entirely or in part; should this happen you will be removed from the present game and possibly future editions as well. You can share what your information means, but you cannot share exact text.

- Once you’re dead, you’re dead. Do not talk about the game to still active players, or post in the forum thread. This will be considered an act of influence upon the remaining players, and will get you banned from future games. We all like to have fun, and play by the rules, so please keep that in mind.

Order of events

- Town Roleblock
- Mafia Roleblock
- Heal
- Serial Killer Kill
- Mafia Kill
- Investigation


1 x Godfather
6 x Mafia members
2 x Cops
1 x Roleblocker
1 x Doctor
1 x Sniper
1 x Revenge Killer
1 x Serial Killer
12 x Townies


1000 GMT - 2000 GMT = Day phase
2000 GMT - 1000 GMT = Night phase

These times may be subject to change due to work schedule, however announcements will be made if there are any changes.

These times may be subject to change due to work schedule, however announcements will be made if there are any changes.


Everything is always about choice. Even when it seems there is none, there is however always another possible option. Even if it was even less desirable than the one standing in front of you, it still was there.

And in those choices are options. Chances. Possibilities. You always had to look for the choice. Look for the next choice within that choice. And then, let your conscience speak. Morality was important.

And Hannibal had made his choice. He had seen the famous chefs whispering and conspiring. Casting meaningful glances towards certain aspiring chefs. They had made their own choice. He was the consequence. He smiled.

“Julia, ma chérie.” he spoke softly. “It is time.”

Goddess, aka Julia Child, whimpered, looking up at Hannibal. “Must I really? I surrendered! I admitted my conspiracy! Pitié, pour l’amour de Dieu!”

“Yes. But it still is time to choose.” He gestured at the table, where two separate trays were set out. They were sitting in the basement of the large studio. He had lured her there mentioning he found some interesting mushrooms, and then locked her up.

“You monster! it is impossible to choose between these options for a chef like me. How can you ask me to choose for that first tray.” She pointed at the surgical instruments. " You madman! Cut out my liver and eat it?"

“With some fried onions, and a beautiful Sancerre to do it justice of course.” Hannibal licked his lips. “I envy you that choice.”

Julia teared up. “I have no choice. I choose the second tray.” She sobbed.

“Oh, I did not expect that. How delightful! How brave!” Hannibal clapped his hands in delight.

“Whenever you’re ready, Julia. My brave Julia.”

With trembling hands, Julia reached out to the instruments on the second tray. And did what she had to do. After three minutes, she put the toothbrush and the extra strong double mint triple action toothpaste down, and stared into Hannibal’s unforgiving eyes. Seeing no salvation, she then took the glass of orange juice, and drank it.

Her screams were loud, long and terrible, but heard by no one. Julia would never be able to taste anything again.

Goddess aka Julia Child (plain mob) - was removed from the competition by Hannibal.

Paul Bocuse licked his lips. He had to deliver results tonight, not just talk his way out of a difficult situation. Sucking in his stomach and pushing out his chest, she marched his way down the big studio to the prepping and working stations. Several aspiring chefs were still prepping or practising their dishes for the next day.

He made sure to approach HydroP from the front, catch his eye and look critically.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” he rumbled. “What’s cooking?”

HydroP grinned amicably at the apparition in front of him, his guard down in the presence of fame. “I’m preparing the seasoning for my salsiccia al finocchio . I’ll be one of the first to present tomorrow morning and this has to dry out a little, and rest the night to be perfect.”

“Oh, how magnifique.” Paul smiled. “Very special dish.” He cast a searching look at the station. “Well, let’s have a look at that salsiccio of yours. Where is it?”

“Mister, it’s right there.” Hydro pointed.

Paul bent closer. “Oh, le voilà! Is that all? Mon dieu. That is extreme nouvelle cuisine. What did you put in it?”

“The best cut from a prime pig from…”

“Prime guinea pig?” Paul raised his eyebrows.

“No.” HydroP angrily bit back. “Berkshire pig. I took a mix of various selected herbs, the fennel and ground boneless short rib, and…"

“Very short rib…”

“What? Listen buddy, there ain’t nothing wrong about my salsiccio. It’s not too small, even if it’s a bit oddly shaped, and it’s not about the size anyway neither. It’s about the experience and combination with the rest of the dish, which is…”

“My good, dear HydroP.” he interrupted softly, reaching out to lightly touch his cheek. “Brave, dear HydroP.” His eyes moistened a bit. "Keep that positive attitude. Don’t let anyone change it. That optimism is an inspiration to us all. Keep it…up, ha, when people should find what you present… shortcoming. "

He turned about, and strutted back the way he came from, making sure HydroP got a last look at his shaking head.

“I’ll be dipped in shit, breaded and fried.” HydroP cursed. He cast his eyes down and eyed his sausage. Paul was an experienced cook. And a veteran in shows like these. He wouldn’t be giving him bad advice. It was probably a pointer to save him from humiliation before the panel the next day.

Well god damn it. He wasn’t about to be made a laughing stock on national tv because of his… small…

He aimed all he prepped into the trash, threw his apron on the ground and stomped his way out of the studio, to find the nearest whiskey bar.

HydroP (townie) was removed from the competition by Paul Bocuse.


Cxris - Luker, Thirdrock, TBO, Rando, Mrblonde, Mels, Swagga, Undeath (8)
Jets -Dukey, Arby, Cxris (3)
ordos234 - TU, Jets (2)
Sunstorm - Schniepel (1)
TU - ordos234 (1)
Oldie - Daylight (1)
Melvin - Torqez (1)
Fool- Soul (1)
Soul - Fool (1)
Daylight - KT (1)
TBO - Nolio (1)
Schniepel - Sunstorm (1)
Swagga - Oldie (1)

Did not vote: melvin

It’s a hectic lunch service on Imperial Kitchen. Gordon Ramsay oversees the food going out, and he can’t believe his eyes!

“IT’S RAAAAW!! A good vet could still save it!”, he yelled as he threw the blue steak at the wall. Cxris grins as Ramsay lays it down on Jets, thinking he was safe for today. He had prepared one of his signature dishes, Duck and fois gras Tart with Roanne sauce, and he was sure to win Gordon and the customers over with it. He was Paul Bocuse after all, one of the finest chefs in France.

Just as Crix was readying the platter, Gordon approached, still fuming over Jets’ incompetence. Across the kitchen, Ordos was still trying to figure out how to fry an egg, but Gordon had long given up on him. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a kitchen!”, he said out loud. “Ah Paul, I see you have prepared a classic! Only you can save us from this bloody mess!”

“Oui chef. I used most of the truffles in the pantry, but it will be worth it! Je promets!”

“That crust looks excellent! And that smell!”

“Would you like to try it first, monsieur?”

“I wouldn’t presume to taste your food. I’m sure it tastes as beatifully as it looks.”, Gordon praised as he looked around the kitchen. Suddenly, the horror! The fridge door was open, and there was a tray of cooked chicken by the raw duck and pork!

“WHO PUT THIS HERE??? Who was it???”

Cxris looked down at his feet. There was no way out of this. “C’etait moi.”, he whispered quietly.

“I don’t believe you! YOU COULD KILL SOMEBODY!!! What a rookie mistake! Ok that’s it! Shut it down, shut it down now! Everyone go to your dorms and think about the disgrace you have presented us with today!!”

“Paul, I’m very sorry but I have to ask you for your apron. That was inexcusable for a chef of your renown. And, I’m keeping your tart.”

Cxris (Paul Bocuse, plain mob) has been lynched.

It is now NIGHT PHASE! You have until 10am GMT to send your decisions to ZoZ and me.


(Credits to ZoZ for the stories)

Hannibal felt somewhat giddy, which was not usual in him. Getting his hands on Arby would feel like Christmas coming early. Arby had been annoying him thoroughly. His mental sense of equilibrium was totally disturbed by Arby ’s frequent screaming pitched laughter. It was as if the offspring of a hyena and a turkey had inhaled helium and then dropped an anvil on its feet. It was intolerable. He lost focus every time, something he could not afford. Never.

Even though a better choice for a target was available, this choice was more urgent. It was the choice to clear the path, to remove obstacles. It was an investment in future efficiency. He would regain his clarity.

Thusly, the choice felt right. The choice felt just.

Capturing Arby had been easy. The promise of some shared liquor was enough to lure him into the same basement where Julia had met her untimely end as a chef. To his amazement, Hannibal didn’t even have to overpower Arby. The cretin had just downed a bottle of 25 year old single malt himself in a rapid succession of shots, never offering Hannibal any. Ten minutes later, he was snoring senseless against the wall.

Such gluttony. Such self serving stuffing. Such …

Hannibal grinned as the appropriate action dawned. It would be messy, it would be invasive.

It would be poetic. It would be justice. It would be… like Christmas.

He pulled on his rubber gloves, carefully removed Arby ’s pants, and got to work.

When Arby woke up, it wasn’t because of the splitting headache. It wasn’t because he was asleep in a cold dark basement. In fact he was sweating profusely. He had trouble seeing right. The walls seemed to come in upon him from below and from within. And it talked to him in purple through a billion balloons. His hands sang to him acrid like gunpowder. His head floated like a riverbed made out of inverted planets.

He wandered through the door, which spinned into itself like a tesseract, and eventually found his way to the front door out the studio. He was not seen again for 72 hours when someone finally found him sitting in a corn field, naked and with no trace of memory of what happened, or who he was.

Hannibal grinned as his wish for Arby to get stuffed became true in multiple ways. He carefully tucked the remainder of his Gymnopilus aeruginosus, also known as the Magic Blue Gym mushroom, away. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the silence in his head for a while.

Arby the simple homecook was eliminated from the competition by Hannibal.

Marco Pierre White didn’t like being ordered about. The celebrity chefs however, in their wisdom had seen it fit to delegate a task to him. Him! The youngest chef ever to get 3 Michelin stars. It was like entrusting Agüero to direct the Manchester City offense, when he couldn’t find the goal if it had a siren, flashing neon lights and 10 naked cheerleaders on it.

“Marco,” they said. “Marco, can you handle that Hannibal guy? We’re sure you will know what to do.” Like he was some sort of subordinate Chef de Partie, or a shitty debutant Commis Chef needing to be coached. He was king in any kitchen. Chef de Cuisine! That was him.

He felt he could shit a brick out of fury. It was 21:45, everyone had already left and the Manchester derby would have already started. Fuck! The rage made his gut boil.

So when he arrived at Hannibal’s station, and saw the little pots of chocolate mousse Hannibal had prepared standing in the table top glass door fridge on the counter, he didn’t hesitate. He nodded, grabbed a bowl and a pastry tube and jumped onto the station. Pulling down his pants, he squatted over the bowl and pushed hard. He grunted in satisfaction as he heard a ‘plop’.

He figured the operation wasn’t subtle, it wasn’t a masterful move, but Hannibal would be out of the game. Quickly he transferred the bowl content to the pastry tube to decorate the chocolate mousses.

Maybe Ramsay would even get a taste, the ungrateful bastard. Never referencing him, his teacher, in all of his TV shows. Fucking gloryhound. He grinned. A little shit for the little shit.

Unfortunately, Hannibal had locked the table top fridge. There was no way to tamper with the food without breaking the lock, which would alert Hannibal.

Marco cursed. Nothing for it, he would have to try something different. Let the other chefs think it over, they were so smart anyway.

Marco Pierre White tried to eliminate Hannibal, but failed.

It is now DAY PHASE. You have until 10pm GMT to cast you vote!

1 Like

Wolfgang Puck was on a stealth mission.

The chefs had agreed to take out one of the most promising young cooks and remove him from the competition. Puck took on the job (“Of course, I’m a terminator.”)

Mels has been making the most exquisite version of the traditional German dish Schweinekopfsülze, pork head cheese, anyone of them had seen in decades. The broth she used smelled just heavenly, she had made the gelatine himself, and the pork was a sweet-tasting, well-marbled and exceptionally flavourful Gloucestershire Old Spot. And they all had seen the potatoes she would pan-fry those to accompany it. Robust, honest and traditional yet it required an artist to perfect it. Ramsay would swoon over it.

Wolfgang had donned himself in jungle camouflage clothes and obscured his face with black camo stripes made from black olive tapenade. He put chef knives of various sizes into both his combat boots holsters and 8 belt holsters, had tucked little shellfish knives under leather wrist bracelets, and strapped a large sabre à champagne to his back. He was prepared for anything. He was going to terminate Mels. “What is best in life? “ he considered. “To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women!”

He was making his way through the obscure studio, holding a syringe loaded with vinegar. The gelatine of Mels’ head cheese was still congealing, and injecting it with vinegar would spoil it surely. Delicate, invisible.

He approached Mels’ station and reached out with the syringe.

“Hasta la vista, baby!”

He walked away. But turned around again.

“You’ve just been Pucked the hell up!”

Mels (aka Margot Wölk, aka town cop) has been eliminated by Wolfgang Puck (mob hitman, using one time ability)


ordos (5) - TU, TBO, thirdrock, Swagga, You_Fool

Swagga (4) - Dukey, luker, Torqez, Schniepel
Fool (3) - Daylight, Soul, Jets
TU (2) - ordos, Sunstorm
Nolio (2) - Rando, melvin
melvin (1) - Oldie
TBO (1) - Nolio
Torqez (1) - KT
Jets (1) - Blonde

Did not vote: Undeath

ordos was furious. He had been trying to grill some sausages for hours, but they were barely cooked. He had tried everything, but nothing seemed to work.

“Isn’t that the tiniest BBQ you’ve ever seen?”, snickered Nigella Lawson. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“I’m a rat, and even MY bbq is bigger than that!”, boasted Remy. Hannibal considered what to do with such a tiny piece of equipment, but not even his twisted mind could come up with anything.

Across the kitchen, Gordon Ramsay had been on Swagga’s case all night. He had moved him across all stations in hopes of catching a glimmer of talent, but it had finally dawned on him that Swagga’s only talent in the kitchen was butchering any food he laid his hands on. Gordon was about to send him packing, but he couldn’t ignore the supressed laughter coming from around ordos’ station.

"Hey you, numnuts. “What do you think you’re doing? Does that sign say Imperial Kitchen Junior?”

ordos had started sweating profusely by now, and it had nothing to do with the amount of heat coming from his miniscule BBQ. “I, I, I…”

“Let me finish that for you: you you you are a disaster! You’ve been trying to cook those sausages for HOURS, and you barely even got a fire going on that bloody thing! And now, everyone’s laughing at you!”

“I, I, I…”

“Look, I’ve had it with you. Give me your apron, pack your bags, and take that toy with you, will you? Get out of my sight. And the rest of you, stop giggling and get back to work!!!”

ordos (townie) has been lynched

It is now NIGHT PHASE! You have until 10am GMT to send your decisions to ZoZ and me.

“You’re making Beef Wellington eh? Very difficult, very audacious. What a marvelous, brave choice. I do congratulate you, Jets!

Hannibal had walked up to Jets’ station, making idle chit chat. However, Jets was actually Marcus Gavius Apicius.

You see, how that works is, Marcus Gavius Apicius was 2000 year old, and as such didn’t look too good anymore. It’s not so much the flies and maggots, but the loose joints and the limbs falling off into a soup or stew are a pain.

Marcus was a problem solver however.

He had tricked a random guy into a date, catfishing him. Once that guy, Jets, arrived, Marcus had locked him up and invoked arcane Roman knowledge.He sacrificed a magical chicken to Mercurius, the god of tricksters, and transferred his essence into the body of Jets. The process was deeply invasive and a bit painful, but succeeded. After a brief struggle he overcame the spirit of the tricked Jets, which was now just along for the ride, a mute passenger in his own body.

Marcus Gavius Apicius was meanwhile trying to fend off the idle chit chat, wanting to focus on winning the competition. But Hannibal had charisma, you had to hand it to him. When he spoke, you listened. Marcus listened.

“Let me tell you a story about beef.”

Hannibal walked through and past the station and sat down at a chair a little away. Jets’ eye were captured in his gaze.

“One day, young me was watching me dear old mom make a roast sirloin of beef. She cut off the ends, wrapped it in string, seasoned it and set it in the roasting dish. I asked her why she cut off the ends of the roast. Mommy dear replied, after some thought, that it was the way that her mother had done it.
That night my nan came to dinner and we both asked why she had cut the end off of the roast before cooking. After some thought nan replied, she cooked the meat the way her mother had done it.

Now great-nana was still among the living. She lived in a nursing home, And a couple weeks later we went to visit her and again asked the very same question. Great-grandma looked at us a bit surprised and said, 'So it would fit in the roasting dish, of course.”

Hannibal waited expectantly.

Marcus shrugged.

“So, now comes the morale of the story, right, Hannibal? I’m sure it will be something insightful. Something that will make me reflect on my entire life and make me change my ways. I will forever look back on this a turning point in my existence. Something like that? Ha. ”

Hannibal got up and walked over to a cabinet of the station.

“That would have been possible. However….”

He turned around in a flash, suddenly holding a great and sharp cleaver. He pointed it at Jets

“While I have been talking, I’m afraid you lost track of the Beef Wellington in the oven. I put it on 280°C. I’m afraid it’s dried out and the pastry burnt.”

“Noooooooooooooooooooooo!!” Marcus howled.

A fierce rage took over, overwhelmed him completely and broke the spell Mercurius had empowered him to do. Marcus’ spirit exploded out of Jets, becoming a shapeless cloud in the air between Hannibal and Jets, who keeled over and passed out.

“… fascinating!” Hannibal whispered. He reached out to touch Marcus’ spirit, exploring it. Marcus didn’t hesitate, and used the connection to take possession of Hannibal.

Myyyyyy… beeeeeeeef…. Weeeellllingggtooooooon” the ghost of Marcus hooted eerily inside Hannibals head. “My…. preccioooouuuuuuussss…. beeeeeeheeeeeefffff. I willl have … reeeveeeehheeeeengeeeeee!!

The two minds clashed inside of Hannibal. The ancient mind and the terrible mind… fused.

And became something new.

What was standing there was no longer Hannibal. It was … Hannipicius. It’s power level was immense. A scouter to check it would have been useless. Hannipicius went on to walk straight out of the studio, into a totally other story, and fight humanoid aliens. Eventually, he cooked an entire planet with his mind, but that’s for another day.

Hannibal (Schiepel) eliminated Jets, who was actually the revenge killer Marcus Gavius Apicius. Schniepel is eliminated too.

Rand0 had made sushi.

Marco Pierre White looked it over. Not bad. Not bad. It wouldn’t win any prizes, but it would keep him from being eliminated definitely.

He sampled one.

Decent texture. Rice vinegared just right. Nice variety; some tropical fruits, some cucumber, some tofu. Pleasing to the eye. Wrapped just right, straight, not like some dead body thrown in a tarp while the maggots came out.

It felt wrong to have to destroy this dish.

Gathering his thoughts, he walked away. Rand0 would have to be dealt with otherwise. He’d see if he could talk him out of the competition.

He found Rand0 in the studio bar, enjoying a mango juice. He sauntered over.

“Hey there, Rand0.”.

“Hi, Mr White! I must say it’s an honour and a privilege to meet you! You were an inspiration to me for years.”

“Haha, thanks. I get that all the ti… Wait, what do you mean, “were”?”

“Well, you see. When I realized you focussed on meats so much. You kind of… lost me. It seemed so limited, while there are so many vegetarian dishes out there. I went looking for someone who would explore further, beyond where you stopped.”

White’s temper immediately flared. This little upstart dared criticise him? HIM? The greatest chef ever? The one who was the youngest ever to receive three michelin stars?? The… sheer outrage of it!

“Listen here, you distasteful soybean fanboy, everything I ever cooked is rightly balanced. If you scrap an entire range of foods out of some stupid principle, it’s on you and you alone. I don’t…”

“Mr. White, please, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend! I was just trying to… ”

“Too late, you, you… bloody sprout shitter! If you like alternative proteins so much, why don’t you hold on to your own nuts for a while!”

And with that, a furious Marco Pierre White kicked Rando mightily in the balls, with the power of a thousand suns.

Rando flew back two meters, and went down like a sack of potatoes, howling and clutching his crushed crown jewels. It was lights out for him.

Rand0 (townie) has been eliminated by Marco Pierre White.


Swagga (4) - Dukey, TBO, Torqez, Sunstorm
You_Fool (4) - Soul, thirdrock, KT, Daylight

TBO (3) - Blonde, Luker, Nolio
Luker (2) - TU, You_Fool
Soul (1) - Oldie
Undeath (1) - Undeath
Sunstorm (1) - Swagga

Did not vote: melvin

“Tonight we’re having a very special challenge! It will be the first team challenge, and because of that you have been placed in teams of two.”

Gordon Ramsay was excited about tonight. A functional Kitchen relied on teamwork just as much as it did on the talent of its’ chefs. Tonight they had another shot at proving they had what it took.

“You will be making… This!”, Ramsay said, as he unveiled the most magnificent
croque-en-bouche any of them had ever seen. It looked amazing, and the chefs knew they were in for a bad time.

You_Fool and Swagga had been partnered up, and they couldn’t be happier; they were the greats Nigella Lawson and Wolfgang Puck, after all. What could possibly go wrong?

Nigella got things rolling: “Ok Wolfgang, I’m going to get the pastry cream going and get the caramel started. You handle the choux, ok?”

“Ja, mein freund. It will be the best choux you’ve ever tasted, wunderbar!”

“Are you saying I can’t make a choux? I’ll have you know I make a great choux. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen you doing it before, and you add all the eggs together to the batter when you should be doing it one by one.”

“Nein, Nigella, I was just saying I’m happy to work with you.”

“Well you have a funny way of showing it. Besides, if you add all the eggs at the same time, the profiteroles will not puff up properly, and that’s what a croque-en-bouche is all about!”

“Dir mal was sagen, young lady! I was cooking when you were still in diapers! I know very well what I’m doing, danke!”

“Typical attitude. A male chef has nothing to learn, especially not from a woman!”

“Du mieser Kleiner … How dare you!”

Gordon Ramsay couldn’t help but notice the commotion and made his way to their bench: “What in god’s name is going on here?”

“This man is insufferable, Gordon! I cannot work with him!”

“Vas??? She accuses me of being a terrible chef! Me, Wolfgang Puck! I will not tolerate this!”

Gordon frowned and dragged them away from the bench by their arms. “Now look here, this is a team challenge! If you cannot work together, you’ll be eliminated!”

Nigella Lawson took off her apron and threw it at Puck. “I will not work with this man! Not now, not ever!”

“And the same to you!”, as Puck threw his apron at Nigella’s face.

They were both racing for the wooden spons when security came in and dragged them both away.

“What are you all looking at?”, Ramsay said. “It’s fine dining, not fine manners.”

You_Fool (Nigella Lawson, mob cop) and Swagga (Wolfgang Puck, mob hitman) have been lynched

It is now NIGHT PHASE! You have until 10am GMT to send your decisions to ZoZ and me.


Halotus eyed the note.

“Dear Halotus,

I’ve heard certain things about eunuchs, and their ability to… perform.

I’d like to see if there is truth in them!.

Meet me tonight, in my apartment at the studio 3rd floor. Bring a leek, and an eggplant.

Xxx Nigella.”

He sighed. Why the hell not. She was out of the competition, and probably bored now. She wouldn’t be a match for the trained ladies from the houses of pleasure on the Caelian Hill in Rome. But if you’ve been dead for 2000 years, any action was good. Even if it was just the slightly aged descendant of barbaric islander Celts, conquered by even more barbaric Angles and Saxons, in turn conquered by primitive Danes, in turn conquered by warmongering Normans.

But who had obviously prospered. While Rome was a tourist attraction, its magnificence turned to ruins. Sic transit gloria mundi, baby.

If he could just figure this modern style hearth out, he could prepare the “Shield of Minerva"; good old emperor Vitellius’ favourite dish. It was composed of pike liver, brains of pheasant and peacock, flamingo tongue, and lamprey milt. Amazing how he could just order these things, and a day later the show’s producers would have made them just show up. This age wasn’t so bad, maybe.

“I’ll visit that woman first for a recital with the old hairy lute. I’ll finish setting this up for tomorrow afterwards.”

Marco Pierre White had been waiting for this. The moment Halotus left, Marco appeared, and put a vial of a clear liquid in Halotus’ jar of garum, the fish sauce every Roman so loved.

Wait, again with the poisoned garum fish sauce, ZoZ? That’s that same story from your Rome mafia?

Shut up, Gen. It’s not the same at all. It just… happened to be the same ingredient. But it’s totally different!

This is some bs. You’re out of ideas and just rehashing stuff. What a cop out

Haha, indeed. Good one Gen!


Cop. Out! Halotus. Cop. Out. Of the game.


Just… You… Argh. Just get on with it.

You got it!

When a happy Halotus returned, two hours later, he finished setting up preparations, and decided to have a little late night snack, to regain his strength. He enjoyed his toast soaked in garum, while he watched a movie . About halfway his stomach started to rumble something fierce, and he just made it to the toilet in time.

Luker, aka Halotus, the backup cop, had to stay there for the next day and a half while his intestines were being purged like they were Christians in the Empire under the emperors Diocletian, Maximian, Galerius, and Constantius in 303 AD.

Jesus Christ, ZoZ…

Yeah, Gen! That’s what it was about! You think I should put in a bit about the struggle between the early Christian sects and the finer points on where they differed in doctrine?

No! Just… no.

Luker, backup cop was eliminated by Marco Pierre White

It is now DAY PHASE. You have until 10pm GMT to cast you vote!


TBO (9) - Torqez, Dukey, MrBlonde, thirdrock, Soul, TU, Undeath, Nolio, TBO
Sunstorm (1) - Daylight
melvin (1)- Oldie
Sunstorm (1) - Sunstorm
TU (1) - KT

Did not vote: melvin

“Tonight we’re making macarons!” Chef Ramsay seemed very excited as he described one of his favorite desserts.

“Now these beauties are not easy to make. You have to be very precise. You have to measure ingredients by weight, such that the intended ratio is maintained. Too much or too little of one type of ingredient, such as almond flour or egg white, can push the whole thing off-balance. You also need to mix it to specifications; too thin and the cookie shells spread too much, too thick and they end up having peaks. And the temperature/duration of baking is also very specific; they can easily be burned or undercooked, either way. They’re easily the most finicky baking projects I’ve ever done.”

The contestants looked around, and none seemed too happy about it. One in particular was extremely worried though: TBO, better known as Jamie Oliver, didn’t really follow recipes. He went with his gut and threw a little bit of this and a little bit of that into the pan. It usually turned out very tasty, but macarrons were a different animal altogether.

30 minutes in, Jamie Oliver had come up with chili con carne, 3 differents salads and chocolate-glazed doughnuts. Macarons, however, were nowhere to be seen.

“Jamie, what is this? You’re supposed to be making macarons.”

“I know, I know. There’s no beef in the recipe, but I just felt it went well. And the romaine lettuce, have you looked at it? It goes well with anything!”

“Jamie, I gave you the recipe. It’s very precise, all you have to do is follow it step by step.”

“I… I can’t!!! All this order and precision, it drives me insane!! I can’t, Gordon! I CAN’T!!”

Jamie Oliver curled up in a ball by his station, his hands pulling his hair out, and sobbing very, very loudly. He could not be talked to or reasoned with, his eyes staring into nothingness.

“Ok. Help me out here guys, we need to carry Jamie to his room. And melvin, you’re out of here too. You’ve been drooling all over your station all night. Gross! Out, out, OUT!!”

TBO (Jamie Oliver, mob rb) has been lynched
melvin (townie) has been killed due to missing 2 votes in a row

It is now NIGHT PHASE! You have until 10am GMT to send your decisions to ZoZ and me.


Soul hesitantly approached Ramsay.

“Mr Ramsay, I heard you could make an extra dish, for elimination immunity the next day. I’d like to take that chance for tomorrow. So I started to prepare an Indian dish called Gujarati Handvo, and I would like your opinion. When it’s ready.”

“Guja…rati Hand…vo? Never heard of it.”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, if you impress me, you get to sit on the bench for a day. If on the other hand I think you’re trying to poison me, you ‘ll be in big trouble.!”

Soul nodded.

“I’ll take the chance. It’s an ancient family recipe.”

“You don’t look very Indian to me.”

Soul bristled.

“Well, it’s not so much how you look or what your DNA says, mr. Ramsay. You know. It’s how you feel inside! I feel like my family has been Indian for centuries. ”

“All… right… I’m not sure that’s how it works. Forget it. Let’s do it. Come meet me in the studio in two hours. But first, tell me about this dish!”

“Well, it’s a lentil dish loaded with veggies and induced with spices and peanuts. This dish is basically a vegetable cake made with bottle gourd. You see…”

Marco Pierre White, lingering in the area, was an opportunist. And he saw an opportunity.

He ran for Soul’s station, and searched out the veggie cake. There it was! In an oven tray, all ready to go. Thinking fast, he took his chef knife, quickly grabbed a cutting board and stuff from various shelves, and got to work.

Two hours later, Soul look expectantly at Ramsay. Marco Pierre WHite was grinning in anticipation. He knew Ramsay hated people who couldn’t portion the herbs and additives.

Soul saw Ramsay cutting off a piece of the Gujarati Handvo.

Watched the bite go in.

Noticed how Ramsay’s face crinkled in confusion.

Witnessed in horror how Ramsay spat it out disgustedly, and threw the plate down.

“What the hell, Soul! There’s so much spice in this, House Harkonnen called to let you know they want to establish mining rights!”

Soul stared, unable to speak.

Don’t you understand, you fucking donkey? You’ve put so much ginger in it, it’s a Weasley!

Soul teared up.

“But… but…”

“I’m afraid you blew it, Soul. You gambled, but you lost. Go pack your stuff.”

Soul (townie) was eliminated by Marco Pierre White.

It is now DAY PHASE! You have until 10pm GMT to vote.


MrBlonde (4) - Torqez, TU, Sunstorm, MrBlonde

Sunstorm (2) - thirdrock, Oldie
TU (2) - Dukey, KT
Daylight (1) - Nolio
Oldie (1) - Daylight

Did not vote: Undeath

MrBlonde was no average cook. He had stood out in nearly every individual challenge so far, and his peppered fillet steak with parsley potatoes had gotten rave reviews from chef Ramsay.

As such, he had been made captain of his team for tonight’s team challenge, and what a challenge it was! They would have to serve a full-course dinner to 50 guests, and Blonde was determined to get it right.

“You moron, you’re not making the sauce right! Screw you Sunstorm!”

“Well come here and do it yourself then!”

“I would, but I need to stay here and babysit TU, who’s surprisingly an even bigger idiot than you! Look TU, turn the heat DOWN, like this, get it? You’re burning everything!”

“What? I really don’t know the first thing about cooking, I just came here for all the free booze.” Hick

Chef Ramsay had had enough. He pulled Mrblonde aside and had some choice words for him: “You have got to get a grip! You’re the captain, they need to respect you!”

“I’m trying chef, but they’re either too stupid or trying to sabotage me!”

“Honestly, you surprise me.”

“Thank you, chef.”

“You surprise me how shit you are.”


“I thought you were better than this! A great chef needs to be able to lead and inspire his subordinates! You’re just riding them for the sake of being an ass!”

“Well look who’s talking.”

“What did you just say?”

“You’re a hypocrite! You’ve been insulting your way through kitchens FOR YEARS!”

“Well I’m a multi-Michelin star winner. What have you done? Flipped burgers?”

“I cook better than you on my worst day!”

“Maybe you do, but it won’t be here. Pack your bags and leave, you pompous windbag!”

“Look who’s talking! You can’t fire me, I QUIT!”

MrBlonde (townie) has been lynched

It is now NIGHT PHASE! You have until 10am GMT to send your decisions to ZoZ and me.


Remy, or rather the human controlled by Remy, walked up to Undeath.

“Hello, mister. Say, I’ve made this dish that I really put my heart and soul into. It’s vegetarian, and made out of eggplant, tomatoes, squash, and zucchini. It’s just delicious. It may remind you of your youth in the Provence, when your mom made a dish with lots of love that may warm a frozen, cold heart.”

Undeath stared.


Remy rallied.

“Ratatouille. It’s the best. Wanna try?”

“Ewwww no. No meat. Find someone else.”

Remy the Rat tried hitting Undeath, but he failed.


In one of the many strange turns of events of the show, Ramsay had requested Ego to pick out one apprentice chef and give him some pointers, drawing from his vast experience as food critic.

Ego eagerly took the chance. He wasn’t planning on holding back though on this… amateur. ‘Anybody could cook’ they kept on saying. Ego would highlight that this wasn’t so.

He had sampled everything that Daylight had slaved to prepare the entire day, non stop. Ego had not said one word during the process, or looked up. Now, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin, crumpled it up , and threw it in the still full plate.

He looked up at Daylight.

“Your eggplant parmesan starter was served as a sloppy, flavourless jumble whose net effect is the culinary equivalent of old cars in a massive pile up. The skin of barely melted cheese only worsened my pain at seeing that.

Tell me, Daylight, from the top of your head, what two attributes should hot-and-sour soup have? Take your time. It had neither of those. Nor anything else much.

How clever are shrimp-and-foie gras dumplings with grape fruit dip pin saucen Daylight? What if we called them fishy liver-filled condoms?. They were properly vile, with a savor that lingered like a lovelorn drunk, and tasted as if your mouth had been used as the swab bin in an animal hospital.

Is the entire menu actually a piece of conceptual art? Is the shapeless, structureless baked alaska that droops and slumps and collapses while you eat it, or don’t eat it, supposed to be a representation in sugar and egg of the experience of going insane?

Why did my macaron taste like fish? Did you take ‘earthy taste’ literally and throw a hand of dirt in the coffee?


But Daylight wasn’t there anymore. He was running out the studio, into the night, crying

Anton Ego obliterated Daylight (townie).

It is now DAY PHASE! You have until 10pm GMT to vote.