Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I poke my head from the shack. There she is, standing in the drizzle, unbothered. My dad’s glorified wolf-girl babysitter, here with the goods. Behind her, two golems push carts stacked high with butcher-wrapped packages, their wheels squeaking on the wet concrete.

”Finally,” I mutter, slithering out to meet them.

very service, standing there in the drizzle like she wasn’t even bothered by the wait. Behind her, a couple of golems push carts stacked with meat, wheels squeaking against the wet concrete.

”Finally,” I mutter, slithering closer.

She doesn’t say anything, just holds out a big bundle wrapped in cloth. I catch the smell before I even see what’s inside. Lamb. Good lamb. The expensive kind that probably costs more than everything else in this whole market combined.

The lamb is gorgeous, vacuum-packed, perfectly marbled, and there’s even a little foil-wrapped bonus pack of chef’s choice organs. The beef is trimmed and portioned. The spices come in heat-sealed bags with warning stickers.

My mouth waters just looking at it.

”Okay,” I nod, tail flicking behind me. ”Cut them up into little pieces and put them on the sticks. Then roll it in the spices, then deep fry it.”

The wolf guard just stares at me, waiting for more.

”Make four batches,” I add. ”Non spicy for the babies. White people spicy for the soft ones. Spicy spicy for people who think they can handle it. And then one batch that’ll make you scream and cry and question your whole life choices.”

She nods, no questions asked, and heads to the back of the shack with the golems trailing behind her, carts rattling the whole way.

For a second, I almost feel bad for abusing the privilege.

I settle back by the counter and wait, tail curled up under me, pretty pleased with myself.

It doesn’t take long.

The second the oil starts popping and that first batch hits the fryer, the smell rolls out like a wave. Garlic, chilli, roasted meat, something sweet underneath it all that I can’t even name. It smacks into the market air and just keeps going, drifting between stalls, wrapping around every nose in a twenty-meter radius.

People stop walking, and stop mid-sentence. Mid-bite of whatever cheap noodle cart garbage they were eating before. Heads turn toward my little shack like I just rang a dinner bell for the whole block.

I grin, and because I’m a little shit, I start fanning the smoke with my wings, pushing it further out into the crowd.

”Come on,” I whisper to no one. ”Smell that, you know you want some.”

A woman near the noodle stall actually abandons her food, wrapper and all, and starts walking toward me like she’s in a trance. Somewhere behind her, two more follow.

I hum to myself, low and satisfied, watching my trap work exactly the way I planned it.

Cherry’s still MIA; maybe she got distracted.

I shake my head and start prepping the grill at the front. The aluminium sheet is already blackened from earlier, but I give it a wipe with an oily rag (sanitation is a state of mind). I skewer the lamb with practised, single-minded focus, layering fat and lean, dusting every stick with spice, then dousing the lot in a sauce so potent it burns my sinuses from three feet away.

The first sizzle is like a shot of heroin straight to the brain. I don’t even notice the crowd gathering until I hear the first ”what’s that?” from a passing vendor.

Word spreads fast in Twawi. The smell alone is enough to summon every bottom-feeder, every orc, and spice addict within a hundred-meter radius. I’m not even open for business, and there are six people in line, all elbowing for a look.

I taste the air again. The mafia guys are back, standing ten meters off with the lemon-lime and cigs, not daring to make eye contact. One of them actually bows when I glance his way.

Is this what power feels like? No wonder my dad is so obsessed.

I glance at my makeshift sign I just drew, drawn in Sharpie on the back of a ramen box.

[Matt’s Genuine Undercity Skewers: So Good It’s Illegal]

That’s not a joke. The City Health Board would actually incinerate this whole stall on sight.

[System: Luckily this is Twawi; if anyone tries to shut you down, I reckon we eat them.]

Cherry re-emerges from wherever she was, face flushed, and she’s covered in glitter and stickers that say things like ”HOT!” and ”EAT ME!”

She’s dressed in a sexy maid outfit.

Oh my god, I want to coil around her and go fuck her hard behind the shack, but I’m respectful, and I have a mission to do.

[System: can I watch?]

no.

She beams at the crowd, then at me, like I’m the only guy at her birthday party.

”You did it!” she says. ”I mean, you really did it! It smells so good! You’re amazing.”

”They are,” I reply, and hand her the first stick, fresh off the grill.

”Wait, hang on, what level of spice can you handle, Cherry?”

”Hmm, medium?”

”Okay, white person it is.”

Cherry looks at me, confused, but she accepts it. She takes a bite of the skewer and instantly looks like she’s about to either drool or jump me. Both are good reactions.

She bites in, and I swear the world stops turning for a second.

”Holy shit,” she says, through a mouthful of lamb. ”You’re a genius.”

She’s not wrong. Damn yeah, wait till she tries grandpa’s recipe.

”Okay, Cherry, can you advertise the shop a bit? ”

”Yep yep! Can do!”

Then the coughing starts.

Somebody makes a noise like they’re dying- this wet, hacking sound, and then another person joins in, and pretty soon it’s a whole chorus of chest-rattling coughs rolling through the crowd like a wave. Eyes are streaming. A guy near the front actually drops to his knees, tears pouring down his face, and I think for a second I’ve actually gassed the entire market.