Chapter 3: A Dish Served Oily

Chapter 3: A Dish Served Oily

The ruined slab of midnight-blue leather lay on the workbench like a body. Elara stared at the jagged, ugly stain, her vision narrowing until it was the only thing in the world. The scent of walnut and chemical solvent filled her nostrils, a flagrant violation of her sacred workspace. Every ounce of her patient, methodical nature had been burned away, leaving behind a core of glacial steel. The boundary had not just been crossed; it had been obliterated.

Maya came up behind her, her breath catching in a sharp, furious gasp. “No. He didn't.” Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. “That’s it. I’m going to go out there and I’m going to break his goddamn hands so he can never stain, burn, or touch anything ever again.”

She made a move for the door, but Elara’s voice, quiet and deadly, stopped her cold.

“No, Maya.”

“Lara, he destroyed the hide for The Wyvern’s Embrace! This isn’t just an accident, this is a message!”

“I know,” Elara said, finally looking away from the ruined leather. Her intelligent eyes, usually warm with artistic passion, were now chips of obsidian. “And breaking his hands is too quick. It’s too simple. He won’t learn anything from that.”

Maya turned, a confused scowl on her face. “Learn? Who cares if he learns? I want him to hurt.”

“Oh, he’ll hurt,” Elara promised, a thin, cold smile touching her lips for the first time that day. It was a terrifying sight. “He needs a lesson in consequences. A lesson in respect for other people’s spaces and property. And I think the best way to teach him… is to use his own curriculum.”

Her gaze drifted to the corner of the small galley kitchen, where the offending Dutch oven sat, still unwashed, a monument to Gavin’s arrogance.

The opportunity came late that night. As predicted, Gavin had gone out, his loud laughter echoing back through the twilight as he joined a group of rowdy Faire performers heading for a bonfire and a keg of ale. He wouldn't be back for hours.

The air inside the RV was still and heavy with unspoken purpose. Outside, the distant sound of a fiddle and the percussive rhythm of hand drums provided a surreal soundtrack to their conspiracy. Elara moved with a chilling calm, pulling on a pair of thick rubber gloves.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Maya asked, her earlier rage now honed into a gleeful, anticipatory focus.

“First,” Elara said, picking up the greasy Dutch oven, “we need more ammunition.”

They scraped the congealed fat and pork remnants from the pot into a bowl. They added the dregs from a frying pan Gavin had used for bacon that morning and left in the sink. They poured in the rancid oil from a jar of sun-dried tomatoes he’d finished and abandoned on the counter. The resulting concoction was a thick, foul-smelling slurry of grease and grime.

Maya watched, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and admiration. “Okay, this is… this is truly disgusting. I’m so proud of you right now.”

Elara didn’t smile. She was in the zone, her focus as absolute as if she were tooling the most intricate pattern. She carried the bowl into the back of the RV, to the small sleeping alcove that Gavin had claimed as his own. His personal sanctuary. It was, in typical hypocritical fashion, meticulously tidy compared to the casual way he treated the shared spaces. His clothes were folded, his cheap novels stacked, his bed made with military precision.

“He complains about my scraps,” Elara murmured, more to herself than to Maya, “while he keeps his own space pristine.” She dipped a rag into the greasy slurry. “Let’s bring a little of his workshop into his bedroom.”

With the same precise strokes she would use to apply antique paste to leather, she began to paint. She coated the zipper of his favorite sales vest, ensuring the grease would sink deep into the teeth. She ran the filthy rag along the collars of his boisterous, attention-grabbing shirts, leaving dark, oily stains where they would rub against his neck. She didn't just dump the mess; she applied it with an artist's touch, ensuring maximum, lingering contamination. Each swipe was a measured response to his every condescending remark, every act of dismissive sabotage.

Maya, meanwhile, was tasked with the Dutch oven itself. She took the pot, now heavy with greasy, lukewarm water from the bottom of the sink, and carried it to Gavin’s bed. With a grunt of effort and a wicked grin, she upended it, soaking the mattress and duvet in a tide of filth. The smell alone was an act of violence.

For the final touch, Elara took the empty, soot-blackened pot. She placed it dead center on Gavin’s pillow. A dish served oily. A centerpiece for his nightmare.

They worked in silence, cleaning their tools and disposing of the evidence with practiced efficiency. When they were done, Gavin’s alcove was a greasy, stinking hellscape, a perfect reflection of the ugliness he had brought into their lives. They retreated to their own side of the RV, turned off the main lights, and waited.

It was well after midnight when he returned. They heard him stumbling outside, shushing a companion he was leaving at the door, then fumbling with the RV keys. The door swung open, and he lurched inside, reeking of ale and woodsmoke.

“Nighty night, you crazy witches,” he slurred with a smug chuckle, clearly pleased with himself.

He shuffled toward the back, kicking off his boots. He didn't even turn on the light in his alcove. There was a soft squelch as he sat on the edge of his bed, followed by a moment of confused silence.

Then, a roar of pure, unadulterated fury.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

The lights flickered on, revealing him standing there, his hands dripping with greasy water, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. His eyes darted around the alcove, taking in the stained clothes, the soaked mattress, and finally, the black Dutch oven sitting on his pillow like a king upon a filthy throne.

He spun around, his face purple. “YOU!” he bellowed, stalking toward Elara, who sat calmly on her bunk, watching him. “You did this! You crazy bitch, you ruined my bed!”

Maya was on her feet in an instant, positioning herself between him and Elara, a solid, immovable shield. “Careful, Gavin. One more step.”

But Elara held up a hand, stopping Maya. She looked Gavin dead in the eye, her expression unreadable.

“Yes,” she said, her voice clear and steady in the tense silence. “I did. You left your greasy pot on my machine. You ruined my materials with your stain. You seem to have trouble understanding where your space ends and mine begins.” She gestured with her chin toward his violated alcove. “So I made it simple for you. I put your mess back in your space. Now you understand.”

For a moment, he was speechless, his brain struggling to compute this reality. He had been the one in control, the one who set the terms and dished out the casual cruelty. He never imagined it would be turned back on him with such cold, poetic precision.

“You’re insane,” he finally sputtered, pointing a trembling, greasy finger at her. “This is… this is crazy! I’m… I’m kicking you out! This partnership is over!”

A real, genuine smile finally broke through Elara’s icy composure. It was sharp and liberating.

“You don’t have to,” she said, standing up. “We already are. Consider this our two weeks’ notice.”

His jaw worked, but no sound came out. He was a bully who had just had his own tactics used against him, and his entire world was short-circuiting. With a final, incoherent scream of rage that was more animal than human, he turned, grabbed his keys, and stormed out of the RV, slamming the door so hard a jar of dye fell from a high shelf and shattered on the floor.

In the ringing silence, Elara and Maya looked at each other. The air was thick with the stench of Gavin’s ruin, but for the first time in months, it felt clean. The final thread of their toxic partnership hadn’t just been cut; it had been drenched in grease and set on fire. There was no going back.