Graves' eyes snapped open and he sat up so fast Matty jumped backward.

"I got it!!!"

Kris blinked and asked: "Got what?"

Graves smiled through the throbbing migraine.

"The grits."




"DOM DURANGO!

You listen to me, you cornmeal cowboy son of a bitch, and you listen good, because I ain't sayin' this twice unless I forget I said it the first time.

Everybody keeps callin' this a cook-off. Everybody keeps smilin' like this is cute. Like this is some funny little XWF marketing stunt where two idiots fly all the way to Mars to see who can make the most X-TREME bowl of breakfast slop.

But that ain't what this is to me.

This ain't a cook-off.

This ain't a cooking show.

This ain't Dom Durango's big chance to put on his little apron, shake his little seasoning, grin at the judges, and pretend the whole world forgot what already happened.

Because I remember, Dom.

First GCC event.

Your house.

Your people.

Your little kitchen kingdom.

And I out-cooked you.

Me.

Micheal Graves.

A man who thinks fine dining means the gas station hot dog still had shape when I bought it.

I beat you at your thing. And that stuck in you, didn't it? It got way down deep. Past the gimmick. Past the smile. Past the branding. Right into that soft little place where Dom Durango keeps the truth locked up.

The truth is, you ain't the grits guy.

You're the guy who lost his grits to me!

So you came to XWF lookin' for revenge. But you sure didn't come alone, did you? Fuck no! You jumped me with kitchen staff. You jumped me with mascot-headed weirdos. You brought flour to throw in my eyes. You brought salt to rub in my wounds. You brought a rolling pin to scramble my eggs. You brought a prep table to make a Gravy taco.

You threw everything at me except one thing.

Yourself.

Because one Dom Durango was never enough to tackle Micheal Graves in a kitchen or anywhere else!

That pussy-ass attack wasn't revenge, Dom. It was a confession. You confessed that when it comes down to me and you, you need a whole damn kitchen staff just to feel brave enough to stand near me.

Well, Mars ain't gonna save you.

Elon's rockets ain't gonna save you.

Your stupid canned cannibal cream ain't gonna save you.

And these judges sure as hell ain't gonna save you, because the second they said the grits don't have to be delicious, they opened the door to my kind of art.

I had a vision, Dom.

I saw Mars. I saw Hell. I saw demon scientists crawlin' through metal doors. I saw me with a bowl of Big Fuckin' Grits holdin' the line when space civilization got stupid and hungry at the same time.

And when I woke up, I knew exactly what I had to make.

Not something edible.

A warning.

Mars sand, because everybody keeps sayin' you got grit and I still ain't seen any.

Thumbtacks, because every bite oughta have a point.

Razor blades, because garnish is for pussies.

Rocket fuel, because your career needs help gettin' off the ground.

Cornmeal, because unlike you, I can still follow one simple rule while ruinin' somebody's life.

That's my recipe, Dom.

That's what X-TREME looks like when it stops bein' a word on a poster and starts bein' something you gotta fuckin' swallow.

You're gonna bring grits to Mars, Dom.

I'm gonna bring consequences.

You're gonna try to impress judges.

I'm gonna try to make them wonder if the bowl needs police tape around it.

And before I feed it to you, before I shove that spoon down your stupid mouth, I'm gonna beat you. I'm gonna give you the most X-TREME beating my rotten little brain can imagine. I'm gonna fold you up like a prep table. I'm gonna scrape you across Mars dirt until GCC stands for Get Cooked, Coward.

Then I'm gonna make sure you understand.

This was never about who cooks better.

We already answered that shit.

This is about who survives the meal.

And when those judges raise my hand, when they look at your bowl and see food, then look at mine and see a crime scene with butter...

You're gonna kiss my grits.

Because you came lookin' for revenge.

Because you asked for X-TREME.

Because one clean loss wasn't enough for your dumbass.

So now you get the beating.

You get the bowl.

And you get to learn what Hell already knows.

XTREME grits ain't made to taste good.

They're made to hurt goin' in and comin' out!

Kiss my grits, Dom.

Then choke on the fuckin' point!"