Chapter 2: Genesis IV

I thought it would be that simple.

Simple isn't the word for it. Committing 1st degree murder isn't the easiest thing to do in this day and age. Being laughed at by a man named Stanley who sells firearms on Craigslist wasn't my proudest moment, but it was a means to an important end.

Murdering a friend isn't a decision that you easily come to. I used to consider Alfredo Linguini a friend, as hard as it is to admit.

Despite what once was, Linguini became a total waste of life. The only thing he was good for was disposing of Flex Kavana's tequila. The man had no culinary talent, despite what I had taught him.

As much as I would like to reflect on my decisions, I had to get the hell out.

I dropped the gun and turned to scurry out the door.

Shit.

Emile, my own brother, was standing, eyes wide, in the doorway. Looking from me, to Linguini's body, slumped on the table, to the Glock I had just dropped. Back to me.

"What the fuck did you do Remy?"

What did I do.

What the fuck did I do.

There's no time for that. Not anymore.

"Why are you here, Emile."

"Dad wanted me to make some soup for dinner. The stove at home is broken. I thought I would come see you. I heard something in here. I came over to see if everything was okay."

Nothing is okay. Not anymore.

"Lets go make that soup, Emile."

"What the fuck happened in here Remy? What did you..."

"We're going to make that soup, Emile."

"I... okay. Soup. Yeah."

I dropped down from the desk and we walked to the kitchen together.

"You go gather the ingredients, I'll heat up the water."

Emile scurried towards the refrigerator, I climbed up to the counter and filled a small pot with water. Not all the way, I left a few inches between the water level and the edge of the pot. I pushed the pot over to a burner and turned the heat all the way up. Getting a spoon and using it to climb up to the the edge of the pot is just muscle memory at this point.

I knew what had to be done. There could be no witnesses. If Emile told anyone what I had done, my life would be over. God damn it my life is already over. With Linguini dead, there is no one to run La Ratatouille. Colette left not long after Linguini developed the whole cocaine addiction. That didn't make it much better. My father, Django, couldn't coexist with Linguini for much longer after that. I've been practically running this restaurant by myself for the past five months. Linguini only payed the rent. Now that he's gone, La Ratatouille will be close behind.

The water is beginning to boil, good.

Where do I go from here? It feels disgusting saying that I was lucky to find Alfredo Linguini, but without him I would never have been able to work in a professional kitchen. I don't know where I go from here. I don't have time to consider that right now.

Emile climbed up to the edge of the pot beside me.

I put my arm around him

I told him I was sorry

I shoved him into the pot of boiling water.

My brother's screams will forever haunt me.

I climbed down from the pot and went straight to the room where Linguini's corpse lay. I couldn't bear to dwell on what I had just done. I had to move on quickly.

I moved to the filing cabinet behind Linguini's desk. The smell was overpowering. A strong sense of smell used to be good for scavenging for food in my youth. It became a nightmare while living with Linguini.

Whenever I entered Linguini's office unannounced, the third drawer of the filing cabinet was always open. Linguini was always so quick to close it. I wondered why that was at first. It didn't take that long to figure out.

I opened the drawer and saw it was full of tiny bags of white powder.

Excellent.

I retrieved a plastic bag and placed all of the bags of substance in it.

I suddenly had a thought about how much Teremana tequila went for on the Black Market and glanced towards Alfredo Linguini's corpse.

Then I had a very unpleasant thought.

I finished collecting Linguini's drug stash and retrieved a steak knife and an insulated bag from the kitchen.

I'll spare the details of what came next. All I'll say is that Alfredo Linguini's corpse is now missing two crucial organs, and I'm two kidneys richer.

I was dragging two bags behind me on my way to leave La Ratatouille for the last time, when I heard the phone in my office ringing.

I knew who it was. I don't know why I picked the phone up, but I did.

"Hey Remy, it's dad. Where's Emile? He said he was going to visit you a few hours ago."

A few hours ago? It feels like he was just here.

"I do not know, am I my brother's keeper?"

"...Remy?"

Shit, maybe that cryptic bible quote was a bit too spot on.

"What have you done?"

I hung up on him.

And so, I went, to be a restless wanderer on the earth.