/nn/ Nolan's Fight With Cooking

>Day “You’ve Created Raw Poison” at The Base of Saints
>Be Nolan
>You thought it’d be fun to join Norman in a temporary cooking class
>It’s just cooking
>It’s shouldn’t be THAT hard
>How fucking wrong you were
>You can only hold back the bile in your throat as you stare at the abomination in front of you
>You swear that part of it just fucking winked at you
>At this point, you would put it in the trash, or throw it against a wall in fear
>The only thing preventing you from doing that is the feeling that it would end up multiplying if you did
>”Are you SURE you don’t need help, honey?” calls your mom from another room
…Yeah, yeah I’m sure.
>Don’t lie to yourself, you know the truth
>Even so, you knew that you were going to need to bring it to school anyway in order to get SOME sort of grade
>”Maybe I should come in an-“
NO, NO IT’S FINE, I HAVE EVERYTHING UNDER CONTR-
>The bowl begins to rumble
OKAY, YEAH, GET IN HERE. PLEASE?

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>Day Green Greens at The Base of Saints
>Be Nolan
>You sit in front of a group of assorted vegetables
>A salad, you’ve been reduced to making a salad
>After Fleur saw the MONSTROSITY that you created…
>Let’s just say that she didn’t let you touch anything EVER when “teaching” you how to cook
>It took a while for you to get across the fact that you actually wanted to learn, not just make a grade
>Rest assured, that revelation was surprising on both ends
>Anywho, back to the salad.
>From what you can gather, it’s all about slicing vegetables and presentation
>This shouldn’t be too hard…
>*chip chip chip chip chip chi-*
>*CHOP*
>…Systems report a major problem on the left hand
>It seems there is a knife cutting partially into it
>Writhe in agony Y/N?
>Y

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>Day Sandvich at The Base of Saints
>Be Nolan
>It's been a few days since the incident known as "The Day of Red Cabbage"
>Actually, that's complete bullshit, there is zero to no chance that it would ever be called that
>Not only that, but it's only been one day since then, not multiple
>With your currently bandaged hand, there is only so few things that you are able make
>It's not like you actually CAN make them, but practice makes perfect
>And pain, lots of pain
>Going back to the originally intended topic, today’s attempt at cooking is a simple sandwich
>You insisted that Fleur shouldn’t set out everything for you despite her protests, she eventually stood down
>It’s a well-known- okay maybe not so well known- fact that you can make a pretty killer sandwich
>All it takes is a little bread, lettuce, cheese, ham, and care
>Upon opening the fridge, your eyes meet a dreadful sight
We meet again…
>Pickles, bottled pickles stand eye level to you
>Forgetting the quest for a delicious sandwich, you slowly close the door to the vile food’s second prison, eyes never leaving it for a second
>You know what you must do
MOM WHERE DOES DAD KEEP THE REVOLVER AGAIN?

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>One hour after asking for the revolver
>Be Nolan
>You've lost your gun privileges
>Apparently the reason that your mom wanted to set out the ingredients for you was not because she thought you couldn't do it yourself
>It was because of the pickles.
>When she knew that she couldn't convince you to accept her offer, she hatched a plan instead
>All of the guns are now hidden, every single one.
>She even hid the pickles in the midst of your search.
>How on earth does she do it?
>...You suppose it doesn't matter, the desire of hunger calls
>It only takes a minute or so, your source of salvation is almost complete
>It’s outer body demands that you consume it now, for that is its one purpose
>But you know better than that, patience is a virtue after all
>Once the finishing touches are made, THEN you will be ready
>You turn around for a brief moment to grab a toothpick and a jar of olives
>Why bother to eat at all if you’re not going to do it with style?
>Without a thought to plague your mind you turn around, ready to impale the sandwich with a mighty Olived Scepter.
>That is, until you see… a problem
>In between the two slices of white bread is NOT what was originally there
>It’s black… reflecting the light that is able to touch it in its shelter
>It’s hard, smooth surface taunts you, wallowing in the annoyance that rocked the core of your body
>Setting aside your mighty scepter, the topmost slice of white bread is flipped off by your hand
>Without actually examining what the contents actually were, your hand darts towards the object and grips it tight
>A loud bang rings in the kitchen before you make your move to throw it
>Your bloodlust ceasing, eyes drawn to the hole in the wall, you begin to realize what it was that was in your bread
>A quick look down confirms it
>The food you prepared wanted to kill you, for its contents were not the delectable center you originally placed
>There was a gun inside the sandwich

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>Night ??? at The Base of Saints
>Be Nolan
>You lie awake in bed, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling
>Try as one might, nothing could snap you out of the daze that you are in
>That is, if anything actually TRIED to do that
>No matter what you try, today’s earlier adventure is the only thing you can think of
>No, not the one at school involving Brad, pies, a locker door, and the baseball field
>Nor the one involving the fire in the chemistry lab
>You think only of the gun that was in your sandwich
>When questioned about its appearance, your mom showed genuine concern and confusion
>She never hid a gun in the kitchen
>Since your activities in the kitchen began, it’s been made sure none of the Saint’s employees have been near the kitchen whenever you are
>They don’t avoid it because of your hazardous productions; they avoid it because you asked them to
>Fancy Pants always had to deal with… other affairs whenever you were cooking, so he was never around the kitchen as well.
>As nonsensical as it is, there is only one explanation you can think up for how it got there
>Your food is literally trying to kill you
>…Scratch that, your COOKING SKILLS are trying to kill you
>Nothing’s actually pointed towards your own food, just your ability
>...Yeah, that’s it. You just can’t cook.
>YOU were the one who made that… abomination the other night
>YOU were the one who cut himself making a salad
>So surely it’s possible that YOU were the one who put the gun in the sandwich
>…Even if you can’t remember doing it
>Or remember getting the gun in the first place
>…Maybe you can drop out of Cooking Class?
>Norman wouldn’t mind, surely, Brad is in the class too-
>There is no possible way you would leave him with Brad in a kitchen
>You groan and roll over, pulling the warm, soft sheets above your torso
>As much as you don’t like it, you’re going to need to figure out the culinary arts
>Hopefully tomorrow you can do it without almost killing yourself
>You really wish you had the determination you did before the Salad Incident.

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>Day Fruit Salad Yummy Yummy at The Base of Saints
>Be Nolan
>Laid out in front of you are slices of various fruits
>It was a complete and utter miracle that you managed to get them all in the same place
>Let alone slice them
>On today’s menu is a fruit salad
>Your mom only described it as assorted fruit, scrambled in a bowl
>A salad, by definition, is a cold dish of various mixtures of raw or cooked VEGETABLES
>This very fact is why you can’t proceed
>You are intended to make a salad using only fruit
>…So, where does one go from here?
>You actually called Norman and asked for help, thinking that a friend like him would surely know what to do
>He just laughed and hung up
>Jackass
>You actually don’t mind his reaction, he’s bro enough to know what to keep to himself
>If he doesn’t… let’s not go there
>Back to the Fruit Salad
>…Would tomatoes count as enough of a vegetable?
>You know they’re a fruit, but they are usually found alongside some of the vegetable dishes you’ve eaten in the past
>So surely they fit into that category somehow…
>…This is stupid, you’re overthinking things
>Forget the fruit salad, you’re making a smoothie
>You just need to figure out where she hid the blender first...

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>You hate ants
>You hate ants to the point of extinction- no, beyond that.
>If you could, you would make every, single, one of them to suffer slow and painful deaths
>Upon arriving back from the journey of searching for the blender, you couldn’t help but drop your prize to the floor at the sight you had to bear witness to.
>To put it into perspective, the table which held the fruit is now around 3/5ths covered with black, moving spots
>Your hands slowly clench in anger, your body begins to shake in rage
>Your legs give way, knees landing on the broken shards of the blender that hit the ground
>But you don’t care, there is only one thing that you can think as you shoot your arms into the sky and yell in frustration
“AAAAANNNNNTTTTTSSSSS!!!!!”
>Do their FEEBLE minds even realize what they’ve done?!
>You SLAVED over that fruit, slicing them to perfection- WITHOUT self-inflicted harm in the process
>They DARE take away your one, true, success in the culinary arts?!
>Oh, they will pay, THEY WILL PAY-
>”Honey, is everything alright in there? I heard the yell an-“
“Mom, not now. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of planning the worldwide extermination of antkind?”
>…She says nothing, and after a second you can hear footsteps heading back up the stairs from which they came
>You swear you heard her mutter something on the way up
>…Alright, the glass shards are starting to become noticeable now.
>Standing up and brushing their crystal remains off of your pant legs, you survey the damage once more
>A glare forms on your face as thoughts of their punishment sweep through your mind
>Perhaps you can create a virus specifically for their decimation and spread it worldwide-
>Alright, what the fuck are you doing
>A hand goes to scratch your head as you gaze to the scene in bewilderment
>Since when did you become a maniacal, ‘I’m going to get my revenge in the stupidest and possibly most nonsensical way possible’ scientist?
>They’re just ants, they needed the food to live
>…Still, how are you going to get rid of this problem that now inhabits the kitchen-
>”Nolan, dear.”
>A soft and gentle hand firmly grasps your shoulder
>You look to your left to see your mother, annoyance written across her face
>In her left hand, she holds what seems to be a Plastic Water Gu-
>...Wait a minute, isn't that...
>”I suggest that you don’t tell your father about this, okay?”
>You slowly nod as she lets go of your shoulder and begins her trek
>Her heels made a clacking noise as she inched her way closer to her mark
>Not aware of your actions you begin to take some steps back, your body ready to dash at any moment
>She stops, the gun is now raised to point directly at the black mass
>You knew, it was time.
>It would be lying to say that you didn’t get a kick out of watching those fuckers burn to crisps