The Sushi restaurant smelled like seared fish and ginger. The hostess bowed and led them to their private paper walled room. Grigsby kicked off his Belgian loafers and hopped into the cube like a child in a ball pit. Ira looked around nervously, he hated raw fish but was willing to indulge given their victory.
Grigsby demanded their finest Sake and that their dinner be Omakase. “Menus are for the ill-informed sheeple,” he said. The hostess disappeared behind the paper doors. Minutes later they reopened and Ira saw the frame of a wheelchair approach. It was Ryūki flanked by Bunny and Becky Pemberton.
Climbing from the chair, Grigsby ran over and hugged his butler. They spoke in Japanese and then sat. Sofia poured sake for the table and Grigsby stood again to make a toast.
“We feast tonight not out of gluttony, spite, or even victory…no, tonight we celebrate life. Every morning I’m up before sunrise. It’s a ritual to watch that star warm the room where ever I am. There’s a component to this ritual where I acknowledge the people in my life who are alive and thriving. Everyone in this room I consider family and I love you all.” Grigsby raised the ceramic glass with pooling eyes. Cheers erupted for Ryūki.
The first round of sushi rolls was ready. A hyperactive waiter flung open the door singing a Japanese pop song Grigsby knew from his time in Tokyo. In the midst of his dance, the waiter tripped and the plates of sashimi began to fall. Then something miraculous happened. The waiter dropped to the ground like a soldier hitting the deck and caught each plate perfectly. The Pemberton’s applauded. The waiter blushed and disappeared.
“What’s the deal with that guy?” Sofia asked.
Grigsby’s phone interrupted the conversation. It was the CEO of America’s largest broadcasting corporation.
“Skip? Sorry about what happened tonight.”
“Are you kidding me? It was fantastic, the carnage was a magnificent spectacle! Look, I don’t have a lot of time, I wanted to offer you this before any of the other networks do.” Skip continued to pitch Grigsby the idea of having Very Ferry inside a warehouse to satisfy all the safety components. Grigsby cut him off and agreed. “Terrific, I’ll send over the paperwork now.”
Grigsby hung up. Everyone at the table stared, waiting for him to say something. “Like my dear Ryūki, Very Ferry may never die!” The table celebrated. When the commotion settled down the waiter returned with a second platter and more sake.
Ira leaned over to Grigsby, “Who will be the new host?”
Grigsby piled in three rolls at once, giving him the face of a sumo wrestler. He pointed to the waiter. “That lunatic.” Ira smiled and knew it was the right choice.
The night continued on and Ryūki, now very drunk, declared his love for all in slurred Japanese. Grigsby explained that he forgets English when he’s inebriated. Grigsby translated for the table. As the night wound down, a local baker opened the paper door. Grigsby had special ordered a gaggle of Baked Alaskas. Grigsby, now wearing a midnight blue sushi chef hat distributed the desserts while chanting: “Very Ferry may never die! Very Ferry may never die!”