Purest black, it was an inkblot on the continuance of Nathan’s life. It put Paul Bunyan’s mythically massive blue ox Babe to shame. Two days to cross most of the country and now, like a gunslinger fated to his doom, he was going to be murdered in the emptiness of the Montana wilderness by the largest cow ever born. He’d bolted forty-eight hours ago, sleeping only a few fitful hours in Chicago before punching west as if all the hounds of Hades were after him.Īnd they’d caught up with him in the form of a monster. But the safety of his New York kitchen lay an impossible distance behind him. How was it that he’d come to this place to die?Ĭhefs were not supposed to die alone in the forsaken wilderness, they were supposed to have a butter-induced heart attack in the middle of a meal service. The sun hadn’t quite set instead it illuminated the clouds of his own breath like some horror movie with a fog machine turned on too high. The chill of the cold April evening almost hurt his lungs. The only sound for miles on the emptiness of the Montana prairie was the hot-metal pinging of his cooling Miata sports car, lurched awkwardly to the roadside by a flat tire. Nathan gripped the crowbar-handle of his car’s jack so tightly that it hurt his hand but he couldn’t ease up. This “Sweet Version” is exactly the same story as the original, with no foul language and the bedroom door-even when there isn’t one-tastefully closed.
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