The Mummy, the Toilet, and the Cobb Salad Ultimatum
It was a lively evening at the Salty Kraken Tavern, which was exactly how Barnaby Blackbeard preferred it.
The tavern was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with townsfolk, sailors, tourists who had clearly underestimated the place, and at least one man who had come in only to ask for directions and was now holding a mug of grog while Barnaby accused him of having “the posture of a mutineer.”
Rope netting hung from the rafters. Lanterns swayed over the bar. Ornamental kraken tentacles curled across the ceiling beams with more confidence than structural support. A faded map of the coast had been nailed to the wall upside down for so long that regulars now considered it correct.
Behind the bar, Barnaby stood with one boot on a crate, one hand wrapped around a mug, and his beard gleaming with the moisture of unexplained maritime authority.
“And that,” he boomed, “was how I outwitted the sea witch with nothing but a spoon, a cracked tooth, and the insult that ended her reign!”
A roar of laughter went up.
Sir Reginald, seated at the bar, lifted his cup. “A tale most stirring, Barnaby. Though I confess I remain uncertain as to why the spoon was necessary.”
Barnaby pointed at him. “That’s how ye know it was necessary.”
Leon stood nearby with his usual marble stillness, one hand resting on the back of a chair. Two patrons had already placed empty glasses on a nearby ledge beside him, mistaking him for part of the tavern’s nautical statuary. Leon had noticed and chosen not to escalate.
Ramses sat at a round table with Yorn, Brenda, Philip, and Spike, his posture dignified, his drink untouched for the last several minutes because Barnaby had, earlier in the evening, replaced it with a decorative conch shell and waited seven full minutes for Ramses to notice.
Ramses had noticed immediately.
He had simply refused to reward the behavior.
Barnaby was now halfway through explaining how the sea witch had cried “briny tears of legal defeat” when Ramses rose.
“I’ll return shortly,” he said, smoothing one loose bandage at his wrist. “Please do not let Barnaby switch my cocktail with another decorative object.”
Spike leaned back in his chair. “What if it’s a better decorative object?”
“No.”
“What if it’s historically significant?”
“No.”
“What if the conch has matured?”
Ramses looked at him.
Spike nodded. “Bathroom. Got it.”
Ramses walked toward the back of the tavern, passing beneath a sign that read:
RESTROOMS
DO NOT CHALLENGE THE PLUMBING
This was not decorative advice.
The Salty Kraken restroom was dim, narrow, and aggressively nautical. A lantern hung from a hook beside the mirror. The sink had brass fixtures shaped like tiny sea serpents. A mural on the wall depicted Poseidon giving two thumbs up while standing beside a suspiciously cheerful clam. Someone had written HE KNOWS WHAT YOU DID beneath it in pencil.
Ramses regarded the mural.
“I doubt that.”
He washed his hands carefully, humming a soft, ancient melody under his breath. It was a tune older than most of the buildings in Snowdrift Bay and considerably more stable.
As he reached for a towel, one of his older trailing bandages slipped loose at his side.
This was not unusual. Ramses was very old. His wrappings had survived centuries, a regrettable ferry ride in 1927, three cable-company holiday parties, and an incident involving Whirly and a leaf blower. Loose ends happened.
Unfortunately, this particular loose end dangled near the toilet.
Ramses turned with his usual slow dignity.
The bandage caught on the handle.
Clank.
Ramses froze.
Behind him, the toilet flushed.
At first, it was an ordinary flush.
Then it became ambitious.
The water spun with unnatural force. The pipes groaned. The toilet made a sound like a tiny whirlpool trying to qualify for military service.
Ramses looked over his shoulder.
“Oh no.”
The bandage snapped taut.
YANK.
Ramses lurched backward.
Another strip of linen began to unravel from his side, sliding toward the churning porcelain.
“No, no, no.”
He grabbed the sink with one hand and the towel rack with the other. The towel rack immediately came loose from the wall.
Ramses stared at it in betrayal.
The toilet pulled again.
More linen vanished.
He tried to step away, but his leg was now tangled in his own wrappings. He turned, slipped, spun once, and ended up half-facing the mirror, one arm wrapped around the sink pipe, one foot braced against the wall, and several feet of bandage disappearing into the bowl.
The flush did not stop.
It deepened.
Ramses, who had survived burial, awakening, modern customer service, and being placed on hold by his own employer, felt a rare and terrible emotion.
Panic with plumbing.
“Help,” he called.
The word came out calm.
Too calm.
He cleared his throat.
“Help, please.”
The toilet gurgled, tightened, and pulled him halfway down into a humiliating crouch.
“Promptly.”
Back in the tavern, Barnaby had just reached the portion of his story where the spoon had allegedly “looked the sea witch in the eye,” when Leon turned his head slightly.
Several patrons gasped because they had forgotten he could move.
“Ramses has been absent for approximately fourteen minutes,” Leon said.
Yorn looked up.
“That does seem long.”
Spike glanced toward the restroom. “Maybe he’s having a meaningful conversation with the Poseidon mural.”
Philip set down his drink. “That mural does ask questions.”
Brenda frowned. “Should someone check on him?”
Sir Reginald rose at once, armor clinking.
“If our friend is beset by foul forces, then I shall face them.”
Barnaby slapped both hands on the bar.
“Aye! To the facilities!”
Yorn looked at him. “Please don’t call it that.”
Leon stepped away from the wall, and both glasses that had been resting near him slid off and shattered.
The patrons who had left them there stared.
Leon looked at the broken glass.
“I was not a shelf.”
No one argued.
Barnaby, Sir Reginald, Leon, Yorn, Brenda, Philip, and Spike moved toward the restroom. The hallway was narrow enough that Sir Reginald had to turn sideways, Barnaby had to tuck his elbows, and Leon had to move very carefully to avoid becoming a marble roadblock.
Barnaby cracked the restroom door open.
Inside, Ramses was wrapped around the toilet in what could only be described as a sarcophagus macramé catastrophe. One leg was braced against the sink. One arm was looped through a pipe. His torso had been partially unwound. Several bandages were disappearing into the bowl, and the toilet continued to churn with the ravenous confidence of a machine that had discovered ancient fabric and wanted the rest.
Ramses looked at them with what remained of his dignity.
“Gentlemen. Brenda. Spike. I am going to require some assistance.”
Barnaby’s eye widened.
“Great Neptune’s beard,” he whispered. “He’s been seized by the porcelain kraken.”
Sir Reginald drew his sword.
“Release him, foul ceramic beast!”
“Do not stab the toilet,” Yorn said immediately.
Sir Reginald paused. “Would that worsen the situation?”
“Yes.”
Leon looked down at the plumbing. “Significantly.”
Philip leaned in, then recoiled.
“I don’t like how committed the toilet seems.”
Spike crouched beside the doorframe. “Ramses, on a scale of one to humiliating, where are we?”
Ramses stared at him.
Spike nodded. “Right. Too soon.”
Brenda turned toward Barnaby. “Do you have a plunger?”
Barnaby looked offended.
“This is a tavern, lass. I have eleven plungers.”
“Why eleven?”
“One for each mood of the sea.”
Yorn closed his eyes. “Get Zephyrus.”
Barnaby pulled a conch shell whistle from beneath his coat.
Ramses, still trapped, managed to say, “Please do not let that be the same conch shell.”
Barnaby blew sharply.
The sound echoed through the tavern, out the door, down the street, around Cobblestone Square, and directly into Zephyrus’s workshop, where the wizard-plumber was in the middle of labeling a cabinet PROBABLY SAFE.
He looked up.
“Plumbing distress,” he said. “Or Barnaby is bored.”
He grabbed his staff, a pipe wrench, and a tool belt embroidered with tiny runes that meant licensed where applicable, then vanished in a puff of lavender smoke.
A moment later, he appeared in the Salty Kraken restroom, coughed once, and waved smoke away from his face.
“What seems to be the—”
He saw Ramses.
He stopped.
“Oh.”
The toilet gurgled.
Zephyrus lowered his wrench.
“Oh dear.”
Ramses looked at him.
“Yes.”
“This is layered.”
“Please do not make that observation twice.”
Zephyrus rolled up his sleeves, revealing several arcane tattoos of faucet schematics. One of them appeared to be moving. He crouched beside the toilet and inspected the handle, the pipe, the bandages, the water, and a small greenish glow near the base.
Barnaby leaned in.
“Can ye save him?”
Zephyrus held up one hand. “I need silence.”
Everyone fell quiet.
The toilet gurgled.
Zephyrus listened.
Then he leaned closer.
The toilet gurgled again.
Zephyrus’s expression darkened.
“Ah.”
“What?” Brenda asked.
Zephyrus stood.
“The drain is cursed.”
Ramses shut his eyes.
“Of course.”
“Possessed by the spirit of a vengeful bidet.”
Yorn stared. “A what?”
“A vengeful bidet,” Zephyrus said, as if repeating it made it more normal. “They are rare, petty, and deeply concerned with pressure.”
Philip slowly raised one hand. “I have several questions and want none of them answered.”
“Wise,” Leon said.
Zephyrus tightened a bolt with his enchanted wrench. Purple sparks crackled from the handle. He muttered a spell under his breath, tapped the tank twice with his wand, then drew a glowing sigil over the lid.
The toilet hissed.
Ramses tightened his grip on the sink.
Zephyrus said, “On three.”
Ramses said, “What happens on three?”
“One.”
“Zephyrus.”
“Two.”
“Zephyrus.”
“Three.”
The toilet belched.
Not flushed.
Belched.
A deep, wet, offended sound shook the restroom. The pipes rattled. The mural of Poseidon seemed to lose confidence. The bandages snapped free with a soggy whip-crack, and Ramses tumbled backward into Sir Reginald, who caught him with noble enthusiasm and poor leverage.
They both fell into Barnaby.
Barnaby fell into Leon.
Leon did not fall.
Everyone else stopped against him.
For a moment, the restroom was a heap of pirate, knight, mummy, dignity, and damp linen.
Zephyrus wiped his brow.
“There we are.”
Ramses slowly sat up. His bandages hung loose in several places. His posture was crooked. His pride had clearly left the room to compose itself elsewhere.
“Thank you,” he said solemnly.
Sir Reginald clapped one gauntleted hand to his shoulder. “To aid a friend is never a chore.”
Barnaby sprang upright.
“Aye! And aid calls for nourishment!”
Ramses looked at him cautiously.
“What kind of nourishment?”
Barnaby’s face lit with terrible certainty.
“The Cobb Salad.”
A silence fell.
Yorn turned to him.
“Why?”
Barnaby slapped a hand over his heart.
“Because he has endured a trial of porcelain and linen. He must replenish.”
“With a salad?”
“With the salad.”
Ramses looked uneasy. “I am not especially hungry.”
The room changed.
It was subtle at first.
Brenda’s expression tightened.
Philip looked up sharply.
Sir Reginald’s hand withdrew from Ramses’s shoulder.
Leon’s marble gaze settled on him.
Spike blinked, then leaned back as if disappointed in the air around Ramses.
Ramses looked from face to face.
“What?”
Barnaby stared at him.
“Not hungry?”
“I have just been partially unraveled by a toilet.”
“Aye,” Barnaby said. “And now ye must answer the Cobb.”
“The Cobb?”
“The Cobb,” Sir Reginald said gravely.
Ramses turned toward him. “You too?”
Sir Reginald lifted his chin. “A warrior does not refuse the restorative greens of fellowship.”
Yorn looked uncomfortable but serious. “Ramses, it’s… kind of expected.”
“By whom?”
No one answered.
That was the worst part.
No one knew.
They simply believed it.
“Bring it out!” Barnaby roared.
The tavern erupted into cheers.
Ramses, still damp and partially loosened, was escorted back into the main room and seated at the largest table. The crowd parted for him with solemn respect. Someone patted his shoulder. Someone else whispered, “Brave man.” A tourist stood on a chair for a better view.
Ramses sat down slowly.
“This feels unnecessary.”
Brenda, seated across from him, looked almost hurt.
“Ramses.”
“What?”
“You can’t go through something like that and then just not eat the Cobb Salad.”
“Why not?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Looked at Philip.
Philip looked at Yorn.
Yorn looked at Leon.
Leon looked at Sir Reginald.
Sir Reginald said, “Because it’s dinner.”
Brenda pointed at him. “That.”
Ramses stared at them.
Barnaby clapped three times.
The kitchen door swung open.
A server emerged carrying the Cobb Salad.
It was a little larger than a normal dinner salad, but not by much: a broad white bowl with chopped lettuce, chicken, bacon, egg, tomato, avocado, and blue cheese arranged in tidy rows across the top, with enough dressing to suggest Barnaby considered restraint a coastal weakness.
That was all.
Just a Cobb Salad that had perhaps been assembled by someone who wanted the customer to say, “Well, that’s generous.”
Ramses stared at it.
Then he stared at everyone staring at him.
“This is what the atmosphere was for?”
Barnaby frowned. “Aye.”
“It’s a salad.”
“Correct.”
“A normal salad.”
Barnaby’s frown deepened. “A fine salad.”
Leon stepped forward, voice calm but unmistakably judgmental.
“It would be unfortunate to waste it.”
Ramses turned toward him. “Leon.”
Leon folded his marble hands.
“I am merely observing that it has been prepared.”
“Many things have been prepared.”
“Not for you.”
Ramses looked at Yorn.
Yorn avoided his eyes.
“Yorn.”
Yorn took a slow breath. “It doesn’t seem impossible.”
“That is not the point.”
“It kind of is.”
Spike leaned over the table. “There’s some extra bacon. That’s basically a favor.”
Philip squinted at the bowl.
“It’s a respectable portion.”
“A respectable portion of what?”
“Accountability.”
Ramses stared at him.
Philip did not look away.
Sir Reginald stood tall beside him.
“Take up thy fork, noble Ramses. Let not thy greens go unchallenged.”
Barnaby placed a fork in Ramses’s hand.
It was a normal fork.
That somehow made the expectation worse.
Ramses looked at it.
“Why is everyone acting as though this is ceremonial?”
“For courage,” Barnaby said.
“It is an ordinary fork.”
“And yet it must be used.”
The tavern began to chant.
“Cobb. Cobb. Cobb. Cobb.”
Ramses closed his eyes.
“I have survived ancient curses.”
“Cobb. Cobb. Cobb.”
“I have awakened in a century of blinking machines and voicemail.”
“Cobb. Cobb. Cobb.”
“I have explained modem rental fees to furious strangers.”
“COBB. COBB. COBB.”
Ramses opened his eyes and lifted the fork.
The tavern erupted into cheers.
He took the first bite.
Everyone leaned in.
He chewed slowly.
Swallowed.
Barnaby whispered, “There it is.”
Brenda nodded once, satisfied but not impressed.
Philip clapped once, then stopped because no one else did.
Sir Reginald watched with solemn expectation.
Leon said, “Continue.”
Ramses looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
Leon’s expression remained calm.
“You have begun.”
For the first few minutes, Ramses made respectable progress.
He ate lettuce. He ate tomato. He ate several pieces of bacon. He ate some chicken. He pushed aside a slice of egg, then noticed Brenda watching and reluctantly ate that too.
The tavern watched every bite.
A sailor near the bar kept count.
“That’s nine.”
Someone else said, “Nine meaningful bites or nine total?”
“Total.”
“Ah.”
Ramses lowered his fork.
Brenda immediately sat up straighter.
“You’re pausing?”
“I am gathering myself.”
“You don’t need to gather yourself. It’s a Cobb Salad.”
Ramses stared at her. “I was inside a toilet fifteen minutes ago.”
“Partially,” Philip said.
Ramses turned to him.
Philip did not look apologetic.
“What? You were partially inside a toilet.”
“I was spiritually inside the toilet.”
“That’s not a measurement.”
Spike leaned toward the bowl.
“You’ve got a decent amount left.”
Ramses looked down.
“I have eaten a decent amount.”
Spike shrugged.
“Sure.”
The word did terrible work.
Ramses slowly set the fork down.
“I cannot continue.”
The tavern reacted as if he had slapped a priest.
Brenda’s mouth fell open.
Philip looked away.
Spike whispered, “Wow.”
Leon’s expression did not change, which made the disappointment worse.
Sir Reginald placed one hand over his heart.
“To abandon thy feast…”
“It is too much salad,” Ramses said.
Barnaby leaned forward, both hands on the table.
“Too much salad?”
“Yes.”
“Ramses.”
“I am not saying it is bad.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Again, nobody answered.
Again, that made it worse.
Brenda folded her arms.
“I just thought you’d have more follow-through.”
Ramses stared at her. “With salad?”
“With gratitude.”
“I thanked everyone.”
“But you didn’t finish the Cobb.”
“That is a separate event.”
Philip shook his head quietly.
“No. It became the same event.”
Ramses looked at him. “When?”
Philip looked almost offended by the question.
“When Barnaby said it.”
Yorn leaned forward, speaking quietly. “Ramses, it really isn’t an outrageous amount of salad.”
Ramses stared at him.
“You too?”
Yorn looked down.
“I don’t like that I agree with everyone, but I do.”
Spike pointed at the bowl.
“There’s still bacon.”
“Then you eat it.”
The tavern gasped.
Spike recoiled.
“Me?”
“You seem invested.”
“It’s not my Cobb.”
“It is barely mine.”
Barnaby shook his head.
“Barely yours? After all it’s been through?”
“The salad has been through nothing.”
“It was prepared for ye.”
“Without my consent.”
Leon’s voice dropped slightly.
“The tomatoes were diced.”
Ramses turned toward him in disbelief.
“I refuse to be guilted by tomato labor.”
Ramses looked around the table, his expression tightening with the exhausted patience of someone who had spent centuries learning restraint and was now being tested by chopped poultry.
“Why,” he asked, “is this so important to everyone?”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Barnaby’s eye narrowed. Brenda’s arms tightened across her chest. Philip looked personally offended by the fact that Ramses had asked. Sir Reginald’s gauntlet creaked around the hilt of his sword. Leon’s marble brow lowered by perhaps a millimeter, which from Leon was practically an outburst.
Spike leaned forward.
“Because it just is, Ramses.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the answer.”
“It explains nothing.”
Spike’s voice rose. “It doesn’t have to explain anything! It’s the Cobb Salad, you went through the toilet thing, Barnaby brought it out, we all saw it happen, and now there’s a line you’re supposed to cross!”
“What line?”
“The salad line!”
“There is no salad line.”
Brenda slapped one hand on the table.
“There is now!”
The tavern murmured in firm agreement.
Ramses looked horrified.
At that moment, Dr. Moosington approached from the bar, drawn by the chanting and the unmistakable social pressure thickening around the table.
“All right,” he said warmly, “let’s take a breath. What seems to be the trouble?”
Ramses turned toward him with visible relief.
“Doctor. Thank goodness. Please explain that after a traumatic plumbing incident, it is unreasonable to expect someone to finish an entire Cobb Salad under observation.”
Dr. Moosington looked at Ramses.
Then at the salad.
Then at the watching faces of Barnaby, Brenda, Philip, Yorn, Spike, Leon, and Sir Reginald.
Then back at Ramses.
He adjusted his spectacles.
“Well,” he said carefully, “from a purely medical perspective, one should not force oneself past comfort.”
Ramses closed his eyes in gratitude.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Moosington continued, “However.”
Ramses opened his eyes.
“No.”
“However,” Dr. Moosington said, more gently, “this does appear to be a manageable portion of salad.”
The tavern murmured in approval.
Ramses stared at him.
“You have betrayed medicine.”
“I am not prescribing it,” Dr. Moosington said. “I am simply observing that finishing it would likely not be medically catastrophic.”
Barnaby pointed at the doctor. “Hear that?”
“That is not what he said.”
“It’s close.”
Dr. Moosington looked pained. “It is unfortunately close enough for tavern purposes.”
Brenda nodded. “Three more bites at least.”
“Three?” Ramses said.
Philip frowned. “At least.”
Sir Reginald lifted one gauntleted finger. “Three is not victory. Three is merely apology.”
Leon said, “Five would show sincerity.”
Spike tilted his head. “Six would show growth.”
Barnaby folded his arms. “Finishin’ it would show character.”
Ramses looked around the table.
There was no softness anywhere.
No one glanced away.
No one made room for mercy.
Even Dr. Moosington, who clearly wished to be somewhere else, looked at the salad and said, “Perhaps continue slowly.”
Ramses picked up the fork again.
The tavern leaned in.
He speared lettuce, egg, chicken, and a tomato.
He raised the bite.
Everyone held their breath.
He ate it.
No one cheered.
They simply nodded, as if he had finally stopped embarrassing himself for a moment.
Ramses covered his face.
“I regret surviving the toilet.”
Brenda’s expression hardened.
“That’s dramatic.”
“This entire table is emotionally blackmailing me with chopped lettuce.”
“No one is blackmailing you,” Yorn said.
Ramses pointed weakly at the bowl.
“You are all looking at that salad like it has voting rights.”
At minute twenty-six, Ramses made another push.
He ate six bites in slow succession. The crowd counted each one. Sir Reginald whispered “Good” after the third bite in a tone that sounded less encouraging than corrective. Leon stood in silent judgment. Barnaby paced. Spike kept pointing out “easy parts” of the salad, all of which appeared identical to Ramses because it was simply a salad.
Yorn tried to offer water.
Barnaby intercepted it.
“No distractions.”
“Hydration is not a distraction,” Yorn said.
“It dilutes resolve.”
Dr. Moosington looked as though several parts of his training were fighting.
Then he said, “A small sip after the next bite.”
Ramses stared at him.
Dr. Moosington looked ashamed.
“I don’t know why this has become important to me.”
Brenda said, “Because it is.”
“It should not be.”
“But it is.”
Dr. Moosington nodded with visible distress.
“Yes. That seems to be the situation.”
Ramses ate one more bite.
Then another.
Then half of another, which caused an immediate reaction.
“Half?” Spike said.
“It was too large.”
“It was lettuce.”
“It had chicken.”
“Chicken helps.”
Ramses set down the fork.
Firmly.
“I am done.”
No one cheered.
No one moved.
The tavern’s usual warmth seemed to draw back from him.
Barnaby’s face hardened with the sadness of a captain watching a trusted sailor choose land.
Philip lowered his head.
Brenda stared at the unfinished salad.
Spike whispered, “It’s just sitting there.”
Ramses followed his gaze.
The remaining salad sat there.
Like salad.
That somehow made the silence worse.
Ramses said, “I ate most of it.”
Barnaby shook his head.
“Most isn’t all.”
“That is generally true, yes.”
“And all was the ask.”
“No one asked me.”
“We shouldn’t have had to.”
Brenda pushed her chair back, visibly irritated now.
“You know what bothers me?”
Ramses looked at her warily.
“I suspect I am about to.”
“You sat there while everyone believed in you.”
“I did not request belief.”
“That’s worse.”
Philip nodded, jaw tight.
“It kind of is. Because then we gave it freely.”
“With salad expectations,” Ramses said.
“With friendship expectations,” Philip snapped. “And also salad expectations.”
Spike leaned back, arms folded.
“I’ll be honest, buddy. I’m trying not to look at you differently.”
“You are a cactus.”
“And yet somehow I expected more backbone.”
Ramses stared at him.
Spike held up both hands.
“Emotionally.”
Leon looked at the remaining bowl.
“It is not an intimidating amount.”
Ramses stared at him.
“Leon.”
“It is not.”
“You are a statue.”
“I still understand completion.”
Sir Reginald turned away slightly, jaw set.
“I had hoped to compose a ballad.”
“About me eating salad?”
“About perseverance.”
“You can still compose one.”
“Not honestly.”
Ramses leaned back, exhausted.
“I am sorry. I truly cannot eat any more.”
The silence that followed was obscene.
A tavern full of people who had just watched a mummy get rescued from a cursed toilet could apparently accept that.
They could not accept this.
Barnaby reached forward and slowly removed the normal-sized fork from Ramses’s hand.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I suppose that’s that.”
Ramses looked up.
“Barnaby.”
“No, no. Ye did what ye could.”
The phrase sounded worse than an insult.
Then Barnaby added, harsher, “Which was apparently leave the job unfinished.”
Ramses sat back.
“The job was dinner.”
“Aye,” Barnaby said. “And ye clocked out early.”
Brenda stood.
“I guess we all learned something.”
Ramses looked at her.
“Did we?”
She glanced at the bowl.
“Yes.”
Philip patted his shoulder once, but it was not comforting.
It was final.
“Sometimes our friends show us who they are.”
Ramses closed his eyes.
“I ate most of a salad after being attacked by plumbing.”
“Most,” Spike said.
Ramses opened his eyes.
Spike leaned back. “Just saying.”
Dr. Moosington cleared his throat.
“For what it is worth, I believe stopping was physically permissible.”
Everyone looked at him.
He added, “Morally, I cannot advise.”
Ramses stared.
Dr. Moosington looked away.
The rest of the evening never fully recovered.
Conversation resumed, but softly. Barnaby finished his sea witch story, though with noticeably less gusto. The dart game restarted. Drinks were refilled. Someone tried to laugh too loudly and then seemed to remember the unfinished Cobb Salad and stopped.
The bowl stayed in front of Ramses.
No one moved it.
No one offered to wrap it.
No one suggested saving it for later.
That would have implied the evening had a reasonable solution.
Instead, it sat there beneath the lantern light, a perfectly ordinary bowl containing what remained of a somewhat generous Cobb Salad and the full weight of communal disappointment.
Ramses eventually stood, gathering what remained of his composure and several still-damp bandages.
“I believe I will go home.”
Sir Reginald bowed.
“Rest well, Ramses.”
Then, after a painful pause, he added, “May thy next trial find thee better prepared.”
Ramses gave him a long look.
“My next trial?”
Sir Reginald glanced at the salad.
Ramses said, “Do not.”
Leon stepped aside to let him pass.
“You did endure the plumbing adequately.”
Ramses stopped.
“Adequately?”
Leon looked at the bowl.
“I am recalibrating the evening.”
Ramses kept walking.
Outside, the evening air was cool and mercifully free of lettuce. Ramses stood on the tavern steps for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the Salty Kraken behind him.
Then, through the window, he saw several faces still watching the salad.
Not him.
The salad.
Ramses sighed and began the long walk home.
Behind him, inside the tavern, Barnaby stared at the unfinished bowl.
“What now?” Philip asked.
Barnaby looked at it solemnly.
“We remember.”
The next day, no one mentioned the toilet.
That part was apparently survivable.
But the Cobb Salad followed Ramses everywhere.
At Eternity Cable Services, someone left a fork on his desk with a note that read FOR WHEN YOU’RE READY.
At Shadowed Pages, Elara said nothing, which somehow felt pointed.
At the Salty Kraken, Barnaby had already added a small chalkboard beneath the daily specials:
SOUP OF THE DAY: TOMATO BASIL
COBB SALAD: FINISHABLE BY MOST
Ramses stared at it.
Barnaby stared back.
“Is that necessary?” Ramses asked.
Barnaby’s eye narrowed.
“Was it necessary to leave half a Cobb on my table like a warning?”
“It was not half.”
“Don’t make it worse by negotiatin’ the size of yer failure.”
Even Pierre, passing Ramses in Cobblestone Square, performed a silent reenactment of heroic struggle against a completely ordinary bowl, ending with a slow, tragic refusal of one final invisible bite.
Ramses stopped.
“That is not helpful.”
Pierre placed one hand over his heart, bowed, and mimed pushing away the bite again.
Then he looked Ramses directly in the eyes and gave a small, disappointed shake of the head.
Ramses stood very still.
“You too?”
Pierre nodded once.
Ramses walked away.
For years afterward, the Salty Kraken would speak in hushed tones of the night Ramses escaped the porcelain kraken only to fall before the Cobb.
Barnaby eventually added the Cobb Salad to the permanent menu with a small note beneath it:
FINISHING IT IS A MATTER OF CHARACTER
Ramses continued visiting the Salty Kraken, dignified as ever.
He simply made one thing very clear.
“I will have the soup.”
Barnaby would nod.
“Aye.”
Then, after a long pause, he would ask, “Cup or bowl?”
Ramses would look him dead in the eye.
“Do not test me.”