Chef Gator, an immaculately apron-clad alligator with a crooked chef’s hat, glides between his prep stations, claws clicking on the sodden floorboards. He arranges corn, potatoes, and shellfish with surgical precision, his deep-set eyes gleaming with manic delight.
"Seasoning," he begins, voice a gravelly purr, "is the poetry of the palate, the difference between mere sustenance and sublime salvation. Some folks just sprinkle; I baptize."
Clutching a battered tin labeled “Old Bay,” Chef Gator sprinkles its contents in slow, ritualistic arcs, muttering incantations about flavor, destiny, and the soul of the swamp.
Wolf, shivering and hesitant, pads forward, paws leaving wet prints on the warped planks. He stares at the simmering pot, nostrils flaring.
"I heard you were cooking, Chef. Got a bowl for a weary traveler?"
Chef Gator flashes a toothy grin far too wide and slow.
"Of course, monsieur loup. Freshest fare in the bayou. You’ll be the guest of honor."
His claws tap a steady rhythm as he circles the wolf, gaze lingering on the wolf’s thick pelt with appraising calculation.
Chef Gator murmurs to himself about “innovative proteins” and “culinary evolution,” voice growing more fevered with each phrase.
The wolf, lulled by the chef’s hypnotic cadence, barely reacts as the razor slides over his fur—tufts drifting to the stained floor. Old Bay seasoning dusts the air, clinging to exposed skin. The scene cuts between close-ups: fur piling on the counter, spice raining like red-gold snow, boiling water roiling in the battered pot.
The wolf’s voice stammers from somewhere off-frame, the words drowned by the rising crescendo of culinary chaos.
Corn and potatoes tumble into the boil, chased by bright pinches of cayenne and crab legs, all intercut with flashes of fur-streaked hands and the chef’s ecstatic expression. The rhythm of the edits matches the frantic beating of a terrified heart.
He douses the feast in melted butter, eyes rolling back in a rhapsody of flavor. Each bite is savored with grotesque pleasure, slurps and crunches echoing in the otherwise silent shack.
"Perfection," he intones, licking his claws clean, "True cuisine asks a price. To cook is to conquer—one flavor at a time."
The camera lingers on the empty fur pelt draped over a chair, the lantern’s reflection flickering in the chef’s wild eyes.
Chef Gator reclines, belly full and eyes half-closed, a slow, satisfied smile splitting his snout.
In the final shot, he gazes out the window into the endless, waiting bayou. The smile lingers—hungry, unrepentant, and utterly serene—leaving the audience laughing, unsettled, and wary of ever dining in the swamp.
