Back when I was a mid-30′s scrub serving my enlistment in the Argent Dawn, my squad got reassigned to Silithus. No, not in the battle taking place there, but as support, and by support I mean scrubs – we scrubbed things, we cleaned, we picked up the grounds, we groomed the horses – anything that needed done around camp while the "real heroes" went out and gathered Slithyst.
We were the first such scrub division sent there. Things were pretty rough in camp before we got there – they were even using latrines and eating out in the open. We brought tents, lumber, craftsmen, and, most importantly, good Dwarven outhouses. I guess you could say we were among the first to post a head in Silithus.
Among the duties we had, none was more loathsome than working in the mess tent. Nobody liked the scullery, nobody liked food prep, nobody liked provisioning, and, most loathsome, nobody liked to cook.
Whoever got the job usually took it out on his mates by making the most horrific food of all time. It was terrible. We’re talking goblin water … dog-bottom pie … basilisk gizzards … I mean, it was terrible!
It was so bad that they had to decree that whoever complained the most about the food would get stuck with the job.
Yep. You guessed it. That was me. Ol’ Crockolisk Mouth. On one fine evening I bit into a Silithid egg tart that was still squirming, and could take no more. I let loose with a torrent of abuse that brought me to the attention of the archbishop later on. The local authorities were no less annoyed. "Okay, smart guy", they said. "You do the cooking, see what YOU can do!"
Well, like those before me, I set about the task of getting out of the job. All I had to do was get somebody else to complain about my cooking, and I’d be out of the kitchen.
I went out into the wilderness and scouted for something suitable, and wandered by a pen full of Kodos we had captured up in the Barrens on our way down from Ratchet. As I watched these huge beasts, one of them let loose with what kodos do best. As it splattered on the ground, it caused a miniature gust of rancid wind, and I had a great idea – I’d make them some Kodo Turd pie!
So I fetched a pail and a shovel and a clothespin for my nose – the Light wouldn’t help me on this nefarious task – and gathered up my mats. There was plenty there, enough for several pies, and it was ripe – a real steamer!
I got back to the kitchen and did the deed – nice flakey crust, whipped creamy topping, festive dates and pecans to give the pies an allure that belied what they were.
And then it was supper time.
The dinner bell went off and the scrubs came piling in. One sergeant – a veteran of the Silver Hand, I think – went straight for desert and grabbed him a nice big slice of pie. He plopped himself down like a fool on the stool, and took a big bite. His eyes bulged out and he leaped to his feet!
"BY THE LIGHT!", he cried, "THAT’S KODO-TURD PIE!!"
Everybody turned to look at him … he took a deep breath …
"It’s good, though," he said meekly, and sat back down.
I was stuck with the cook’s job for six months. I still won’t speak to the man.