The Patron Saint

Pitmaster James awoke hanging from his feet in a tiny room. The smell made James retch. Everything was shrouded in gloom. A puddle of something wet reflected the sickly flame of a lone candle. James’ heartbeat punctuated the dull ache in his head with spikes of agony.

His hands and legs were bound with butcher’s twine that dug into his flesh.

The last thing he could remember… let’s see. He went to dinner at Assisi Vegan Grill. Chef St. Francis recognized him and offered to comp his meal. Tried the Incredulous Burger…  

The pressure of blood pooling in his head made remembering difficult.

And painful.

“Hello, James,” someone said.

James knew the resonant baritone voice, but he couldn’t place it. Trying sent new waves of misery through his head.

A large, muscular man stood just outside of the flickering light. His fire-red, skintight uniform bore an insignia made of two overlapping Cs.

“Commander Combustion?”

“There was a certain wisdom to keeping my identity secret. Much easier to fake your death when it’s time to pursue new passions.”

“But you’re one of the good guys!”

“Oh, I still am. Did you know hundreds of millions of animals are killed each year to feed just our city? Everyone wants me to save a dozen reckless skiers, but can’t fathom why I’d want to save billions of innocent livestock. ‘They’re just animals,’ they said. Like we aren’t.”

“Please, please!” James began to weep. “I’ll never barbeque again. I’ll close my restaurant! Or… or… I’ll ask Chef St. Francis to help me set the menu!”

“You carnivores think you’re above cows. Above chickens and pigs. So, I opened a restaurant that uses no animal products.” Commander Combustion removed his mask and stepped into the light revealing Chef George St. Francis holding a bolt gun.