Being a line cook in a Chinese restaurant has its perks. Nobody speaks English in any conversational capacity, so you get left alone. The dishes are for the most part simple to make. Scorching hot wok, add pigs feet, cock's combs, weird toenails and gloppy sauce. Cook 3 minutes while agitating. Most days (and nights for that matter), that would be the whole shift. Occasionally the cooking would be punctuated by bouts of yelling in Chinese. Maybe Mandarin, maybe Cantonese. Maybe it was nonsense depending on how much Shao Xing cooking wine that the owner had drank that morning.
The décor in the restaurant was pretty typical: Chinese dragons, cheap gold wallpaper, that cat that waves his paw at you. One thing did stand out though. A huge, golden-framed picture of him. His eyes seared their way into your soul. He was the rapist who would never come.
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