My new Fungalverse standalone novel A Murder Most Fungal releases in just a few weeks, so what better time to get another taste of the story itself! Last month, the fine folks at Grimdark Magazine revealed the first chapter (read it here), and now I’m very excited to show off chapter two. Scroll down to read the second chapter in its entirety before the book launches on June 16th.
This excerpt is part of the A Murder Most Fungal virtual book tour. Check out the full tour here, and click here to see a list of 5 inspirations for the book!
🍄 BOOK INFORMATION 🍣
Title: A Murder Most Fungal: A Fungalverse Novel
Series: The Hofmann Report #1.5
Author: Adrian M. Gibson
Cover Artist: Katerina Belikova (Instagram)
Typography/Cover Design: Adrian M. Gibson
Genres: Science Fiction / Fantasy / Urban Fantasy / New Weird / Fungalpunk / Crime Thriller
Release Date: June 16, 2026
Available formats: Hardcover, paperback & eBook
🍄 PREORDER LINKS 🍣
Preorder A Murder Most Fungal in eBook
Preorder A Murder Most Fungal numbered/signed hardcovers
Preorder The Hofmann Report 2-book bundle
🍄 BOOK BLURB 🍣
Return to the mushroom metropolis of Neo Kinoko, and immerse yourself in a sinister world of gangsters, blackmail, and fungal cuisine.
The knives are out in this fast-paced, standalone Fungalverse novel. Set several months after the events of the award-winning Mushroom Blues, this side story combines the culinary wonder of Jiro Dreams of Sushi, the kitchen chaos of The Bear, and the explosive tension of Hong Kong crime thrillers.
In the aftermath of the “Fuyu Massacre,” riots and whispers of revolution continue to plague the Hōpponese capital of Neo Kinoko. As a result, the iron grip of a foreign military occupation tightens day by day. Amidst this, Pocho Jiro, a once-renowned makizushi chef, has chosen to cook for Duncan MacArthur—the Coprinian Military Governor in Hōppon—as his personal chef… and indentured servant.
A run-in with dangerous fungal gangsters sets off a chain of events that Pocho cannot escape from. He’s left with two choices: Assassinate MacArthur, or watch his beloved sister die in front of his eyes. Will Pocho take up his knife and prepare MacArthur’s final meal?
🍄 CHAPTER 2: Bad Service 🍣
As a chef, it is immensely frustrating when a customer does not understand your intent, let alone your skill and understanding of ingredients, as well as how to prepare and serve the final result properly. If I’ve served someone a dish in a certain way, it is because that is the way I meant to serve it.
—AN EXCERPT FROM POCHO’S DIARY
POCHO AND MORI stand side by side at the edge of the oval mushroom table, hovering over Duncan MacArthur and the other seated humans, most of whom don’t look impressed by the fungals who have interrupted their conversation. Their glazed expressions speak volumes. They only tolerate these meals (as much as Pocho tolerates their pungent human musk) because MacArthur requires them to attend, whereas MacArthur exclusively eats food that Pocho and his chefs prepare.
For what reason, I cannot comprehend, Pocho thinks.
Yes, his food is delicious—the best in all of the archipelago—but after more than a year of Hōpponese cuisine, he has expected MacArthur to pine for a taste of his homeland at least once. (Besides the newly imported longhorn beef, Pocho has yet to serve anything even remotely Coprinian-inspired.)
“MacArthur-shen,” Pocho says to the Governor in stilted Coprinian. He then spreads his hands out, brings them together in a clap, and bows at the waist. “Good evening to you and-and… esteemed guests.”
Pocho’s cheeks flush as he stumbles over the human language. He picks at his thumbnails behind his back, glad when MacArthur stands up and towers over him, his baritone voice booming:
“Pocho, Mori, you are already familiar with my staff, so they need no introduction.” MacArthur casually waves a hand at the glowering faces of his subordinates: The Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Dick Sutherland, Chief of Communications, Colonel Sidney Forrest, Chief of Military Intelligence, Major General Charles Wilby, and his Land Reform Advisor, Isaac Ladensky. MacArthur makes a dismissive gesture at the four old men awkwardly kneeling or sitting crisscrossed around the table, “Oh, enough of your bloody theatrics! You’re dampening the mood and distracting me from acquainting the chefs with my actual esteemed guests.”
MacArthur beckons the balding and red-headed strangers to rise. The former looks less than pleased to oblige, struggling to get up from his button mushroom cushion, and MacArthur begins to introduce him before he is even on his feet.
“This is Alfred Dullas, a diplomatic agent from Coprinia’s Foreign Ministry,” MacArthur says. Without a word, Dullas bows slightly, his paunch preventing him from lowering any further. MacArthur continues: “And his associate is Frederick Nicolson, one of the ministry’s top diplomatic lawyers.”
Frederick buttons his crisp gray suit jacket, then places his arms by his sides and bows at a ninety-degree angle, sending a subtle gust of sandalwood perfume across the table. “Pocho-shen, Mori-shen,” he says in near-flawless Hōpponese, which leaves Pocho’s mouth slightly agape. “It is an honor for us to be here, and even more so to taste the food of one of this nation’s most famous kyosen.”
“The honor is ours,” Pocho replies in his mother tongue. “You are most wel—”
“Enough with the hophead chit-chat,” MacArthur interrupts. “Only Coprinian at this table, understood? Anyways, these two are here on a scouting mission for an upcoming diplomatic delegation. Testing the waters, as it were, before the rest of the crew arrives.”
“That is correct,” Dullas confirms, rubbing his thin white mustache. He removes wire-frame glasses and cleans the lenses with a cloth from his pants pocket. “Though from what I hear, the state of affairs in Neo Kinoko after the Fuyu Massacre last winter are— How shall I put this? Less than desirable…”
Pocho feels the unease in the room, and part of him wants to pull Mori away, back to the relative safety of the kitchen.
Instead, MacArthur kneels down on his cushion, and gestures for Dullas and Frederick to do the same—the toadstools deflate under the weight of the humans, releasing an earthy scent. “That was an unfortunate series of events, yes, but we have the situation under control. CPAN operations have consistently tamped down riots and rebel activity, and any further insurrections or public disturbances have been driven into the ground, where those rebellious buttons belong.”
Pocho turns to glance out the panoramic window behind him, where his home city sprawls out into the distance. Even during this light dusk rain, he can see the dominating silhouette of the Mother Mushroom against the purples and pinks of the setting sun. And rising into the sky to match the divine mile-high fungus—the embodiment of Mother Chikyu herself—are multiple plumes of black smoke, the results of anti-CPAN fires and handmade bomb attacks.
But tucked away in this ninety-story arcology, surrounded by military- and human-occupied neighborhoods, MacArthur and his closest aides are safe from the realities of the city. The fungals had once called this building “Matsua’s Stem,” as it reaches high into the goddess’ sky. But MacArthur was quick to take it over. He saw its strategic advantage, renamed it “The Tower” in an unoriginal manner befitting the Coprinians, and now lords over Neo Kinoko from above.
Liar, Pocho thinks. But if my brethren are still putting up a fight out there, what am I doing here, feeding the leader of our enemy…?
Frederick clears his throat and massages the copper-blonde stubble on his well-defined jaw. “Well, regardless of the perceived success of your operations, we’ll still need to review CPAN’s records.” He raises one eyebrow, warm light from the fungal lamps above catching on his green irises. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“Not at all,” MacArthur responds with a forced smile. “Isn’t that right, Forrest?”
The Chief of Military Intelligence scrunches his pointed nose, causing his forehead to wrinkle beneath a receding widow’s peak of graying brown hair. “I will have my office prepare the paperwork,” Forrest says in his nasally tone. “Though it might take a few days.”
“That is quite all right,” Dullas answers in a warbly tenor. “Your help is appreciated.”
“Now, enough dilly-dallying,” Ladensky spits out with a scowling expression that highlights the deep creases on his pointed face. The Land Reform Advisor plays with the silverware placed in front him. “Even if the food is dreadful, I’m rather starving.”
Pocho clenches his teeth. I wouldn’t mind punching that man in his hooked nose, or ripping off his stupid protruding ears.
MacArthur slaps the tabletop with a thwack. The force sends vibrations through the flat mushroom cap, down its stem and up into Pocho’s mycelium, making his entire body tense up. “How many times have I told you all,” the Governor snaps, “that in order to understand our enemy we must think like our enemy. But not only that: Taste, sense, be. That is why we have fungals cooking for us—they are our insight, our greatest asset!”
“I swear to the One God, must this go on?” Dick Sutherland retorts. “Sir, I think we all understand what you are trying to do, but must we continue to torture ourselves with the bizarre fare of these damned molders?”
Pocho winces at the use of the fungal slur…
“Manners, Dick!” MacArthur shouts, causing everyone present to flinch. “It’s glaringly obvious how unrefined your tastes are, but do not allow your personal preferences to color your opinions of those far more talented than you.” MacArthur cocks his head at Pocho and Mori with a knowing smirk.
Sutherland’s posture sinks, his saggy neck folding into the collar of his forest green military jacket. The old Chief of Staff fiddles with the polished medals that adorn his jacket, but the reputation he earned to receive them clearly means little to the Governor.
Charles Wilby scoffs, which jiggles the jutting jowls on his weak jaw—it is a guttural sound that makes Pocho grimace. “And what of the Massacre, hm? Does that stain on our presence in this nation not justify our disdain of all the damned gillies?” The chubby Chief of Communications sniffs, flattening his graying combover and adjusting his awkward kneeling position. “You prohibit their religious practices. Yes, fine. You outlaw their festivals and celebrations. All well and good. But those bloody gillies have shamed our nation enough in the past, so best we get rid of the fungals, once for and all! Just be done with it, and do what we came do these bloody islands to do.”
Pocho’s fingernails dig into his palms—all he wants to do is wrap mycelium around Wilby’s stupid, sagging neck. {How dare he! I am fed up with these ungrateful meatbags!} he projects to Mori as black spores begin to cloud beneath his gills. They share a loaded look.
{Let it go, kyosen,} she replies, placing a hand on his upper arm.
Pocho sighs and relaxes, his taut frame unwinding like a spool of mycothread. She is right—any reaction at all would only result in disaster for me and my chefs…
“Excuse m-m-me, MacArthur-shen?” Pocho stutters, before anyone else can steer the conversation in a more upsetting direction. “Apologies for interrupt your… discussion, but food is getting cold.”
“Right! On with the meal,” MacArthur demands. He snaps his fingers at the eighth member of the group, Wyatt Wilson, who stands next to the window but approaches at his boss’ signal. “Wyatt, dear boy, have you tasted all of the dishes?”
Wyatt straightens the sleeves of his ill-fitting black button-up, then pushes his rectangular glasses up his nose as he sneers at Pocho and Mori. MacArthur’s “food taster” carries his slender physique awkwardly—like a newborn fungal-antlered deer on shaky legs—as he rushes to the Governor’s side. “Yes, sir. Each dish has been tested and approved for consumption.”
“Excellent!” MacArthur claps Wyatt on the back, causing the lanky, blonde-haired thirtysomething to lurch forward. Wyatt catches himself on the brim of the table’s cap, then scurries back to the window. Oblivious to his taster’s embarrassment, MacArthur turns to Pocho: “Tell us, chef, what will we be feasting upon this fine spring evening?”
Pocho nods vigorously. “Yes, Governor.” He then reaches out to the kitchen staff across the fungalnet: {Hands!}
On his cue, his chefs bring out the food, placing soup bowls and empty plates in front of each guest, and organizing the serving dishes across the middle of the table. A menagerie of intoxicating smells wafts up from the spread, commingling with the ever-present, apricot-sweet scent of the arcology itself. The six chefs quickly line up next to Pocho and Mori and bow, then walk off to the kitchen, but not before Pocho catches a dirty look that Dashi aims at the humans.
Pocho ignores it and approaches the table, gesturing to the bountiful banquet. “Before you is first course that team and I have prepared with passion and… um… patience.” He points at the handmade ceramic soup bowls, steam rising from the fragrant broth within. “To begin, soup of fermented bean broth with foraged mushrooms, simmered together for hours to… bring out rich flavor, and last… garnished with spring onions.”
Pocho pokes at his fingernails behind his back, struggling with the intricacies of the challenging human language. Mori steps in, as her comprehension of Coprinian has progressed much faster than Pocho’s:
“Along with the soup starter, we have a pan-fried mushroom and seaweed salad, marinated in sweet soy sauce. We also have deep-fried shrimp dumplings with a savory mushroom sauce for dipping; Coprinian longhorn beef cuts, flash seared on our tinder fungus grill; yellow fungaljack served in three variations, burnt, blanched, and fresh yuzimi with the skin removed; and finally, Pocho-shen’s centerpiece: Fresh-caught fungalfin tuna, served in five variations, fresh kinokomae and yuzimi, rice balls, blanched, and a yuzimi rose.” Mori bows deep, her cap nearly touching the floor. “Please, enjoy.”
The CPAN top brass look repulsed at the food laid out before them, but Frederick has an inquisitive look on his freckled face.
“Oh dear…,” Dullas bemoans, appearing somewhat ill. “The idea of eating a fungal fish, let alone one that is raw…”
Forrest snickers, and even that sounds nasally coming from him. “Trust me, it doesn’t taste any better than it looks.”
Pocho squirms, unsure of how these newcomers will react to their first impression of Hōpponese cuisine. “First course dishes are to share, so please… um… serve yourselves. Each of you have forks and knives, as is… customary in Coprinia.” Pocho has learned the hard lesson to place human utensils on the table for everyone except MacArthur, who insists on using chopsticks.
“Excuse me, chef,” Frederick pipes in with two fingers raised. He glances at MacArthur. “May I ask for chopsticks as well, please? I’d like to give it a try.”
“Y-y-yes, of course, sir,” Pocho says. {Saito, bring chopsticks for Nicolson-shen!}
As Saito comes over with Frederick’s chopsticks, Pocho whispers a traditional Hōpponese prayer for the meal, “Karu, The Shapeshifter, thank you for the gift of your seeds, spores, and bountiful harvests. Ame, The Typhoon, thank you for the offerings from your rivers and oceans. Matsua, The Brightness Above, thank you for the light your sun provides. And Mother Chikyu, blessed Mother Mushroom, thank you for giving life to this world that we inhabit.” He looks over the guests. “I offer you this food, and may you receive—”
“Enough with your blasphemous invocations,” Ladensky snarls. He places his hands together at the edge of the table, leans forward, and closes his eyes. “Bless us, One God, and these gifts which we are about to receive. By your bounty, and the food provided by your grace, be present at our table, and grant that we may feast in paradise with thee. May it be so.”
“May it be so,” the other humans repeat. Pocho realizes they are all mimicking Ladensky’s posture, hands pressed and eyes closed.
Stunned, Pocho simply says, “Manmeshi”—please, enjoy your meal—and turns to go back to the kitchen. He wants this night to be over already.
But before he reaches the pass, Dullas’ irritating voice rings out, penetrating every corner and gill of the dining room. “Chef! A request, if I may?”
Pocho stops in his tracks and returns to the table. “What may I help you with, Dullas-shen?”
Dullas points to the plate of beef cuts, his eyebrows contorted. “I’m afraid the beef is undercooked, if you could take it back to the kitchen.”
Undercooked?! Dashi prepared it perfectly!
“But—” Pocho begins, but MacArthur cuts him off.
“No buts, chef! Coprinians tend to like to their beef more on the well-done end of the spectrum.”
“Sir, this is ideal way to serve,” Pocho objects, furiously picking at his thumbnail. “Team did dozens of taste tests.”
“I rather liked it,” Wyatt mutters from the window.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Wyatt!” MacArthur blurts. “It’s your first time cooking proper cow for us, so I will let it slide. Now, take it back to the kitchen, get it right, and no more bloody mistakes!”
Pocho scoops up the beef cut dish and leaves. As he walks aways, his fingers clenching the dish, Wilby calls to him: “And while you’re at it, bring a pot of tea—not that flavorless herbal garbage you fungals are so fond of, though! A strong black tea, like Coprinian breakfast, served with fresh milk!”
The closer Pocho gets to the kitchen, the more jet-black spores pour from his gills.
* * *
{DASHI-JERO,} POCHO projects to his grill chef as he storms back into the kitchen. {Refire these beef cuts!}
“What?!” Dashi impulsively exclaims out loud. {What the hells do you mean ‘refire’? These were cooked exactly how we’d decided!}
Pocho drops the plate next to Dashi’s grill and it lands with a dramatic clack on the counter. {The uncultured meatbags prefer their meat well-done… Well-done! What a disgrace!}
All of the chefs are gathered around the grill now, drawn to the typhoon of emotion emitted by both Pocho and Dashi.
“What is happening?” Hanaya asks, his burly fists perched on his round hips.
{No more speaking out loud,} Pocho warns. {The red-headed foreigner speaks fluent Hōpponese.}
Mori taps her foot and crosses her arms, her frustration evident to the entire group. But, as always, she responds with reason: {Damitare, who cares what the gaigai’s preferences are? Refire the dish and let us get on with this service.}
{Fuck them!} Dashi blasts across the net. {Those humans plot and scheme about how to control, tokill, our people, and here we are worrying about how they want their godsdamned meat cooked!}
The grill chef’s eyes are wide, nearly popping out of his skull, and Pocho realizes his yellow irises are barely visible. Oh no…
{Dashi, are you taking drugs again?}
Dashi cackles. {Fuck you, Pocho. Over one year we’ve been trapped here with them. You promised us an opportunity, Pocho—a return to the glory days before the war. But what we got instead was a prison with these humans as our guards…} He twirls his hand around. {And oh, what a well-stocked and beautiful prison it is!}
{And what else would you be doing, Dashi?} Masa retorts, her normally smiling expression downturned into a pout. {At least here, we have a chance.}
Saito leans against the salad station counter and shrugs. {I agree. I was on my last stem when Pocho found me.}
{Dashi has a point, though…,} Bon thinks, paired with an audible grunt. {Sure, we’re alive, but what kind of a life is it, serving the gaikamu who subjugate our people? We are glorified slaves!}
Pocho scoffs. Slaves? How dare he assume I did anything other than think of his best interests!
Mori sighs. {And what, Bon? You would rather scrounge on the streets?}
{I would rather struggle every day than be a servant to the enemy any longer,} Dashi fires off. {MacArthur and his lackies eat like that day after day, meanwhile our people are dying of hunger!}
This triggers grunts of approval from many of the chefs.
{Ayai, enough! All of you!} Pocho sends out a surge of anger that stops everyone in their stems. {This job allows each of you to survive in a situation where so many of our brethren are struggling. We must be grateful for what these circumstances have provided us and our families!}
Dashi bursts out in laughter. {Security has gotten tighter since the Massacre, and I’m barely able to wipe my own ass without one of those grubby Coprinian soldiers watching! What kind of a life is this? You think any of us or our families prefer it like this?} Dashi shakes his head, then continues with a fiery glower, {Survival does not equate to freedom, and even worse when our survival comes at the cost of our brothers and sisters… Or do you not remember what MacArthur and his gaikamu did to our restaurant? To our brethren inside your precious Makizushi Palace?!}
{I will not hear of that!} Pocho scolds, black spores buzzing around his caps. {You will not summon their suffering for your purposes!}
{You forced this servitude upon us, Jiro Pocho,} Dashi casts angrily.
Tired of hearing his subordinates bickering with each other (and feeling the situation spiraling out of control and shifting towards blame against him), Pocho seizes Dashi by his thick tricep. As he pulls the chef across the kitchen, he sends a flurry of commands through the net. {Dashi, with me, now! Mori, refire those beef cuts! Everyone else, BACK TO YOUR STATIONS!}
With Dashi in tow, Pocho hastens into the back corridor, leading the grill chef towards the walk-in freezer at the end of the hall. Decades of working in restaurants has shown him that the freezer will muffle even the most heated of arguments. (Plus, in Dashi’s intoxicated state, the godsdamned cold will do him some good.)
Pocho stomps past his office, the staff room, dry storage, and the walk-in refrigerator, then heaves the freezer door opens and tosses Dashi inside. Pocho follows him in and shuts the door. Immediately, the subzero bite of the six-by-ten-foot space tickles his skin and causes his mushroom caps to constrict. The two fungals stand across from one another in the aisle separating two long sets of metal shelves, each stocked with frozen seafood and varieties of meats.
His cap and brain are throbbing, so Pocho resorts to verbal speech. “Dashi, what in the hells is going on?”
Dashi places his elbow on the nearest shelf, massaging the moldy stubble on his square jaw. Pocho can sense Dashi’s elevated heartrate through the net, and his elaborate forearm tattoos—flowers and wind bars and fungal dragons—pulsate at the same cadence. But just like earlier, Dashi’s thoughts are purposefully hazy; they are an impenetrable cloud that Pocho can only clear up through calm, honest conversation.
“Talk to me, Dashi,” Pocho pleads. “The drugs, the distractions. Why?”
Dashi takes a long breath, then exhales a plume of condensation across the aisle. The ebb and flow of his tattoos slows down. Finally, he says, “They’re after me, kyosen. They keep following me, and I-I-I— I can’t deal with it!”
“Who?” Pocho lists forward, his caps perking up in the cold. He rubs his palms together to warm them up. “Was it humans? CPAN soldiers?”
Dashi ignores Pocho’s prodding and bites his lower lip, revealing uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m on my, you know? All I have is myself, so I… I started drinking shine again, taking ponpon powder to dull my mind and help me forget….”
“To forget what, exactly? You know that numbing yourself won’t help, especially with that powder!” Pocho rubs his forehead, kneading his fingers into the wrinkled skin below his headband. “Whoever is spreading ponpon throughout the city is stupefying our people with those cursed synthetics. But tell me, Dashi, who is following you?”
Dashi clenches and unclenches his jaw. He stares at Pocho with his heavily-dilated eyes, the bright gold of his irises rimming his pupils like an eclipse blotting out the sun. “I tried to ignore them… but they kept coming!”
Sucking in a breath, Dashi takes hold of Pocho’s shoulders and utters one word: “Jiakura.”
Filthy criminals.
Gangsters.
“What—” Pocho licks his lips and tries reaching into Dashi’s cap for some sense of clarity. “Dashi, what have you done?!”
Dashi lets go, but Pocho can still feel the phantom grip on his shoulders. “Nothing, I swear!” The grill chef begins to pace back-and-forth along the freezer aisle, tapping his fingers on boxes containing frozen fish. “But… you…”
{Tell me!} Pocho demands, the chilly environs clearing his fungal senses.
They are standing at either end of the aisle now, like a warrior stand-off out of Hōpponese folklore. Dashi has his back to the rear wall, his vibrant orange mushrooms standing stark against the clinical white of the freezer. A fan unit hums above his head, and a faint plastic smell lingers in the crisp cold air.
{TELL. ME. NOW.}
{They came to me,} Dashi casts to his kyosen, {to get to you.}
Pocho tilts his head, his head caps recoiling as they make momentary contact with the freezing shelf frame. His mind is reeling. Gangsters. After me…
{The jiakura threatened to kill me if…} Dashi takes one step forward, but stops himself. {If I didn’t tell them where to find you… Where you live.}
“WHERE I LIVE?!” Pocho roars.
He charges down the aisle and throws a feeble punch at Dashi’s head. The grill chef dodges, and Pocho’s fist bounces off the freezer wall—a lancing pain shoots through Pocho’s hand and wrist. He spins and lunges at Dashi, then wraps his hands around the chef’s thickset throat. Mycelium extends from Pocho’s fingernails. The filaments coil around Dashi’s neck like a constrictor snake crushing its prey, and Pocho can smell the cheap booze on Dashi’s breath as the air is squeezed from him.
“They—threatened—to—ach—to kill me!” Dashi manages.
Dashi continues to struggle, attempting to push Pocho off of him, before finally resorting to punching his superior in the stomach, then the ribs. Again and again, blow after blow. One strike lands on Pocho’s left lung, forcing the air out of the old chef. Unconsciously, his mycelium retracts into his hands, his grip loosens, and he stumbles backwards into the shelf. Wrapped packages of pig and lamb cuts topple to the floor. Pocho then collapses onto his bum, feeling the bitter chill of the mycocrete floor creep into his body like the even more bitter reality that one of his own chefs gave him up to some godsdamned gangsters…
“Get… out…,” Pocho gasps, his lungs filling back up with biting breaths. He holds his left hand, the knuckles red and raw, and his torso pounds with pain, likely peppered with bruises. “I never want to see you again.”
“Kyosen,” Dashi says, “I— I had no choice! Forgive me, kyosen!”
{You told them where I live! If they threatened you with your life, who knows what they will do to me?!} Pocho spits on the ground in front of him, glaring at the grill chef with a look that could cut a fish. {You are dead to me, Tanto Dashi. Gather your things, leave this kitchen, and never return.}
Dashi scowls. He stomps across the freezer, tears off his white yorido headband, and throws it at Pocho’s face.
“Fuck you,” Dashi curses over his shoulder. “They’re coming for you.”
Tears begin to form and freeze along Pocho’s eyelids. The last he hears of Dashi is the door slamming shut and the click of the handle—the sound echoes throughout the freezer like the thousands of bad memories that plague Pocho’s mind.
* * *
ON THE WAY back to the kitchen, Pocho passes dry storage and snatches a bottle of somake rice wine. The label says GOLDEN ORCHARD PREMIUM RESERVE—it’s expensive, a rare year, but Pocho doesn’t care. He feels a terrible headache forming behind his brow, and he’s in desperate need of a drink, a cigarette, and a long night’s sleep. But tonight’s service is not yet over…
Pocho goes straight to his station, ignoring Mori’s incessant questions about what happened with Dashi, as well as the nudging confusion of the rest of his staff. Though they may have heard the arguing and the fighting, they certainly saw Dashi storm out of the kitchen. But Pocho is no mood to speak or sense right now.
He simply mumbles to Mori, “Make sure the second course is set for service.”
Then he grabs a small ceramic cup and fills it with somake. He slams the first drink back, barely even tasting or appreciating the costly liquor. It leaves a stinging sharpness in his throat and at the back of his nose. He fills up another cup, but this time makes a point of sipping and savoring it. The delicate, refreshing notes hit first (floral and fruity, with hints of melon), followed by a lingering wave of mellow savory flavors that rest on the rear of his tongue.
Pocho continues to sip the somake while staring at his station: His dark stone cutting board, steel pans containing garnishes lined against the counter, stacks of ceramic dishes, and, of course, his prized yanidao and dokedao knives, shimmering on their wooden stand. Huoki—true-fired—blades that were made for him by the best knife maker in Hōppon: Masashi Tanaka.
He has had these knives for nearly two decades, and they have been more dependable and more constant than anything or anyone else in his life. They are the lifeline to his soul and his purpose as a chef, and they will outlast any employee, any restaurant, perhaps even Pocho himself.
His thoughts linger on Dashi, and the inevitability that these mysterious gangsters are coming for him. But why? Who are they and what do they want with me? To threaten Dashi’s life in order to reach Pocho means they are not messing around…
He takes another sip, feeling the itch to go out for a smoke break. Readjusting his posture, his paunch presses against the counter, and it puts an uncomfortable pressure on the bruising across his stomach and ribcage. He developed the chubby midriff in his thirties and it never went away, even during the decade of near-starvation during the Spore War.
But for the first time since those horrific years, he may once again have to fight for his life.
Pocho picks up his yanidao knife, flinching at the sharp pain that shoots through his fingers from the missed punch. The grip of the wooden handle is worn down and shaped to his now-swollen left hand, and he admires its long, willow-shaped blade. Seeing his blurred reflection on the metal—his face split in half by the line running down its center—he wonders what he will have to do to protect himself, possibly even his chefs, from these criminals.
They’re coming for you.
🍄 ABOUT THE AUTHOR 🍣
ADRIAN M. GIBSON is an award-winning Canadian SFF author, podcaster, book designer, and tattoo artist. He was born in Ontario, Canada, but grew up in British Columbia. He studied English Literature and has worked in music journalism, restaurants, tattoo studios, clothing stores, and a bevy of odd jobs. In 2021, he created the SFF Addicts podcast, which he co-hosts with fellow authors M. J. Kuhn and Greta Kelly. The three host in-depth interviews with an array of science fiction and fantasy authors, as well as writing masterclasses.
Adrian has a not-so-casual obsession with mushrooms, relishes in the vastness of nature and is a self-proclaimed “child of the mountains.” He enjoys cooking, music, video games, politics and science, as well as reading fiction and comic books. He lives in Quito, Ecuador with his wife and sons.
Mushroom Blues is his debut novel.
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