Fables For Grown-Ups: Jim VS The Grill King

So, my buddy Jim? We call him the barbecue king. Not because he can barbecue good shit or anything, hell, most of the stuff that comes off of his back porch tastes like it may as well have been to the crematorium. No, rather it's because his barbecue is called the Grill King. Honest to God. Says so, right on the damn faceplate. Kinda pretentious when you think about it too much, so we'll avoid that. Doesn't really pertain to the story, after all. Now, what does pertain to the story is that there is, according to my buddy Jim, an actual grill king. He is not human, it's worth noting. He's like, a demon or some other kind of creature, maybe some kind of bastard step-brother of a Jungian archetype that no one's ever heard about. Imagine that family reunion. “This is The Hermit, this is The Empress, here's auntie Justice. . . . Oh, no, Grill King couldn't make it, these things are so awkward for him what with what happened between the Charcoal Queen and Lighter Daddy last time.”

Now, I've gotten a little bit ahead of myself here, but that's okay. Tangents are all part of the equation, after all. So let's take a minute and consider that it was a bright and sunny summer day in Jim's neighbourhood, and he'd just nicely looked up, in a proper cookbook and everything, what he figured was the ultimate recipe for the greatest hamburgers of all time. Ever. At least that's how he tells it, personally I suspect his wife was the one who found the recipe because, let's face it, Jim's a bit slow. Anyway, he had made up some patties and threw them on the grill when, from out of nowhere, this little man pops up on the railing of his deck. He's on fire and shit and has goat horns and hooves and. . . okay, it's probably a good time to mention Jim has a habit of exercising his arm. No, not like that, get your head out of the gutter. I mean he enjoys a good beer now and then. By which I mean, he likes it now, he like it then, and he's probably liking one right now, and will until it's done by which point he'll like another one. We're on the same page now? Good.

“So, you think you're pretty hot stuff with that grill, do ya?” said the little man.

“I'm damn good!” said Jim.

“Honey, don't swear at the little flaming man, I think he might be evil,” his wife called from inside.

“Do you think you can grill a better burger than me?” said the little man.

“That depends, who are you?” said Jim.

“I'm the grill king!” said the little man.

“Really? I'm the barbecue king!” said Jim.

“No, you're not! And I'm going to prove it too! Because if I win, you're going to give up your name. And your soul, it's not a proper bet if there's no souls involved,” said the Grill King.

“And what's in it for me when I beat your ass?” said Jim.

“Hooooney! Don't make bets with little flaming man against your soul!” called his wife from inside.

“If you win, you get a barbecue made of solid gold!” said the Grill King.

“Sweet deal! I'm in!” said Jim.

This was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing a fella could do, but as I mentioned above, my buddy Jim did enjoy a bit of blood in his alcohol stream, and was likely halfway into the gutter already. “So, what are you going to cook with?” said Jim.

The Grill King snapped his fingers, and there appeared what was quite possibly the most beautiful barbecue man had ever seen. Three burners, propane operated, with a side burner, infrared back burner, built in rotisserie and a removable top rack for warming. For those of you to whom that's naught but Greek, let's just say it was a damn nice barbecue. Shiny too, if you care about that sort of thing. Anyway, the smells of the meat, uncooked as it was, was bloody amazing, and Jim was already a bit fearful he might wind up losing the contest. Not one to quit while he was ahead, however, Jim took a good chug from his old reliable bottle of beer, and set to cooking.

Sweat was pouring off of their respective brows as they grilled and flipped and cooked and timed and made the best burgers they could each conceive of. Finally, it came time to test them. They eyed each other warily.

“Honey,” called Jim into the house. “Did you toast the buns?”

“I did,” she called back out.

“Could you bring 'em?” said Jim.

“What's the magic wooooord,” she said in a sing song voice.

“Please?” said Jim, and she came out. Jim dressed up a bun with a burger, and handed it to his opponent.

The Grill King ate, eyes narrowed. “Well, these aren't half bad, but I think your soul is mine,” he said, then flipped one of his burgers off of the grill. “Pass me a bun, would you?”

“Oh, sorry, I didn't make any for you,” said Jim's wife.

“What!” said the Grill King.

Now, Jim's wife might have been lying at that, and she might have also known her husband was liable to have done something stupid no matter what he was up to, but it was her ingenuity that saved Jim's soul that day, apparently, and he got a shiny new Golden Barbecue out of the deal. Now, of course, we didn't see no golden grill when we were over at his place last, so he had to explain.

Turned out that gold is a pretty shitty thing to make a grill out of.

“I'm gonna fire up the golden grill, honey,” he said next night.

“Don't do that, it'll melt!” she said.

“It'll be fine!” he said.

It melted, of course, and cost 'em a couple hundred dollars to clean up off of the deck, as well as the cost of re-sodding the grass it had burned underneath. Jim, needless to say, slept on the couch that week. 

THE END.

The Moral of the Story is: Yes, dear. I'm sorry, dear. You were right, dear.