Chapter 257 - 22: Kidnapping

Duan Fei could swear these were the best fries he’d ever had.

The mountain of fries was a stunning sight, and their aroma was intoxicating. Having been soaked in milk, the fries tasted exceptionally delicious. Even without any seasoning, they were so good you wanted to lick the table clean.

After the fries cooled down a bit, the visitor put some salt in a bowl and handed it to Duan Fei and Cuihua.

"Just dip a little. Don’t take too much."

The salt took the fries to another level. The ketchup and secret sauce that followed were even more divine, making Duan Fei nearly forget why he was here in the first place.

When they couldn’t eat another bite, the visitor clutched his stomach in satisfaction, looked at Duan Fei and Cuihua, and asked, "Who are you?"

"Who are we... oh, right. I’m Duan Fei, and this is Cuihua. He’s a Chef, too."

Cuihua frantically waved his hands, denying it.

’After all, in front of someone who could make even fries this delicious, I’m really not a Chef.’

’Besides, everything I make is poisonous. That makes me a murderer, not a Chef.’

The visitor waved his hand as well. "I’m not one either. I’m just a poor soul helplessly manipulated by good food. Crap, we need to go. Now. But before we leave, we have to clean this up."

He fetched a bucket and poured the leftover cooking oil into it. After packing up the uncooked potatoes and remaining fries, the visitor hastily led Duan Fei and Cuihua away.

Hearing footsteps, the guard at the door stared in surprise at the three people rushing out. He didn’t seem to expect that the visitor could actually escape the Gourmet Police.

’And how did those two behind him get out?’

Before the guard could figure it out, the visitor snatched up a rubber baton he’d picked up somewhere and slammed it against the man’s chin, knocking him out cold.

After patting the man down to retrieve his own slices of ham, he also swiped a packet of pepper from the guard’s pocket. The visitor then pushed open the door to the outside world, leading Duan Fei and Cuihua into the darkness.

The world outside was dead quiet. The doors of the shops lining the road were shut tight, and every single one had a "For Lease" sign posted on it.

There were no restaurants or bars in sight. A few young men were loitering on the sidewalks, smoking. Their malicious gazes landed on the trio from time to time.

"Don’t look at them. Just keep walking. The punks around here have sharp noses. They can smell the good stuff on you."

"What good stuff?" Duan Fei asked, confused.

"Fries, chicken wraps, beef patties, corn chips, oatmeal... All of it is ’the good stuff,’ and it’s the hard currency around here. Now, quiet down. Follow me back to my apartment, we can talk there."

They followed the visitor until the group finally stopped in front of a dilapidated apartment building.

Johnson carefully opened the door, trying to sneak up to the second floor, but a nearby door was yanked open. A large, white woman in pajamas blocked their path, her tone hostile. "Johnson, your rent is due in three days."

"You’ll get it. I’ll pay you later."

"And don’t let your friends stay the night. Their poor-stink is going to seep into the floorboards."

"I know, we’ll talk about it later."

"Hmph... what’s that smell..."

"That’s enough, ma’am! I can’t hold it in anymore, I’m about to burst!"

Johnson’s savage expression startled the landlady. She instinctively stepped aside, allowing Johnson to dash up the stairs, pulling Duan Fei and Cuihua along with him to the second floor.

They burst into the room at the end of the second-floor hallway. Johnson pulled Duan Fei and Cuihua inside, shut and locked the door, then closed the window and drew the curtains.

He then pushed the cooking oil under the bed and hid the leftover fries among some old clothes. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief. He took out some cups, poured a drink, and handed them to Duan Fei and Cuihua.

After downing some alcohol to calm his nerves, he finally looked at Duan Fei and Cuihua and asked, "Who are you people? Are you gangsters from the Chinese Cuisine Street?"

Duan Fei didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a nearby copy of today’s newspaper and began to read it intently.

The Abyss came with its own translation system. Although the words in the newspaper were in English, the system automatically translated them into Chinese, so he had no trouble reading.

The date in this instance was July 17, 1920. The newspaper’s headline read: "Six Months of Fasting: What Have We Been Through?"

The front-page article detailed the profound impact of the Fasting Order, explaining the various changes that had occurred in the six months since the law was enacted.

Food had become safer. Housewives spent less time on domestic chores. School lunch funds were no longer being embezzled. Poor students in remote areas could now enjoy the same meals as everyone else.

People wasted less time eating. Factory workers’ lunch breaks were shortened to fifteen minutes—and the factory owners loved it.

After reading the article, Duan Fei understood the setting of this era.

A 1920s where gourmet food was treated like a calamitous plague.

’Food is heaven to the people, yet the government here has banned it completely,’ Duan Fei thought with a sigh. ’Yingjiang is the same damn way in every instance.’

’And Yingjiang’s propaganda machine lives up to its reputation. They managed to spin a list of "benefits" for this bizarre law, making it seem like taking a single bite of a sandwich is a crime that could bring down the country and destroy the world.’

"Yingjiang, you always manage to pull some crazy new stunt," Duan Fei lamented.

"Who’s Yingjiang?" Johnson asked, puzzled. "You still haven’t told me who you are."

"We’re laborers. Came across the ocean for a few reasons, looking to make a living. I’m a waiter, and my brother here is a Chef."

That one word, "brother," moved Cuihua so much that he looked at Duan Fei with tears in his eyes, speechless.

Johnson looked at Cuihua with pity. "A Chef... that’s not good. You must have just arrived, so you probably don’t know that the Fasting Order has been passed. All Chefs have been ordered to find a new profession. If you’re caught making or even tasting food, you’ll be sent straight to Alaska to chop down trees. Unless..."

"Unless what?" Duan Fei asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Unless you join a gang. Some gangs have started trafficking in gourmet food. They have their own kitchens, their own farms. Some have even started raising chickens—a dozen eggs a day. You want fried eggs, you get fried eggs. You want an omelet, you get an omelet. Some gangs can even make dessert. It’s with non-dairy cream, sure, but it’s still delicious."

’It makes sense logically, but it sounds so lame,’ Duan Fei thought. ’Gangland gourmands? What the hell?’

The food cravings he had suppressed began to resurface, and Johnson started drooling as he spoke.

Just as Johnson was about to continue his description of the gangs, the landlady’s voice came from the doorway.

"Johnson, open up."

Johnson started to get up, but Cuihua grabbed his arm, stopping him.

Cuihua went to the door in Johnson’s stead. He pulled it open to find the landlady blocking the entrance. Behind her stood several men in black trench coats, their Chicago Printers aimed right at him.

"Is Mr. Johnson in? We need him to come with us."