The White Lady
When I was a college I earned a few extra quid working in the kitchen of a posh hotel. It was your typical Scottish Baronial pile converted (badly) into a hotel. As a result the kitchen was effectively in a dungeon and was not really suited to the purpose. There were of course the usual stories of ‘the white lady’ and all that crap – I assumed it was for the tourists but nobody really enjoyed locking up at night especially the store room at the back (to be honest it gave me the heebie-jeebies).

So there we were in our little kitchen dungeon. It was cramped and hot but most of the guys were pretty decent and just got on with things.
All except Geneveive that is. Geneveive was the French Sous Chef. A more detestable arrogant greasy little garlic smuggler you could not meet. Paper-thin with a little rat face and beady eyes, she was know to everyone simply as ‘The Mouse’.

For all her bluster she wasn’t even all that much of a cook but the Head Chef would hear no evil when it came to her – she had basically got the job by shagging him – devious little whore was her true talent it would seem.

Like many in kitchens we got through the heavy shifts with some chemical enhancement – in every kitchen there is a part time dealer, ours was Terry (not his real name but in his whites he looked like the chef from Faulty Towers which we all thought was rather apt) whatever you wanted, whiz, coke, e’s – Terry was the man with the plan. Geneveive had none of this though – body was a temple strictly no chemicals.

Things plodded along reasonably well until the little garlic infused tart coerced the Chef into hiring her bloody cousin too – an identikit skinny little torturer of snails and frogs alike. So now we had not a mouse but mice. As much as they looked alike we were all a little suspicious of the relationship with this supposed relative but didn’t lose any sleep over it. She was also a little French tart and seemed to be banging the Head Chef as well

Geniveves signature dish was this woodland mushroom and ‘erb’ soup. She made a huge deal about ‘only zee finest organic natural ingredients’ so we were often made to eat this when we had turnabout to cook for the kitchen crew.

One night Terry had a great plan – "fuck the pair of them lets spike her precious bloody soup" he said and immediately banged in a liberal dose of his finest MDMA.

So we all had the soup and waited to see a reaction from ‘The Mice’ – sadly nothing not a Toulouse sausage. Major disappointment really – but we all got a nice little buzz.

At the end of the shift I had to lock up. As I headed to the creepy storeroom I heard this tapping, scraping noise “nothing to worry about Spimf old boy – no such thing as ghosts”

I didn’t feel any braver though when I tentatively opened the door to the gloomy dank store room and heard an unearthly low moaning noise – I flicked the light on and nearly shat myself on the spot. A total Blair Witch moment... there in the corner among the bags of onions and whatnot i witnessed truly horrific sight - Geniveve and ‘her cousin’ stripped naked, chewing the face of each other with Geniveve ramming a huge parsnip up ‘her cousins’ snatch, banging away at it like a belt-fed mortar.

So it wasn’t the bloody ‘white lady’ I had heard, it was in fact Mice whore e’s of the soup ‘per naturalle’
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 20:28, 1 reply)

*spang*
It's only Thursday, FFS!
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 3 Jul 2008, 20:36, closed)