The Life and Times of Harold

Chapter One: Chef Harold's Cutting Edge Cuisine

"OGM HAROLD U CAN'T COOK!!" shouted Harold's bitch ass wife, Fransis Maurice Heidler.

"I CAN TOO BITCH" shouted Mr. Harold Heidler, the hero of our story.

"Oh yeah, prickheadhoebitch?" said Fransis, a hand on her hip and a condescending smirk on her face.

The air smelled really bad.

"Oh dear, a fetus must not have been properly perserved!" cried Harold, running to the basement and nearly falling down the stairs.

In the room, it wasn't one, but 6 fetuses, their glass jars smashed to shards, the room was in disarray. He noticed his second eldest child, Pala-Tute, laying on the ground in a pool of fetus pickle brine and blood. His youngest, Putin Khuilo, was sobbing in the corner.

"Pala-Tute, tsk tsk, you were always such a troublemaker." he lamented, scooping up fetuses and his precious son. He looked at Putin Khuilo sternly.

"Putin Khuilo Heidler, go to your room."

Putin Khuilo nodded solemly, wiped her face, and went up the stairs.

Harold put aside the fetuses and his child, and began cleaning up the room.

Moments later, he retrieved them and smuggled them back into the kitchen.

He glanced in the direction of the living room, and there his useless and evil wife Fransis sat, watching horrifically pixelated porn on the television. Harold was a little hard, because he was pretty sure those were two men. He turned his head and rushed into the kitchen, and began to prepare what would be the meal of a lifetime.

He pulled out a knife, and he almost teared up as he began to butcher his son, Pala-Tute.

It was beautiful, in a strange way, to see all the pieces of a person that was a piece of himself. The flesh, the muscles, the organs, and the bones. Tragic, but nice. and cool.

He bought a pot of water to a boil, and left the marrow filled bones and some pieces of extra meat to boil. He began to store meat and dealt with the fetuses, and decided he'd relax while the broth was being made.

A few hours later, he went back in and extracted the meat and the bones, and put them aside. From there, he began adding more and more pieces of Pala-Tute, throwing in beets and random ass vegetables.

He took extra fat and began aggressively adding salt and garlic, wrapping the fat in plastic and storing it in the fridge. He thought he'd invite guests over when he was done curing the fat and effectively made the world's first human salo.

He was unsure how to incorporate the fetuses, but he began making some kind of dough, to make nice buns to go with his really cool soup\stew.

Suddenly, a stroke of genius hit him after the dough had rised and he was in the middle of making the buns.

He rolled out sections of dough, and began placing the fetuses in them, wrapping them snuggily, like how they would have been wrapped in blankets, had their mothers not come to Harold to help abort them.

He smiled, and placed the buns in the oven. The soup had filled the kitchen with a lovely aroma, and he began to pace, unsure of what to do not but wait.

Fransis sauntered into the kitchen.

"Harold, what are you making? Smells good." She moaned, grinding against the counter in her brand new lingerie.

"You told me I couldn't cook like a couple of hours ago wyd"

Harold screams. Harold bashes a bottle of wine on the counter, and licks up the wine and eats the glass like chips.

"You're such a tease." Fransis huffed, storming off.

Harold decided to entertain himself for a while, by imagining Skwisgaar and Hitler double teaming him. He was so caught up in his joy he jizzed in the garlic sauce he was preparing.

"Oh g*sh devilled eggs" he cried, wiping as much as he could away. The aroma of everything he was making was overwhelming, enough to drive away the  distinct scent of death.

He wanted to cry, for reasons he couldn't quite understand. He sighed, and decided to relax for the next few hours while the food cooked.

He looked at a remaining fetus, one he couldn't get enough dough for.

He pulled out a knife, and decideded what he must do.

After a few sickening noises and even more sickening visuals, he had successfully chopped it into bite sized squares. He lightly buttered up a pan and began to pan fry the fetus pieces.

He added some of the pieces into the soup, but mainly put them on a plate and stuck toothpicks in them, he wasn't sure why, but it worked.

Hours passed, and the sun began to set, showcasing beautiful shades of pink and golden oranges, and the meal Harold worked so hard to create was ready.

His family gathered at their freakishly large table, and he began serving them.

Hot bowls of soup with a deep red shade with dollops of sour cream in the center, fried fetuses with toothpicks, and beautiful buns.

He, and some of his favorite kids got the roasted fetuses wrapped in buns, but he set one aside for when Hitler would stop by late in the night. He made sure to heavily sauce all the rolls with the garlicky goodness he made, and he sat down, pleased. He couldn't wait for Fransis to take back her insult to his cooking.

As the kids, starved and almost dead, wolfed down with little regard.

Fransis took small sips of soup.

"Honey, have you seen Pala-Tute?" asked Fransis

"It's in the sauce,,,err...soup."

Putin Khuilo, his miniaturest child, began screaming as she extracted meat from the soup.

Everyone was either screaming or didn't care and kept eating hungrily.

Harold smiled, and blew a kiss into the camera that was positioned towards the table, and with a flash, a new family photo was created.

"It's my mother's recipe!"