On a particularly dull Saturday afternoon, Greg found Damien sat in the living room with his feet propped up on the ottoman watching the Food Network. As usual, he held a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, pretending he was eating the food the hosts were making. Greg never understood the appeal of watching people make food instead of making it themselves. Pinterest existed for a reason.

“Really, Dames?”

“Hey. I don’t give you shit about the Kardashians,” Damien said, throwing a Dorito at him. “Go away and do something constructive with yourself.”

Greg caught the chip and promptly ate it. “I mean, if you want some really good food, I can whip up something three times as tasty than what they make on these shows.” He posed confidently in front of the screen. “Real talk.”

Before he could make it to the kitchen, Greg felt himself being pulled against the TV screen. Then a second later, he was finally pulled through and into the screen. A flash of static blinded him, and then all was darkness.

The faint sound of a drum roll echoed in a black space. As the drums crescendoed, lights faded into existence to reveal a stage similar to an Iron Chef competition. All of the modern cooking appliances were present on both sides of the stage. The studio audience applauded as the host entered from the wings. He was a poor man’s Ted Allen in Damien’s opinion.

It was then that Greg realized where he was. He was trapped in an episode of Iron Chef or something. Before him stood a beautiful grey granite countertop full of bowls, utensils, and the like. A cold chill ran down his spine as what was about to happen dawned on him.

“Good evening, folks, and welcome to a very special episode of Extreme Cooking Challenge!” the smarmy host said. The audience cheered. “I am your host, Tad Alan.” He walked over to Greg, who looked very nervous. “Tonight, we have a challenger who believes his cooking is on par with our celebrity chefs.” The audience let out a long, collective boo.

A massive screen lowered in front of the stainless steel refrigerators behind them. A projection of Greg’s face appeared on it. “I mean, if you want some really good food, I can whip up something three times as tasty than what they make on these shows. Real talk.” The replay of Greg’s boast caused the audience to jeer.

“Let’s see if Greg Jones can put his ladle where his mouth is!” Tad patted Greg on the back and walked over to the opposite of the stage. “Greg will be facing off against world-renowned chef Heather Sturgis!” The crowd cheered as a happy blonde-haired beauty walked on stage. She waved at everyone and smiled. “Now, you know the rules…”

“No, I don’t,” Greg interjected. “I don’t watch this crap.”

Tad gave him a stern look. “You have fifteen minutes to prep your dish, and forty-five minutes to make it and present it to the judges.”

Greg nodded his head. “Seems simple enough.”

“And if you fail to either complete your dish or fail to impress the judges, your boyfriend will be deep-fried in a vat of oil!”

Tad pointed to above them just offstage. A spotlight revealed Damien, bound and gagged, dangling in a cage over a large vat of boiling oil.

“You sick bastards!” Greg shouted.

Tad brought Heather and Greg together like boxers before a match. “I want a good, clean cooking area, and frequent handwashing. Get ready. Get set. Go!”

Greg and Heather separated and ran to their respective fridges. Greg quickly scanned the ingredients inside: eggs, salmon, chicken, a couple of steaks, various vegetables, milk, and an array of seasonings. He didn’t understand why they would put seasoning in a fridge, but he supposed he should be happy they were there at all. He knew the type of people who watched these shows.

Greg’s eyes darted around from item to item. The possible dishes he could make were numerous. He couldn’t decide what to make. Decision paralysis was always one of his flaws. Frustrated, he grabbed some chicken breasts, some butter, brown sugar, and a handful of seasonings. He rushed back to the countertop and deposited the ingredients. He stared at them and decided he needed some olive oil as well.

On the way back to the fridge, he tried his best not to look at Damien. The air caught in his throat as he heard Damien giving him support through muffled grunts. Even under threat of being deep-fried, his man was supportive. This touched him more than it should have at the moment.

Olive oil acquired, he began making his famous To Die For Chicken. It had better be good; otherwise, Damien is going to die, Greg thought.

He made the brown sugar sauce and preheated the oven to 375. If he only had forty-five minutes to complete the dish, the chicken wouldn’t be baked enough when the timer went off. He’d have to make the temperature hotter and run the risk of drying the chicken out if it’s too hot. For Damien, he’d gladly take that risk. He upped the temperature to 420.

He hated the touch of raw chicken, but he sucked it up long enough to season the chicken before adding the brown sugar sauce. He washed his hands to rid himself of the slippery sensation and slipped the tray of chicken into the oven. It was all over but the baking.

Greg nervously glanced at Heather and saw that she had been done for quite some time. What the hell did she make, soup? He didn’t put it past her; she didn’t have a loved one’s life on the line. Soup was a safe bet. He kicked himself for not thinking of it first.

Forty-five minutes arrived sooner than expected. Tad and Heather flirted with each other while they waited. Greg felt sick to his stomach to watch them. He wished he could have done that with Damien.

“Alright, folks! Time is up! It’s time to see what Heather and Greg cooked up!” Tad said to the audience. They cheered at the mention of Heather’s name, but nothing when Greg was mentioned.

Tad approached Greg first as the chicken was being pulled out of the oven. He frowned when he saw the blackened chicken breasts. “That looked like charcoal, Greg. We could use it to start a campfire.” He gave a condescending chuckle as he waved his hand before his nose. “But, we’ll let the judges sort that out.”

As Tad approached Heather, Greg snuck a glimpse of Damien in the cage. Their eyes met. He saw the hope and disappointment in his lover’s eyes. Greg’s heart sank instantly. He wanted to apologize for failing him. He knew Damien wouldn’t blame him; he knew Greg did his best. Greg also knew that his best wasn’t good enough this time. He felt ashamed for making such a bold boast at Damien’s expense.

“That looks delicious, Heather,” Tad said in an over the top manner. “And now, let’s get this plated and given to our three celebrity judges: RuPaul, Alex Trebek, and Stacey Dash!”

Greg took the breasts from the tray and plated it for the judges. He admitted that they looked a tad bit overdone, but he prayed to the TV Gods, the judges liked them.

Tad gave the judges the plates and said something or another that Greg ignored. All he could do was stare at Damien. Nothing else mattered right now. His mind began scheming ways to free his love should things go south. Should? More likely, when.

Greg heard something that sounded like the sad trumpet from The Price is Right. He knew instantly that his chicken did not pass the test.

“Well, Heather, it looks like you’re tonight’s winner,” Tad said.

“Oh, I’m so happy y’all like it! The recipe’s been in my family for generations and-” Heather said, but Tad cut her short and walked away. She just smiled to save face.

“Aww, geez, Greg,” Tad said with a grin too big to be genuine. “Looks like your dish didn’t quite live up to the hype. You know what that means. Your boy toy is taking a dip in some canola oil.” He turned to the audience and goaded them to cheer for Damien’s demise. “Sad to see it.” He was not.

A clanking of metal sounded from above as Damien’s cage was slowly lowered toward the bubbling vat. His eyes widened in terror as the heat rose to meet him.

“Tonight’s oil is brought to you by Cornelia Canola Oil! It’s light and boils to perfection. Find it at your local grocery store today.”

Greg saw Tad had somehow produced a bottle and snatched it from him. He quickly opened it and splashed its contents in Tad’s face. The audience gasped as Tad’s screams echoed throughout the studio.

With the bottle in hand, Greg ran backstage and assaulted anyone who stood in his way on the catwalk. He frantically searched for the winch controlling Damien’s cage. A beefy man stood between him and the controls. He was going to regret it.

The beefy man beckoned to him. Greg didn’t have to be told twice.

Greg collided with the man’s gut and bounced off into the railing behind him. The chain to Damien’s cage was right behind him. If he could reach it…

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away from the rail, causing him to drop the bottle on the floor. The oil spilled from it, coating the catwalk with canola goodness. This made Greg grin.

Under normal circumstances, Greg would have had no chance of moving a man of Mr. Beefy’s size. The oil made it much easier. Greg spun around and gave Mr. Beefy’s shirt a tug in the right direction and sent him over the rail and down into the bubbly pit below. His screams were almost as delicious as whatever Heather made.

Greg went to the controls and pulled the cage up to the catwalk. He opened the cage and helped Damien out.

They didn’t have time to celebrate. Security was already on its way up to apprehend them. Greg and Damien carefully made their way to the other side of the catwalk and ran down the stairs. The door leading out of the studio was just in front of them. Once they were on the other side, they found themselves back in their living room. Greg shut the door just in time to hear the security guards slam into it. The door locked; there was no way they could enter.

Greg watched the door while he untied Damien. The door remained intact. They were safe now. Damien took a deep breath as his gag was removed.

The TV was still on, showing Rachael Ray talking about EVOO. Without saying a word, Damien shut it off.

They both collapsed on the couch and sighed. Neither said a word for a good five minutes before Greg turned to Damien and asked, “You hungry?” He was promptly trounced with a couch cushion.