Chapter Text
Jiro began his day as he did every other day - dreaming of sushi. After waking up, getting dressed, and gathering the freshest fish of the day at the fish market, he finally arrived to work at his famous three Michelin starred Sukiyabashi Jiro. I am more than a simple sushi chef, he told himself. I am an artist of sushi. As Jiro entered the restaurant, he checked the schedule for the day. It seemed that, this morning, he would only have one customer. This is fine, thought Jiro. This will allow me to focus entirely on them, and create their perfect sushi meal. Before the store opened and that customer walked in, Jiro began to prepare.
Jiro’s mind was so devoted to his future creation, he almost missed the bell at the door ringing to indicate his customer had arrived. “Welcome,” he said in English to his new guest. “You must be-”
“I’m Guy Fieri, and this is Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives!” the man spoke loudly. He wore a large flame-patterned button up shirt and khaki pants. His face, curved in a shining smile, was outlined by spiky blonde hair. He also wore sunglasses, despite being inside.
“Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives?” thought Jiro. What is he talking about? Jiro looked down at the card listing the customers of the day and confirmed that it said “Guy Fieri.” He sighed. American, I’m sure. In any case, I will endeavor to prepare the greatest meal he’s ever eaten. “The meal you have purchased in advance will be a ten plate meal. I will customize the sushi you are served to create a unique experience,” Jiro explained.
“That’s gangster,” the flame-attired oddity added in response.
“Your first piece of sushi will be out shortly.” Jiro said as he bowed and exited to the kitchen. As he left, he heard Guy shout “I bet you’re gonna rock it!”
After a few minutes, Jiro returned with a plate of a single slice of fresh salmon over a fluffy, vinegary bed of sushi rice. Jiro carefully painted on a slight coat of soy sauce, then offered the plate to Guy. “Enjoy.” Guy leaned forward off the hand-carved wooden stool to get a closer look. He squinted his eyes at the food, and frowned.
“Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s delish,” he said. “But let me make it the perfect Guy bite.”
What Jiro saw next would haunt him forever. Guy reached his hands into the back pockets of his khaki shorts, and pulled out two full sized bottles of ketchup and barbeque sauce. Then, as the sushi chef watched helplessly from behind the counter, Guy Fieri began to smother his sashimi in sauce. For five full, gut-wrenching seconds, the meal was drowned by the sauces until the plate looked like a mountain of reddish goop. Guy plunged his hand into the mixture, and emerged with a solid mass that was once, presumably, the salmon and rice.
Jiro thought of the fisherman he had bought the salmon from, of the farmers who had produced the rice, of the time and effort him and his chefs had spent piecing together that plate as they considered the flavor and texture.
Guy swallowed the abomination whole.
“Now this,” he said, eyes rolled up in ecstasy beneath quivering lids, “is Flavortown.”
Jiro pulled out a revolver and shot him in the head.