The Beginning

Kristoph Gavin was a great fan of sandwiches.

He liked going home and placing out all the different ingredients on the counter.

He liked being able to look at them all, nice shiny packets or neatly re packaged ones, foodstuffs waiting for him to deign to pick them.

He loved to pick and choose his fillings. It was a little secret thrill of his. As if he could play at being god - choosing the laws and customs of a newly established country of which he was the grand creator and that a ham based product might be better for the fledgling government compared to that nice French pâté he'd come across last Tuesday.

It was all about choice.

Kristoph Gavin wasn't going to flatter anyone intentionally if could help it, but he always made the right choice.

To start with he chose his favourite knife. It was a brand less item he'd bought from a man with a very agreeable sense of taste and a most interesting enjoyment of stuffing animals in his spare time.

It shined as he lifted it from the block and placed it on the counter beside his breadboard.

In the draw below the counter, he began to open it very slowly, enjoying the slow revealing of his favourite lunchtime attire.

Donning white apron, he tied it loosely about his person and of course sans suit jacket rolled up his sleeves to a suitable yet not ridiculous level.

The chef's hat he placed so reverently on his head plumped up nicely and he couldn't help but imagine how professional he must look.

He looked down at his kingdom, just waiting to be structured.

Now to work.

Steadfast bread – the cornerstones of a decent sandwich – light, soft to the touch, pure white with the crusts cut off to a half centimetre.

Perfect.

Neatly he took two slices and placed them on the breadboard in front of him, vigorously scrubbed from last night's veal chops.

He redid the ties of the bag and replaced it in the bread cabinet.

He crossed his kitchen to the oven and knelt before it. Spinning a few dials until the grill began to warm.

Sometimes Kristoph Gavin liked his sandwiches hot.

Returning to his task he too an overview of his current stock.

Rearranging a few sandwich fillers he'd bought for the sake of a decent two for one deal he frowned in concentration, delighting in his minds processing.

Certainly the picked onions and the sauerkraut had to go – it was an inappropriate time of year and certainly it was too cold for pickled beetroot.

Those jars were returned to the jaw compartment of his refrigerator.

He picked up a pot that's label was face away from him.

Kristoph Gavin read one word: Coleslaw.

Kristoph sniffed at the coleslaw in mild disgust. He'd taken a very decent offence of the stuff in the past few days. He didn't know why it was called what it was and the mixture that he was never certain would be right for him, would there be too much onion, too vinegary… not enough carrot? The irregularity and the constant living in fear of an incorrect dosage, it was unacceptable. He hated it.

Not to mention he had a strong suspicion that in his new country of which he was god coleslaw was one of the main reasons for gambling, drugs and vagrancy all mixed together with a healthy egg based concoction of no morals.

That was a certain no. He put it carefully back in the fridge and closed the door, giving a small shudder at the thought of such impurity.

Then taking a small melodramatic pause, Kristoph Gavin looked up at the camera and broke the fourth wall by saying 'tune in next week to see which type of butter I shall be using'

Pushing his glasses up onto his nose he cursed himself for being caught up in a ridiculous plot device.

End Book 1

God, him and me both
I'll be back for this one, no fear.