Jackson Small was not the most talented chef in the world. He'd never done his time at cookery school, but he'd apprenticed, he'd slaved away under ass holes, he'd worked his way up into the management of the restaurant, The Golden Wattle, and he'd spent the last five years as the bitch boy for the Head Chef. He wasn't the best chef in the world, but he was good. Bloody good. What he lacked for in book learning he made up for in adventurousness, in being willing to experiment and in his absolutely consuming passionate drive to make his mark on the food industry world. The day that he made a splash, the day before his name was on the lips of thousands and he featured prominently in one of the main articles of the prestigious magazine: Essential Eating was a day that started out badly.

"You're late." The tone was flat, and unimpressed. The owner of the tone was a tall, brutish man barely able to fit in the kitchen he ruled with less mercy than any ruthless despot.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry Henry, the traffic was mad and-"
"Save it! I'm docking your pay." Jackson scowled. Twenty minutes late or more, and Henry docked an hour. It was illegal, but the unemployment rate in the cesspool city was through the roof, and anyone who objected to any of Henry's 'decrees' found themselves out on their ass and their luck faster than they could think. Jackson- the fucking sous-chef didn't mess with Henry, and he was second in command. The dishwashers and wait staff didn't even raise their voices, let alone objections. "And another thing. You fucked up yesterday." Jackson looked up at the mammoth looming above him with a pleasantly puzzled expression on his lying face. "Eh?" He bent his head, tying his apron around his waist. Once back, once front, and back again... the sous-chef was skinny and short, a 'petite' man with a very unfortunate and un-serendipitous last name.
"You fucked up!" Henry repeated. "A customer found a hair in their burger. I say it was one of yours." Jackson smirked slightly, his expression hidden by the low angle of his face. Ah. Henry didn't know the whole of it then.
"Sorry Chef, but I don't think so." Jackson said, a meek and apologetic smile on his face.
Henry scowled, unable to brook even that small amount of opposition. "You were the one to take the meat order, right?" Jackson nodded, turning around and walking away- towards his work station. "And you were the one that unpacked the meat order, right?" Jackson nodded again. Henry scowled. "Well, Piedro was the one to make the patties yesterday." The big man gestured to a man only a little smaller to his right. The chef gave a dopey grin, the harsh kitchen light reflecting off his vacant eyes, his sweaty cheeks, and his shiny, bald, pate. Jackson laughed, enraging Henry. "Look! I don't have time for this shit today. We have a critic in the dining room right now, expecting classic, delicious minced beef from beef we minced yesterday, and I need to know whether it was your hair or whether I need to get on the phone to the suppliers and tear them a new one!" Jackson turned and shrugged at Henry.
"Wasn't my hair." He was starting to get tired of the guy's shit. God knew, he took it day in and day out, whether he deserved it or not.
"Lasagne's ready for you to take out to table six, Chef." Piedro called, putting a plate down on the service bench. As the more refined looking and attractive man of the senior management team, Jackson was the one that customarily took dishes out to critiques. It presented a good face for the world behind the kitchen doors, and Jackson was also the more charming of the lot. Charm went far when it came to getting on the good side of the critiques.
"Look, bucko- I know you think you're the 'big man' in here.. You think you're 'hot stuff', that we all admire and respect your cookery skills and think that you're the bomb. But you're wrong. You're inconsiderate. Late. Your recipes turn out shit half the time and your cookery skills are... average. You're so irresponsible that frankly-" Jackson, mouth tight and just broken free of the last tether on his rage, turned away from the fat man.
"Look. I don't have time for this." He looked over at Piedro, and smoothly made his way towards him and the order that needed taking out. "Okay, I'll take it out now." Jackson called, and scooped the plate up in one hand, striding towards the doors, leaving his boss behind, nearly incoherent with fury. The doors swung shut behind Jackson, chu-chunk, and then opened to reveal the iridescent Henry to the roomful of puzzled customers. Jackson paused in his journey to the critic's side, his pleasant smile not faltering as he turned and faced down his boss.
"Okay, you know what? You can take this job, and your abuse, and you can shove it up your ass. And you know what else you can store where the sun don't shine? That fucking hair. It wasn't mine." He snarled. He took a step closer to the critic, about to put down the plate, throw down his apron, and stride out of there without his bridges burnt and with his identity lost to the world forever, but.
"Well, whose was it, then??" Henry demanded, not wanting to be embarrassed in front of this restaurant full of people that probably thought that he was a looney and a dickhead for hassling an employee that badly. Jackson gave an exasperated sigh.
"Oh, for fuck's sake. It's probably the meat delivery boy's-" a perfectly reasonable explanation. But then he continued. "-I've been fucking him in the meat fridge for the last seven months, you oblivious asshat, and yesterday I bent him over the beef and used him hard." Jackson turned to the wide eyed and open mouthed critic with a flawless smile.
"Enjoy your beef lasagna, Sir." He put the plate down gently, and then walked into the soft glow of the streetlights outside as chaos erupted behind him, a beatific smile on his face.