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Chapter 4: Remy's Story

I always wanted to learn to cook. I remember as a young rat, looking through cooking books and dreaming that one day I would make it big as a chef. The other rats scoffed at me, my dad told me that I would never be a chef--that's not what rats did. Rats stole. Rats didn't have tastes, or opinions about food. I wasn't like the other rats. 

("I'm not like the other girls!" I gasped. "Please no interruptions," Remy said, waving his paw.) 

When I got to the age where the other rats were going out into the world to spread the plague, I was disgusted. I didn't want to be a harbinger of  disease...I wanted to be something more...something good. So one night, I ran away from home. Just me and the open road for days until, while I was staying the night at a gas station, a tour bus pulled in. It was my chance for greatness, so I hopped on board and hid away for days. The tour bus took me here. I've been bidding my time--waiting for the perfect moment to cook. I arrived here six months ago--between then and now I've scared away six cooks, but then one day I heard them talking about how they were getting someone new. And then they came back with you and I KNEW you were different. I knew it by the way you don't wear makeup because you're naturally pretty and wear your wavy blonde hair in a messy bun. I knew it because your visionary circles are cyan and you've experienced true hardship. You know what it's like to be an outsider. You're right, (here he paused for a long moment to add gravity to the situation) you're not like the other girls. 

But more importantly than everything I've listed above, you don't know how to cook. You've been making the same boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese for the past three months and I'm judging by the way you're currently wearing that Mac and Cheese, that the boys have finally grown sick of it. You're desperate for help, something, anything, to prevent them from catching on to the fact that you can't cook. Because who knows what they will do if they find out? Throw you to the street? Send you back to your mom? Ship you to the next boy band? But never mind all that because it doesn't matter now. What matters is that I can help you--I'm you're only hope. All you have to do is place me under your chef's hat while you cook.

(He stuck his small pink paw out and I eagerly took it in my large hand, careful not to break his bones. I then scooped him up and deposited him atop my head. He gripped a clump of hair in each hand and I placed my large, white chef's hat over him making it so that, to an outside observer, I appeared to be cooking of my own accord. We then returned to the kitchen, ready to prepare an actual meal for the boys of One Direction).