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It's Called A Flambé, Motherfucker

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Ray had started shooting worried glances toward Frank when he saw him pulling various pans and other cooking-type stuff from the cabinets in the bus kitchenette. When Frank disappeared into his bunk and emerged with an odd-looking black canvas case, Ray realised that he felt a very pressing need to go do some work in the back studio. He recognised that case.

As Ray walked (not too quickly, mind) past Frank on his way to safety the studio, he saw Frank unroll the case, revealing a number of disturbingly shiny knives and knifey accoutrements, as he muttered quietly to himself. Ray thought he heard something about avocados, but he wasn't sure.

Once safely ensconced in the studio, Ray settled in for an hour or two's wait. He was perfectly happy to eat whatever Frank felt like cooking--food on Warped left more than a little to be desired--but no WAY was he gonna be anywhere near Frank while he was cooking. He preferred for his hair to remain unscorched.

Gee looked up from his sketchpad when he felt Ray brush past him. He'd vaguely registered the clanking earlier, but now he noticed that Frank had his scarily intense "Don't mess with me, I'm cooking, you fuckers. Knives! Fire! Yay!" face on.

He turned to a new page in his sketchbook and started drawing.

Mikey looked up from his sidekick when he saw Frank rummaging through his bunk across the hall (if it could even be called a hall. Alleyway might be a better word.)
"You gonna try that new recipe you've been working on?"

Frank's muffled voice emerged from his bunk. "Yeah. I think I figured out what to do about the flavor imbalance in the chutney."

"Sweet. Yell when you're done, yeah?"

"Sure thing, Mikeyway." Frank said as he headed back towards the front of the bus.

Mikey turned his attention back to his sidekick.

wanna cm ovr n lyk n hour r two franks cooking.

nethng fr u mikeyway

Mikey rolled his eyes and smiled.

Bob awoke to the smell of... Actually, he had no idea. Whatever it was, it was sweet and spicy and delicious, though.

"Soup's on, motherfuckers!" Frank's voice called.

Oh. Frank must have been cooking while he was asleep. Bob rolled out of his bunk, rubbing at nap-fuzzy eyes as he shuffled to the studio and stuck his head in. Yup, Ray was in there, as usual. "Ray, man, Frank cooked."

"Yeah, I..."

Frank's voice ringing through the bus cut Ray off. "Spinach-avocado salad with mango chutney and glazed tempeh! In pita bread!"

"I know. I'll be there in a minute. I have to save this first."

"Bob! Ray! Get your asses out here before these animals eat it all!"

As Bob walked towards the front of the bus, he could hear Pete objecting to Frank's word choice. "I am NOT an animal!" he objected huffily. "I'm a growing boy and I need proper nutrition to maintain sufficient energy levels! The rockstar business is very draining."

Gerard squawked. "I don't need to hear about your... draining rockstar lifestyle, Pete!"

"What?! It is!"

"That doesn't mean we need to hear about it! He's my BROTHER, for fuck's sake!"

Bob stepped carefully through the disaster area of the kitchenette. Overturned bowls, an assortment of dirty utensils, and sticky-looking splatters decorated every surface within six feet of the stove.

"That's not what I even meant! You have a twisted mind, Gerard Way. Twisted." Pete shook his head sadly as Bob passed safely through the kitchenette and slumped into one of the free booth-type seats left. Frank was standing in the aisle, face smudged with what looked like soot, holding two plates of pita bread halves stuffed with something that looked like a rainforest and smelled like heaven.

"That... You... I don't even..." Gerard sputtered. "Ray! Hurry up! Frank isn't letting us eat until you get here and Pete is about to get himself killed no matter how much Mikes likes him."

A few seconds later, Ray carefully poked his head out of the bunk area, surveying the kitchenette warily. Once Ray successfully navigated the treacherous kitchenette floor, he slid into the booth seat opposite Bob.

"Alright, motherfuckers. Here." Frank set a plate down on each table, and everyone fell to, tucking in with various sounds of approval. Bob was pretty sure this was what heaven tasted like. "You do realise," Frank said around a mouthful of his own pita, "that you're cleaning this up as payment for my epic culinary skills."