Congratulations Heir to the Biscuit Throne!

“Best Biscuits on the 405!” isn’t just the slogan for your dad’s diner.  It’s a declaration, a binding statement that when someone comes in off a long haul and wants a cup of joe and a plate of biscuits and gravy they’re gonna get their socks knocked off by how amazing your pa’s biscuits and gravy are.

It’s a heavy crown to bear.  Food reviewers come from near and far to try and knock your pa down a peg.  City folk what think saturated fats are a crime and pork sausage in gravy is a thing of days gone by show up and write their stories trying to tell good honest folk like you and your pa what’s what.  But each and every one of them heads home, belly full and tail twixt their legs.

Your pa was made for this world.  But you, you’ve always wanted to come into your own.  You’ve always been a second paragraph citation, an also-ran just behind your father.  You don’t want to be remembered as the son of the man who cooked the best damn biscuits and gravy in the world.  You want to be your own man.  But the biscuit trade is all you know.

Which is why today, under cover of night, you’re going to smother your dad in his sleep with a pillow.

He’ll struggle.  It’ll be bad.  Real bad.  Your arms and chest will be covered in scratches and bruises, but in the end your dad will be dead and you’ll be alive with the deed to your old man’s restaurant.

The next day you’ll set to making biscuits and gravy.  Your first customer will be a regular, Ruth.  She’ll ask about your dad when she sees that he isn’t in the kitchen.  You’ll ignore her politely and take her order.

When it comes up she’ll take one bite and spit it out back on to the plate.

“This tastes terrible,” Ruth will declare, retching for a few moments before pushing her chair way from the table and making for the door with her hands around her stomach.

You’ll run after her with a skillet.  The first blow will knock her to her knees.  The second blow will put her on the ground, facing up at you.  You’ll look into her eyes for the third and fourth blows.  By the fifth, you’ll have to look away.

You’ll bury her out back, next to your pa.  When the cops come to ask questions they’ll see the two graves and cuff you right off the bat.

“Big shoes to fill,”  the officer will murmur at you as he guides you into his cruiser with an unexpected gentleness.

You’ll shrug in response.

Congratulations Heir to the Biscuit Throne!