Chapter One: Linguini's Sins

Lust. Pride. Gluttony. Sloth. Envy. Anger. Greed.

The seven deadly sins. The downfall of man.

I am no man.

Alfredo Linguini does not share my immunity to the seven deadly sins. He is weak. He is flawed. He is human. Alfredo is no victim, his downfall is his own doing.

Alfredo Linguini always craved wealth, from what I understand. I suppose he inherited it from his father.

His father. How I've grown to hate him. Auguste Gusteau never did leave my shoulder. Whispering the desperate words of a pathetic soul longing for a second chance at life vicariously through me. He saw me as weak. He thought he could manipulate me into a puppet. He is no puppet master. I've learned to tune Gusteau out like the sound of my own breathing. Only rarely does he break through now. I will lay awake in my bed some nights, sometimes hearing my former idol begging for me to listen to his pleas.

Alfredo always thought he was better than me. The first opportunity he had he kicked me to the curb. Did he really think I'd just forgive him? Did he think I'd forget?

Alfredo spends half the money he owes me from OUR restaurant's profits on hookers and cocaine. What did I even expect of him? Linguini is pathetic. He drowns himself in liquor nightly. He chugs Dwayne Johnson's brand of tequila like Little League baseball pitchers drink Kool-Aid after a tournament game.

Of course, this overreliance on hard drugs and alcohol to fill the void in Alfredo's hollow, pitiful life impacted his work. Linguini became sloppy. His dishes became a disgrace to the prestigious kitchen I had worked so hard to maintain. Linguini's underperformance only amplified my success in his eyes. The superiority of my work was suddenly clear to him. He grew envious of my skill. This envy grew to anger, even hatred.

Alfredo's greed reared its ugly head when he made the worst decision of his life. He asked me to come to his office one dreary October evening. Another day of preparing food on my own for a whole goddamn restaurant with rare help had just ended for me. A sleepless night of drinking and injecting god knows what straight into the bloodstream had just begun for him.

He told me to take a seat. Gesturing to the chair in front of the desk he sat behind. I stared into his empty, bloodshot eyes as I climbed up onto the leather chair across from him. Alfredo leaned back at an impossible posture to the point where we were almost eye to eye. Linguini laughed a pathetic wail of a laugh before coughing himself nearly out of his chair. He poured two shots out from a filthy bottle of The Rock's Tequila. He drank them both, and began laughing his ass off again.

I asked him why he asked me there. I knew exactly why he did. I hear him talking to himself in the night about how he doesn't need me. I knew what he was going to tell me. I have anticipated this moment for a long time now. That's why I purchased a GLOCK 33 Gen4 from Craigslist last week and planted it in Alfredo's office.

"I wanted to talk to you about your employment here at La Ratatouille." he says. "I've reevaluated your contributions here and decided you're unimportant to us, Remy."

I feigned shock. I slumped in my seat.

"I guess we're gonna have to rebrand to 'La Atouille'" Linguini comments. Just before indulging himself in another bout of drunken laughter.

Alfredo never invited anyone into his office for meetings. We never had much business to conduct in an office. Nobody ever sat in the chair across from Alfredo Linguini. Nobody knew a glock shaped bump had developed in the cushion. Linguini turned around to pour himself more tequila. When he turned back, I was standing on his desk holding a firearm.

Linguini didn't even flinch. He was so drunk I doubt he could even see it. "La Ratatouille's entire management team wishes you the best in your future endeavors."

Those were Alfredo Linguini's last words.