Snippet #1282125

The kitchen was empty by this point, the only evidence of Rick's passing being a bloody cutting board and the now-infamous long knife, sitting point down in the dry side of the sink. A large stainless steel pot was steadily simmering on the stovetop, a tiny spire of steam curling from the skewed pot lid. The scent of the pot in the stew was thick and heavily spiced, the aroma of something belonging to no specific nationality precisely because something from everywhere in every corner of the world had apparently been dumped into it with reckless abandon. The result, while not altogether unpleasant, had the end scent of something that vaguely resembled what someone with very specific tastes would cook for himself, only in a pot big enough to serve eight. The timer on the clock - disconcertingly reminiscent the digital timer on a bomb - ticked off another minute, leaving 45 minutes until the 'Special Occasion Stew' was complete.

Rick, over in the corner of the spacious kitchen, was sitting on a bench and leaning against a spare area of the counter, plucking away at his bass, apparently ignoring his band-aid as he ramrodded his way through yet another Morphine bass riff. Eventually he looked up from the neck of his bass and made eye contact with his opposite. Without skipping a beat in the bass riff, Rick nodded. "Howdy," he grunted, without extending either hand for a handshake - both were occupied with his bass. "Name's Rick, as you might have guessed."