God's Own Wrath, Served With Rice And Chicken

He stepped out into the pre-dawn light, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he cracked his back. The Glowing City was never at a loss for illumination, but there was something surreal about the moment when neon lights and glaring billboards yielded to the glow of smog lit by sunlight. Tayl was in a fantastic mood this morning, the first time he’d felt genuinely at ease since last week – likely a result of finally getting a solid 11 hours of sleep after back-to-back all nighters cracking SOSPHO’s new firewalls. The spectre shouldered the duffel bag at his side and stepped out onto the stairs, rubbing his stomach as he hit the sidewalk. He hadn’t had anything substantial in almost 24 hours, and knew just the place to fix that.

The lower city’s sidewalks were already filling up – car horns blared at jaywalkers, a thousand conversations washed across the sidewalks, and billboards on every street corner flashed over-saturated advertisements and sound bytes, praising the newest phone or a getaway vacation for two. Countless faces with faux gold piercings and glowing sub-dermal tattoos brushed past below the lights, shouting, catcalling, laughing, and jostling one another. Amongst the urban press of the downtown lower city, a sandy-skinned kid with tiger stripes tattooed on his face and a burgundy mohawk of messy, swept-back hair fit in like a quarter in a slot machine. Tayl was more than happy to call the Glowing City home – even if he did feel a hand or two try and pick his pocket.

The spectre rushed to beat a green light, hobbling at an awkward limp against the weight of the metal brace on his left leg. A taxi horn erupted from his right as he crossed the street in front of traffic; Tayl threw a rude gesture at the driver, and then jumped out of the way when the man swore and stepped on the gas. Someone on the other side of the street laughed, and a quartet of chocolate-colored kids rushed past him, whooping and grinning as they spun past cars speeding across the busy road.
“Hella attitude, stripe-face!” one of the dodgers shouted, throwing a thumbs-up as the spectre stepped back onto the sidewalk. Tayl returned the gesture, a part of him wishing he could join. If not for the heavy brace supporting his withered left leg, he’d probably have enjoyed the street sport of car dodging. The red-haired boy sighed as he watched them, but he couldn’t be upset for long – especially not when a familiar, spicy smell rose from the open-air tables of the restaurant down the block. His stomach politely encouraged him to get his ass in gear; far be it from him to do anything but oblige.

“Eyyy, looka who’t is!” a familiar voice called out.
A grin slipped onto Tayl’s face; he hadn’t even sat down, and Po was already out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a filthy rag and waddling over. To say Po Zinger was fat was a bit of an understatement: the greasy-skinned chef probably hadn’t seen his feet in years, but the first thing Tayl had learned after eating here was to never judge a man by his face. Or his sizable gut.
“Howya doin’, Po,” Tayl said, shaking the restaurant owner’s hand.
“Oh, geez, lemme tellya,” the chef huffed, red-faced from the effort of the ten-foot walk. “I said, God, lemme tellya. These slobs dunno what th’ good shit is, all they’se wants is fukin’, ‘oh, mild, mild, givit to me mild!’ FUCK! I tellya, why the fuck you comin’ to Po Zinger’s if ya ain’t gonna get the good shit? I live for that stuff! Issa fukin’ travesty is whaddit is. Oh, oh, here, siddown, lemme getcha what you want.”
Tayl laughed and sat down backwards on his chair as the chef lumbered inside, shouting at the cooks and pulling down boxes of spice from the open-air kitchen’s overhead pantry. Po Zinger was loud, fat, and frankly on the ugly side, even by the lower city’s standards – but he was honest, he was amicable, and above all else, he was a damn good cook.

“Eyago, stripey,” he said, sliding a plate of sticky rice, chicken, and hell’s own fire across the table to Tayl.
The tattooed teen snapped a pair of chopsticks apart and took an eager bite. His eyes widened as soon as it hit his tongue – Po was one hell of a chef, but this time, he’d really outdone himself. The inside of Tayl’s mouth exploded with a thousand spices and flavors, heat pouring into his face and burning down his throat before he even swallowed. He fought the urge to cough and pounded his fist against the table, forcing down the bite and blinking hard against tears.
“Son of a bitch!” he gasped. “Po, that’s the best you’ve done so far!”
The chef laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Ya spriddy li’l fuck,” he boomed, “I knew y’d gonna say that, I knew it! This kid know whadda good shit is! Lemme tellya!”
Tayl took another bite, face turning red from the heat, while Po guffawed at him from across the table. The two had met years ago through a mutual weakness for spicy food; even after all this time, Tayl still hadn’t found anything in the Glowing City quite like Po’s.

“Tah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Tayl said, sliding the empty styrofoam tray across the table.
The teen pulled out a pair of twenties; Po blustered and struggled to his feet at the sight.
“Two hunnid p’cent tip?! Oh, don’ do dat t’me!”
“Go to hell, y’ugly bastard,” Tayl shot back, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “and take your good shit, too – teach the devil a thing or two ‘bout fire!”
“Gid ouddda here!” Po laughed.
Tayl turned and walked away, grinning ear to ear. Today was going to be a fantastic day... but first, he seriously needed something to drink.