Prompt Lost – No idea what spawned this shitshow.
Gordon Ramsay Is A Maniac
You’re head is 100 percent pure ache and the crack of light coming in from the window shades is hitting the back of your eyes like a stream of bullets.
You close your eyes again and rub your temples. You can hear some noise coming from the kitchen and can smell the scent of fried sausage in the air.
You let out a querying groan. “Hhhmmmrrr”.
From the kitchen a voice yells into the living room where you lay on the couch with the look of an unhanded ventriloquist dummy.
“Oy, Devin. You awake, ya sick fuck?”
The voice is tortuously loud and you yell at it to shut up.
“Come on, mate. After what you put me through last night you’re not getting more sleep than me. Up!”
A strong grip is pulling you up, followed by an ice cold cup of ice water tossed into your face. When you get done screaming and cursing, you open your eyes.
Gordon Ramsay, wearing his traditional t-shirt and jeans, looks back at you unrelentingly. “Wake up fucker!”
You’re head is swimming almost as much as your guts. Without moving off the couch you turn toward the floor and puke in a horrendous pile.
Gordon recoils and cringes. “Disgusting fuck.” You heave again. “Jesus, couldn’t get to the toilet?”
You try to tell Gordon to fuck off but you’re too busy puking your guts up. Gordon gives up on you and walks back to the kitchen. “You finish up there and then come to kitchen, we’ve got to talk.”
You do, indeed, finish up, until your guts are entirely empty. Then, slowly, you test out your feet. Swinging your legs off the couch, you place your hands on your knees and see the largest gold and diamond ring you’ve ever seen in real life.
You ask whose ring this is?
Gordon yells out from the kitchen, “yours now, you cheeky fucker.”
Slowly, with great, completely ineffectual care, you get up off the couch into a whole other world of diziness. Eventually, stumbling, you make your way to the kitchen table and sit down.
Gordon is working over the stove. He’s got three skillets going at once. Looks like eggs, hash browns and homemade sausage. You can see the meat grinder on the kitchen shelf with a large bowl beside it.
Gordon turns around and places an empty plate in front of you. “Got to eat son.”
The idea of eating is absolutely anathema to you, but this is Gordon fucking Ramsay making you breakfast. You let that run around in your head a couple of times. Finally the strangeness clicks into place and you mention it to Gordon.
“Fuck yeah, I’m Gordon fucking Ramsay.” Gordon takes the skillet of eggs and places two perfectly cooked sunny-side ups on your plate. “Let me guess, you don’t remember shite?” Gordon brings the hash-browns and spoons some out. “Unlucky for you, I remember every fucking insane thing we did last night.” Lastly, Gordon drops two perfect sausages on your plate. “Eat.”
You do. Small bites at first, but then larger and larger. It’s the perfect hangover food. The sausage in particular is absolutely perfect. When you’ve cleared half the plate you take a break and ask Gordon what the fuck happened last night.
“I’ll tell you what happened, you cheeky fuck. You came to my fucking restaurant and made a hell of a scene. Starting tossing cash in the air, handing out hundred dollar bills like tissues.”
That didn’t sound like you. You worked at a McDonalds and made $8 an hour.
“I just happened to be in the kitchen taping a pilot, saw this crazy fucker throwing money around the place. TV fucking gold, right? So we confront you. Don’t worry, I destroyed the tape.”
You can’t imagine why you need that reassurance. Gordon continues.
“We interview you, turns out your a talkative cock sucker. You go on about having found a suitcase full of cash and jewelry and getting fucked up on Hennessy and cocaine. It really is TV gold.”
You’ve never done cocaine in your life, and you hardly ever drink. You look around for the suitcase but see nothing. Gordon steps in.
“It’s gone man. You tossed it off a bridge after we left the restaurant.”
You ask Gordon why the fuck Gordon would follow the sort of lunatic he was describing.
“Coke man.” Gordon says, shrugging. “Good coke.” Gordon takes a sausage off the skillet, biting into it, savoring the flavor. He continues, “You and I hang out in the restaurant until it closes, getting cranked, you know. Eventually everybody leaves, I take the footage cause I don’t want any pictures of me hoofing the snow on Instagram, and you and I leave, you tossing cash behind us in fucking fistfuls.”
Your appetite comes back and you continue eating, absolutely astounded by the story your being told.
“Turns out you’d bought a lambo-fucking-gini – had it waiting outside. Seemed like a bad fucking idea to drive.”
You ask where the car is now.
Gordon laughs. “We fucking totaled it man. Fucking destroyed. Smashed it into a pole. Lucky to be fucking alive.” Gordon pointed to a bad bruise on his forehead. “So we start walking, and you say you’ve got a place to stay, so I say fuck it, and follow you, snorting the fucking blow the whole way. Must’a walked for four fucking hours, you stupid cunt.”
You look around the room with new eyes. You never recognized the apartment, but you just figured you were in Gordon Ramsay’s place. You say as much to Gordon.
“Fuck no! I don’t have a place in Boston, you fucker. I was staying at the fucking Four Seasons. You brought us here and said your key wasn’t working, so I broke us in.”
How, you wonder, did Gordon do that?
Gordon gives you a sly smile. “If you don’t remember son, I’m not gonna tell you. Point is, when we got in, turns out it’s not your place at all, you dumb shit. Some random cunt charges at us, screaming bloody murder. You’re fucking useless of course, so i go at him, really fuck the bastard up.”
You take another timid bite of sausage.
“Anyway, I go through the mail and it turns out,” Gordon punches you on the shoulder jovially, “this isn’t your fucking place dipshit. But now we’ve broken and entered and all that, so we can’t leave any bloody witnesses, right? So I bring the cunt to the bathroom and do him in the tub.”
Your appetite disappears entirely. Astonished, terrified, you ask Gordon what he did with the body.
Gordon takes another bite of the sausage, “Well, most of him’s in garbage bags in the bathroom. But I hated to waste the best bits. What do you think? It’s my special spice blend.”
Looking down at the remnant of sausage in your plate, you nearly wretch again. Gordon is smiling, carefree. “Anyway, crazy night boy! I’ve got to run. Take care.”
Gordon Ramsay gives you a friendly pat on the back and waltzes out the broken front door, looking briefly left and right in the bright sunset before taking a small bump of cocaine from a baggy in his pocket and setting off down the stairs.
If You Enjoyed This Story – Or Any Of The Hundreds Of Other Legends From The Multiverse – And Want To Give A Dollar To The Madman Behind The Curtain Who Writes Them All:
Subscribe to the RSS feed or leave a comment anywhere on the r/LFTM subreddit with “!subscribeme” or “subscribeme!”, and you’ll receive a notification whenever a new story or continuation is posted.
READ MORE FLASH FICTION
| ACTION | APOCALYPTIC | DARK | ESTABLISHED UNIVERSE | FANTASY |
| FUNNY MAYBE | HORROR | MISC | WTF IS THIS? | SAD |
| SCIENCE FICTION | SCIENCE FANTASY | TWIST ENDING | RANDOM |
READ LONGER STORIES
| THE DEMON’S CANTOS | INCIDENTAL SUPERHERO |
| BENEATH | THE HUMANITY SAGA |
| THE TRAVELER | I, LYCANTHROPE |