1982 - Venice Downpour. A drenched, rail-thin child… Shivering cold… knees against his chest. …Suddenly, headlights. Like a trapped rat, he shoots upright… But his knees buckle… He falls against wet cobblestone… … A limousine door opens. Fine Italian boots emerge… Flanked by men with umbrellas… A round-faced woman… She kneels. “Poor niñito… Come ti chiami?” … “Dominic, ma’am…” “...Inglese? Are you… Italiano, niño?” “No, ma’am…” “...Come. You-ah must be-ah starving…”

---

Dom Durango’s Executive Office…

The Portrait of Mama Durango.

A beaming smile.

…Dom stares at it.

Expression blank.

A knock.

“Come-ah in.”

The door opens…

Three mangy hobos enter. One steps forward.

“Dom Durango… You SUCK! Meals always JELLY-SOFT in the middle! With OVERCOOKED edges!”

“Inviting us to your factory after attackin’ Micheal Graves?!? STUPID MISTAKE! Mess with one HoboTownie, Mess with ALL HoboTownies!”

The Lead Hobo unsheathes a soupcan shiv...

“We’ll GARROTE you with your own GRILL MESH!”

Dom calmly hands over…

A check.

“A BRIBE?!? FUCK YOU AN-.”

…The Lead Hobo reads the check…

…

He pockets it.

“We HoboTownies are at your service, Mister Durango. Want us to… piss in with Graves’ grits or something?”

“Knowing Signor Graves, he’ll-ah beat-ah you to it…”

…

“You-ah boys… hungry?”

---

1991 “Mama, please! This offer-ah…” “My answer is-ah NO, Dominic!” “Most-ah chefs would KILL to-ah join the Culinary-ah CABAL!” “Feh! A pack-ah of braying JACKASSES! They-ah think that-ah people would eat-ah EXCREMENT if it sported a Cabal-ah logo!” “Some-ah would, Mama!” “Mi Bambino… you want-ah me to surrender the last-ah bastion of-ah TRUE FLAVOR?” “I want-ah you-ah food to SURVIVE-ah, Mama! We-ah cannot beat the Cabal. But, if we join-ah them, you-ah recipes… become immortal!” “You-ah getting older… Nino runnah the vineyard, Dino runnah the stables, Vino runnah the… other vineyard…” “But, no one else could runnah the-ah kitchen… I don’t want us to-ah lose-ah what we have…” “Domma, you act like-ah MY kitchen is-ah YOURS to lose.” “You’re my-ah son. But, not by-ah blood.” “My-ah kitchen is not-ah your birthright.” … “Mama, you-ah other sons… They don’t wanna take ovah you-ah kitchen…” “Then, it will die, Domma.” “Better dead than under the Cabal’s control.” “Mama…” “Domma, eat-ah you-ah food. Shuddupah-you-face.”

---

THWACK! A machete chops through critically-endangered gingko trees…

Dom sheathes his machete… and retrieves a nut…

---

---

A South American tribe, held at gunpoint by Dom Durango’s mascot sous chefs…

Dom approaches an ivory palm…

A Shaman warns that the tree is sac-

WHAM! A rifle butt drops him in a bloody heap...

Dom peels off bark…

---

---

Arizona desert…

A trucker points to an ad with Dom’s smiling face, offering a reward for a meteorite landing…

A black bag zips over his face...

Dom kneels in the meteorite crater…

Tweezing out… Diamond shards…

---

---

”Mama? I’ve-ah done it!” “...Bambino? It’s-ah midnight…” “Mama, Taste… I finally got-ah the flavor-ah right…” “Aw, mi piccolo… Mmm… it’s-ah delicious, Domma…  Gratzi… But… this couldn’t have-ah waited until-ah morning?” “Like you-ah say, Mama, best-ah fresh!” “…Domma *mwah*... I’m-ah so sorry…” “Mama?” “About joining the Cabal-ah….” “I said-ah no… you wouldn’t-ah stop asking.” “I said-ah something… cruel…” “You are-ah my son, mi Domma… As much as-a you-ah brothers.” “...No, Mama… You were-ah right..” “You-ah kitchen is-ah not my birthright. So..” “I must-ah take it.” “Mi Piccolo, wh-...*cough*wh-*KERAUGH*...” “Shhhh, Mama…” “*WHEEEEEEZEHEAVE*...” “Shuddapah-you-face.”

---

Test Room.

Blood oozes from the Lead Hobo’s jaw.

Subtly favoring his right hip…

A Mascot Dom sets down a covered dish…

In a flash, the Hobo shoves his shiv against the Mascot’s throat.


“I’LL KILL HIM, DURANGO. GIVE ME MY MONEY AND LET ME OUT! NOW!”

…An intercom buzzes.

“Taste-ah. Lika Mama says, best-ah fresh…”

“FUCK YOU.  His blade draws blood... “I’LL DO IT!!!”



…The Mascot Dom, completely unfazed… uncovers the dish.

Grits… glowing neon purple.

“...Fuck’s this?”

“One bite. And you’re-ah done. You want-ah… triple you-ah pay?”

“FUCK OFF.”

“...Thirty times?”

…

…The Lead Hobo grabs a fork off the table.

He jabs it in…

…

What happens next occurs so fast, it’s imperceptible to the human eye.

The moment the fork contacts the grits… The Hobo’s arm doesn’t shatter.

It liquefies like a blood piñata.

His body flash-fries in atomic radiation…

Jelly-soft in the middle.

Overcooked edges.

…

Behind several dozen layers of lead shielding…

Dom sniffs dispassionately.

He jots down…

---

Graves.

Perhaps-ah you-ah thought I’d-ah cook-ah something… ‘X-Treme’ like you think of-ah X-Treme…

Steel-ah chairs…

Thumb-ah-tacks…

Tables…

FEH!

You-ah wrestlers…

A table’s-ah not for-ah slamming brainless goombahs!

It’s for-ah serving DISHES!

You-ah wrestlers come-ah to-ah my kitchen…

MY-AH DOMAIN.

You disrespect-ah culinary arts with LITERAL-AH GARBAGE FOOD!

You claim a victory ovah Dom-ah Durango?

And you-ah think I would-ah limit my vengeance to ingredients found on-ah EARTH?!?

Limit my-ah options to ingredients that wouldn’t-ah require THEORETICAL PHYSICS?!?

…No.

We-ah both-ah know what it’s like…

To set-ah the village on-ah fire to feel the inferno’s warmth…

…

We-ah both climbed… frommah the DRECK…

To the toppah…

You-ah… The Universal Champion…

Me-ah? KING OF COOZINE!

…But-ah…

Signor Graves.

You-ah lost your Universal title faster than-ah DOM DURANGO’S ONE-MINUTE RAMEN™!

You’ve become complacent.

Second-banana to your vampire-pal…

Going on-ah campy team-building adventures…

Comfortable…

Comfort is-ah death.

I am-ah a Culinary Cabal Member…

And-ah still…

I seek-ah new ingredients…

New-ah dishes…

I never stoppah growing my empire…

Because if I stoppah… I might lose…

And I will.

NEVER.

BE.

COLD.

AGAIN.

…

You think-ah… because-ah you won our last meeting…

That-ah I’d-ah be discouraged by-ah failure?

You have-ah done NOTHING to push back-ah uppah the hill.

You are-ah sated.

AND I AM RAVENOUSLY HUNGRY.

…

We will-ah see.

Which of us has-ah…

TRUE GRIT.