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Chef the Griller

Estimated reading time — 4 minutes

One month ago, on a rain-slicked street

My mother and I got a bite to eat

But on the way back, I slipped and fell

And I suppose the car coming didn’t see me well

Because the next thing I knew, as I lifted my head

I was staring at the sheets of a hospital bed!

I could not move my legs, nor my right arm

My left was okay (it escaped from harm)

My mother came in, with a frown, and then


Said “honey, I’m afraid you’ll never walk again.”

A feeling came over me, not sadness or hate

But instead overwhelming apathy took place

“Oh well,” I thought, “I guess I’m done.

My life is over before it’s even begun!”

But the next day my mom approached me with a smile

And said that, with luck, I’d only stay here a while

And then, if feeling returned to my legs

I could come back with her and start my life again

Well, that filed me with hope; an optimism quite bright

And perhaps my stay here would even be alright!

The month passed by, rather pleasantly

I’ll save you the details on how I went pee.

Most of my actions needed the assistance of a nurse

But really I was just glad to not be in a hearse

A reporter came to my room to tell my story

I think he was expecting something a little more gory

The triplegia of a fourteen year-old kid

Was something that, sadly, couldn’t be hid.

My nurse was kindly, pretty and gentle

She helped me get through that month without going mental

She even gave me a book to read

About shipwrecked sailors whose captain couldn’t lead

I learned on that day that human tasted like pork

The captain got eaten (but he was kind of a jerk.)

The nurse was very good at helping me cope with my condition

But when she was gone I sometimes felt a suspicion

Something like I was being watched

But I shooed that thought from my mind and instead stared at the clock

One thing that bothered me was the sheet on my legs

They hooked tubes up to me so that I never left the bed

But I could not reach down for the sheet to be pulled

So I could not see my legs, my once-useful tools

At the end of this month, I’m supposed to go home

But more often than not I’m simply left alone

The female nurse does not come any more

Instead, a crueler face comes through the door

His face is all pudgy, he wears an apron

That’s always filthy, and wrinkled like bacon

He gives me my food, three times a day

And he cooks all my food in all the same ways

He grills it, whether it should be or not

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Grilled meat, grilled veggies, and here’s food for thought:

He served me cereal once, and I swear to God

He even grilled the cornflakes! How odd!

Sometimes, while eating one of his grilled meals,

He would stand in a corner and try to conceal

The smile that spread across his whole fat face

Before noticing my horror and running out of the place

I told my mom to ask about this weird guy

She said the hospital staff had this reply:

“He’s both a nurse and a cook (one of the best)

But while applying for the job, under ‘name’ he put ‘Chef’

So everyone simply calls him by that name

He may look threatening, but he’s really quite tame!”


I tried to let that ease my fear

But I started having awful nightmares

His face appeared, looking like pudgy rubber

And all the while he stared at my mother

His eyes were planted firmly at her hips

And all the while, he was licking his lips

Thinking of Chef filled me with horror

And when he came to serve me

His meat became rawer

It was still appetizing, but just barely

And with every day he seemed more and more hairy

My mom normally visits every day at noon

She insists on seeing me in my hospital room

She’s never late; she’s always on time

She treats being late like a capital crime

But today, for some reason, she’s a few minutes late

If I ever did something like that she’d be irate!

Chef comes in and serves me some meat

I take a look at his disgusting bare-feet

And eat the food, as there’s nothing else to try

And when I realize the taste, I nearly die

The food I was eating was clearly not pork

Yet the taste was known as soon as it was through my fork

I was eating something else; I knew it to be true

I through the plate aside, and then my guts I spewed

I vomited and vomited, and as I did I cried

Was I eating my mother? Had she really died?

“You killed my mom, and made me eat her, too!”

I yelled with all the force I could bring myself to

Chef looked at me, with an emotionless face

My one good arm shot up with the intent to erase


His expression, his presence, his existence on this earth

But my fist just bounced off his impressive girth

At that moment, my mother rushed into the room

And said “what’s all the screaming? You sound like a loon!”

I looked at my mother, there in the flesh

And never felt more relieved as I got back my breath

My mom was okay, I was overreacting!

Staying in this bed all day had my sanity retracting!

Everything was alright now that she was here!

There was nothing to fret and nothing to fear!

I gave my mom news in the usual way

Chef left, but then returned midday

When he did, I tried to apologize

I said “I know what I did was awfully unwise;

I really am sorry for freaking out

But not moving from this bed’s made me a paranoid lout!”

Chef grinned at me, with black gums and missing teeth

Which then retracted like a sword in a sheath

He walked over to the my legs that were covered by the sheet

And scowled “I was hoping you’d enjoy my little treat”

He pulled off the sheet, and my legs were gone!

It was as if they’d been cut off by a saw!

A bloody pool was where they once lay

I yelled out in horror and tried to get away

But he leaned over and grabbed my chest

He leaned in so close I could smell his foul breath

He said “All that meat on your legs was going to rot

And I would never cook a woman in such poor health

Besides, watching you eat your own mother is not

Half as exciting as watching you eat yourself!”

Credit To – Greg G.

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.

47 thoughts on “Chef the Griller”

  1. FluttershyVoices


    So for some reason the other killers are called grillers…. Ok, I will call Jane like that now :D

    Jane: for some reason, she hates me .-.

  2. I loved it! Who knew he’d eat himself hah! XD the end made me laugh hard! \^o^/ instead of cook the chef it’s cook the patient :p

  3. This was an amazing poem pasta and i hope u do more…. it was delicious and creepy and not a bore.
    Bam, poetry in motion.

  4. I’d like to apologize for the title in advance. I thought of it after I wrote the story and it was too perfect not to pass up :p

  5. MUCH better than that horrid “Jeff the Killer” knockoff. Well done!

    Though, I would recommend paying attention to meter: there was no consistency in the piece.

  6. I really liked this pasta, the poem style was nice and it mad me laugh a few times, grilled cornflakes, ha ha. Great job.

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