When Lemieux'n hits your eye like a big pizza pie that's a sign you're at the wrong restaurant we only serve sandwiches here

"Flippity heck, what am I going to do about this?"

That voice? It belonged to the hero of our story, one Steve Lemieux. Now before you get any ideas, there's something I should clear up. Saying that Steve is the hero of this story is like saying that rectal polyps are the hero of your asshole. Yes, you're aware they exist, but you try not to think too much about them because it's not the sort of thing that polite people spend their brain power on. And, just like ol' Steve here, they're benign.

As far as you know.

Might want to get those checked out.

"Who is he talking to?"

Paul was the newest member of the crew at LeMoo's, and one of three gathered outside the door to their boss' office. When news broke during the most recent episode of ReVival that Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke had secured a Sketti Bucket sponsorship with the promotion, it fell on Paul to break the news to his new employer. He had hair like roasted broccoli, which I admit doesn't say a whole lot to set him apart from everyone else his age, but it was also his most defining characteristic. So. Shrug emoji, I guess.

The rest of the gathered mass shared an awkward glance, and Paul looked at each of them in turn.

"What?" he said. "What is it? Who is he talking to in there?"

Angela had been with LeMoo's since the days when Steve's father owned the restaurant, and had all the hallmarks of “stereotypical sassy waitress” to show for it. A platinum blonde bullfrog with a heart of tin, and a build like week-old pancakes. All pan, no cake.

The AntiSykes.

The universe demands balance, you see. For every sad boy thiccums there exists, must there also be a human 2x4 with the personality of a rabid porcupine.

“Kid,” she said, her voice like a rockslide with a two-pack-a-day habit, “This is one you’re just gonna have to figure out for yourself.” # There were many photos on Steve’s desk, but none with more prominence than the one of him as a child standing in front of the store besides his father, the late Leland Lemieux.

Oh, Leland wasn’t dead. This isn’t one of those stories. It’s just that Leland’s watch was always seven minutes slow, and he didn’t believe in owning a cellphone. He almost pulled the trigger on buying a Jitterbug a year ago, but the commercial had a strange man with facepaint talking about a jet, and something about that just seemed a bit off.

Plus, that wasn’t the photo Steve was talking to.

The office was small, fairly cramped even by restaurant standards, but special care had been made to clear enough space for a large framed poster. It depicted a man who looked a little like Ben Affleck, if Ben Affleck ran on TRT and fistfuls of HGH instead of Dunkin. He wore a red, white, and blue singlet and had an action hero haircut right out of 1989.

His name was Laser, and he was the greatest of the American Gladiators.

“Oh, buns and beans, Laser,” Steve whimpered. “Whatever am I going to do about that gosh-darn Dolores?”

Laser didn’t answer.

At least, not this time. # Professional wrestling was a lot like American Gladiators, Steve thought. There were brightly colored outfits, a lot of very muscular people doing athletic things (though none as talented as Laser), and sometimes those people would stand next to someone with a microphone and talk.

But with Mike Adamle unavailable, Larry Csonka not willing to return his phone calls, and all of the kitchen staff having had sudden and spontaneous family emergencies arise, Steve was left with little choice but to interview himself.

Or rather a microphone had been crudely duct-taped to a life-sized cardboard cutout of himself from last fall’s “Beef-o-ween” promotion.

The real Steve didn’t have any of those fancy wrestling tights, because they don’t make them in his size. His size of course being “geometrically impossible.”

“Greetings and salutations, friends and fellows,” he began. “I’m Steve Lemieux, and…” # The rest of that clip would never make its way to the PRIME roster, because when you’re Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke a little light corporate espionage isn’t out of the question.

Dolores stood in front of her own desk at Sketti Bucket headquarters, leaning casually against the rich mahogany surface. Her hands were folded together in front of her. The lights had been dimmed to give the entire scene a vague sense of menace.

“At Sketti Bucket we use only the finest ingredients sourced from the finest vendors,” she said, an echo of her first commercial. “Because when you’re at Sketti Bucket, your family… is our family. And family takes care of their own, through thick and thin, for better or for worse.

“Do you know who’s not family?

“Steve Lemieux.

“Oh, sure, I know he looks so sweet and innocent, but don’t let that fool you. That man would slice you up and serve you still bloody and raw to his customers at the first chance he got.

“So here’s my proposition to you, PRIME. Fifty-thousand dollars to the person who takes Steve Lemieux out of that game at your Culture Shock manhunt.”

She sighed, smiling, and cocked her head to the side.

“And if that person happens to be Cancer Jiles…”

Her face began to flush.

“Well then Pasta Mommy Dolores might just have to give you a little sugar to go with all… that… salt.”

Gross.

“We’ll see if we can’t get your sketti all wetty and see if we can make some of that… special alfredo sauce together.”

Look, I’m not proud of that line.

Okay, yes I am. # “...so I’m going to do my very best, because I’m Steve Lemieux.”

Oh look, it’s this idiot again.

“After all, that’s what my name means. Steve Lemieux. Steve ‘the best’. Or you can just call me Steve Best.”

Oh.

Wait.

Oh no.

OH NO.

Hold the fuck on for a minute.

“And I will be the best in PRIME, just like at LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches we have the best sandwiches in beautiful Peoria, Illinois!”

I said hold the fuck up for a minute, Steve!

So.

Uhh…

No relation.

“And I’m going to be the best at PRIME Culture Shock, so I can be just like my favorite American Gladiator…”

Right, yes. Laser. We get it.

Maybe Dolores isn’t so bad after all.