Cooking Up a Solution in only Fifteen Minutes

As the final eight sat down around the Tribal Circle, the unfortunate Evans who had nearly drowned in the previous chapter (though technically he had nearly drowned in a river, not in a chapter as such, for indeed, it's really hard to drown in a chapter, though once Percy Thinbottom of 72 Regent St, Norwich got so engrossed in a chapter of one of the Harry Potter books that he forgot to breathe, and then when his body finally forced him to take a breath he inhaled his own saliva, technically drowning in a chapter but then even that's debatable cos he also drowned in his bedroom but now I'm just being pedantic) had been taken off site somewhere for extensive post-almost-drowning counselling and re-propagandisation (The Contestants Are Evil and Not Real! Drink Only Sam's Salty Sprite!), never to return to the Heptagon of Battle in this season of The Spin-Off Games.

An Evans dressed in a full Chef's outfit, complete with one of those pointlessly tall hats, made his way into the circle, carefully skirting the fake gas fire.
"Well, well, well, contestants. What a predicament we are in here." He said in a droll tone of voice. "How will we work our way out of this one, I wonder?"
"You could let us all win?" Pam offered enthusiastically. Her comment was listened to, appreciated, even noted down somewhere nobody would ever read it, and duly ignored from that point on - much in the same way governments deal with citizens' submissions, I imagine. Ooh, cynical!
"As the Goblin and nobody in particular were clear winners of the race, we the hosts have decided to simply let them chose the pair that will be going home." The Evans said. Six shoulders sagged, and six faces all turned to the Goblin and nobody in particular with that hey-remember-me-your-best-friend? expression we all use when someone has to choose who gets the remaining ice cream.
"You have two minutes to confer." Announced the Evans.

The winning pair took a moment to consider their options and then began chatting.
"What about Taylor and Pam?"
"Too nice."
"Hmm... ok... Trixie and Randy?"
"They're easybeats."
"So, we should keep them?"
"Yeah, definitely."
"Well... Desmond and The Hillbilly?"
"Think so."
Nobody in particular turned back to the Chef-Evans.
"Mr Evans, we will be sending home: Desmond and The Hillbilly!"
"Dangnabbit! I was just about to -" Nobody ever got to find out what The Hillbilly was just about to do for precisely at that moment he and Desmond vanished in a puff of green smoke. The coffee plunger stayed behind, though. Desmond never did get that leg back.

"Right! On with the show!" The Chef-Evans cried. "This next challenge will require you to use your culinary expertise to survive! And at the end of the round, one person will be eliminated!"
The PA let out another crackle to coincide with that announcement; one that almost sounded like brass instruments playing a scary tune, if you held your tongue the right way.
"For this round, you will each be given a box full of mystery ingredients and cooking equipment. In the next two hours, you must build a fire, and cook a three course dinner. But not just any dinner - one fit for a king!"
Again, the PA let out a buzzy squeal.
"For once your meal is cooked, you will be serving it to our three guest judges, who are all... kings! Whichever meal they like the least, that cook will be sent home. Now everyone, would you like to know who our judges are this evening?"
Of course, no contestant ever really cares about the judges, they just want to win, but just to satisfy the Evans, a few of the six let out weak "yes"-es.
"Great! Well, here they are;
Vince Martin from Beaurepaires - the king of discount tyres!
Tupou VI, the king of Tonga!
and finally, Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll!
We all know these three enjoy a good feed guys, so get cooking!"
The three judges appeared and took their seats at a nicely set table near the Tribal Circle.
"And now, we begin!" The Evans said, and at that moment before each contestant appeared a large cardboard box, filled to the brim with everything they might need to cook a sumptuous feast for a king, or even three kings (though in this case not Of Orient, or the suburb in central Auckland.)
"Oh, great." Trixie moaned as she opened her box. "I can hardly cook toast right! How will I ever get through this one?"


Chapter Thirteen : : Chapter Fifteen