On-Screen.

I was in the back kitchen, the proper kitchen, where prep cooks were chopping vegetables and cooking off sausage so that it could get to the level of doneness they wanted when it got on the actual pizza.

It was my first day, and I was the only player there.

The schedule was designed that way to force us to actually get used to the place. To be fair, it was quite a big place. This was no mom-and-pop shop. This was something only an entire family could have put together.

And they did.

Most of the employees were somehow related to the Bonaventura family.

Not Artie, though, the head cook. He made that clear.

He must have been five foot four, but I doubt he was like that when he was my age. He just kind of shrank with time into a wrinkled, gnarled old man who drank and smoked on the job and smiled at every joke.

Boy, was he a kidder. When I asked him about how he came to work at Pecatto’s, he said this:

“I was a kid. Younger than you, maybe fifteen. Just sittin’ on the street, on the corner like we did back then, us boys, skippin’ school, cousins spittin’ when Dante Bonaventura comes by. He thumps me on the ear three times and says, ‘You gotta do somethin’ with your life, Artie.’

“And I put up my fist and say, ‘No.’ ’cause I don’t want a job. I was a bum. And every day, he comes by and thumps me on the ear three times. After a week, I’m tired of gettin’ thumped on the ear. So when Dante Bonaventura comes up again, I say, ‘What do I gotta do to make you stop thumpin’ me on the ear?’

“And he says, ‘You gotta come make pizza for me at my family place.’

“And I say, ‘Okay, what then?’

“And he says, ‘Then I’m only gonna thump you on the ear two times.’”

He started laughing, a deep, raspy laugh. He looked at me expectantly.

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Gus Junior, Dante’s nephew, is in charge now. Still comes around to give me my thumps every morning.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You laugh at my story, huh?” he said.

And then an order came through for a pizza with sausage, pepperoni, bell pepper, onions, and mushrooms.

Artie jumped into action like some sort of jungle cat.

His arthritic fingers were able to weave together that pizza right on the wooden pizza paddle, without regard to company policy (a well-sanitized and floured countertop was the policy).

He must have had the thing in the oven in less than a minute. Then he was back to leaning by the fire exit, smoking cigarettes.

“Now you work while I take a break,” he said.

I nodded. And then five pizza orders came in. I was On-Screen sporadically the whole time, so I actually had to make them.

None of the relatives would stop to help. The way I understood it was that they all had jobs here, but they just did those jobs, and then they left. Because they had real jobs elsewhere, they were just helping out the family pizza place.

Those folks were prepping ingredients, not saving a drowning teenager who had never made a pizza in his life.

Five pizzas at once was quite the challenge. It was a comedy, so I leaned into my inexperience.

All I could think was: If I mess these things up, am I gonna be punished for it? Or are they just going to ignore it if I put enough effort in and make it look like I struggled?

I was so afraid of getting complained about that I just took my time. One by one, I stretched out a ball of dough, painted on the sauce, and did my best to copy what Artie had done so easily.

On to the pizza peel, and then to the oven.

Old Hot Head, the animatronic oven, looked the same from the back as he did from the front, and he watched me as I made my pizzas. His eyes would move from side to side, and I swore he was judging me.

As I put my final pizza into the oven, I stared through the giant stone slab and into the main part of the restaurant.

Hot Head’s mouth was designed to remind you of hell.

There was no avoiding it.

The base where we put the pizzas was a glowing red rock with strange crevices and fire everywhere. The pizza would get put in and be cycled around until eventually the chefs on the other side would take it out, put it in a box, and give it to the customer, or send it wherever it was supposed to go.

I didn’t want to reach too far into his mouth accidentally and have the big metal door with painted lips come slamming down on me, or worse, have me gobbled up whole.

Luckily, though, I was done—no more pizzas.

Or so I thought.

A delivery order for five more pizzas came through just as I was finished.

I looked around for help, and while Artie was somehow asleep while standing, and all of the relatives were hard at work prepping vegetables, there was one guy, Trip, who I could tell was not just a background character.

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“Need a hand?” he asked.

“As many as you got,” I said.

“Well, I got two,” he said.

Then he jumped in to help me with some pizzas, as even more orders came in.

Trip was probably college age, which meant he was older than me in this storyline. He had that kind of cool older kid vibe. He was also the heir apparent, Gus Junior’s son, so it made sense that he knew his way around the oven.

He stepped in with me and started making pies one after another, not with the speed that Artie had, but certainly with more consistency.

“You just gotta learn a rhythm,” he said. “It’s all about working on that rhythm, huh, Hot Head?” he asked the oven, which gave no answer other than to have its big eyes move from left to right.

Trip wore a visor. I did too. There were three options: the visor, the cap, and a paper hat. For some reason, the visor was the least-picked option.

As soon as we were done with the new rush of pizzas, he told me, “I’m supposed to send you down to the office so you can watch the orientation videos.”

“Great. I’ve been disoriented this entire time,” I said.

He laughed at my joke, and then I left the kitchen, hoping that I wouldn’t have any more scenes there, even though that was technically my job.

And who was I to complain? In the kitchens, I never had to talk to customers. Carousel was already a death game, adding on customer service to that would’ve been too much.

I had spent my entire day trying to find evidence of the supernatural, but all I could really find evidence of was the history of the restaurant. Which, from what I could understand, went something like this:

Lorenzo Bonaventura came to Carousel with nothing but the shirt on his back and a pregnant wife, and founded the restaurant. Deceased.

His two sons were Dante and Gustavo.

Dante inherited the restaurant when Lorenzo died.

Since Dante didn’t have any kids of his own, Gustavo inherited it when Dante died.

Gustavo was the real founder, in a way. He’s the one who had all the animatronics and branding done for the restaurant. He was also in charge the longest.

He also died very recently.

Gustavo Junior, “Gus,” inherited the restaurant from his father.

As I walked down the hallway toward orientation, I could hear Gus muttering, “This is how we’ve always done it… I don’t understand why it isn’t working.”

He was talking on the phone. I was On-Screen, which meant I was supposed to spy.

I got close to the wall and inched my way toward the office, trying my best to hear the conversation. I could only hear what Gus was saying.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of deal you made with my father,” Gus said. “I can tell you now that we don’t really need…. We’re not considering opening up a second location… I didn’t say anything about court… I just think these signs about having ‘new management’ are going to hurt business. We’ve always been popular… Anyway, I’ve got to go. I have to actually manage the restaurant.”

That was all I could hear.

Some kind of business partner? I couldn’t tell exactly, but I knew it was something in that direction.

I decided to stop hugging the wall like an idiot and just walk to the office.

When I did, I found Gus inside, slumped over his desk with his hand on his face. I almost felt sorry to see him like that.

I knocked on the door and said, “Mr. Bonaventura? I was told to come here for orientation.”

He immediately sat up straight and ran a few fingers through what remained of the hair on the top of his head. He looked at me and immediately recognized who I was.

“Riley, right? You’re the new cook? Come on in.” He stood up to shake my hand.

“Well, the truth is, Riley, you don’t have to watch most of our orientation videos. They’re mostly about customer service or taking orders, stuff that you’re not going to need to know.”

“That sounds like good news to me,” I said.

“Well, you may watch them one day anyway for fun, they’re known for being pretty… well, out there. My dad made the videos himself. But I was hoping to know: how are you fitting in back there? Is Artie giving you any trouble?”

He sat down on the edge of his desk, and I was in a chair in front of it.

“No, he’s hilarious,” I said. “Everything’s going great. It’s an interesting setup with the two-sided oven.”

“Yeah, that’s not industry standard,” Gus said. “That’s just us. Great way to make it look like old Hot Head is making the pizzas himself. That was the idea, at least. He’s just constantly putting out pizza, and nobody knows where it’s coming from. Dad sure was proud of Hot Head.”

He spoke very fondly of his father.

“Yeah, very interesting… Trip seems to know his way around pretty well.”

Men generally liked it when you complimented their sons.

Gus leaned back and said, “Yep. He’s already ready to take over.”

He laughed proudly.

“Look, Riley, we get really busy in the summer. We hope you can make some money. You’re not going to get rich, but we’ll always pay you on time. We just want to make this what you need it to be. If you need to be scheduled at a certain time, just make sure you tell Jerrica, and we’ll make it happen. There’s only one real rule here at Pecatto’s. Do you know what that is?” He leaned forward.

“Don’t stay after one in the morning,” I said. Camden had seen that in the orientation packet. It seemed pretty conspicuous to me. I didn’t know if it was a warning in the lore or the meta. I figured asking him bluntly would be enough.

He smiled and laughed it off. “No, not that. But that’s good advice too. Closing time means closing time, I don’t care how many customers we have. No, the one rule is: try to ignore my family, okay?”

That took me aback.

“My family is very proud of this place. They work very hard here. And they seem to think they’re royalty. Try not to upset them, but don’t let them upset you. And if any of them do, you come to me, alright?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I got some cousins and sisters who will try to order you around. But they’re not your bosses. Alright?”

I laughed. “Alright.”

“You saw on the paperwork that you get a percentage of whatever we sell each day over what we sold on that same day last year. You understood that, right?”

“I saw that,” I said. “How often would you say that happens?”

“Well, we’re hoping it’s gonna happen every day. But some days it will, some days it won’t. Should end up with a nice little chunk of change, though. You guys work really hard back there, and we want to reward you.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

He stood up from the edge of his desk, and I stood up from my chair. He shook my hand again.

He led me to the door, and I walked out into the hallway more confused than I ever had been.

He wasn’t the bad guy. He was just an NPC. And from the sound of it… Kind of a good boss?

What the heck was going on in this story?

I decided to swing by the employee lounge area, which was where the schedule was posted, to see when I would be billed with other players. It was a highly orchestrated mess, tons of different teenagers working at different times throughout the weeks that this storyline would last.

I would be getting full hours, and eventually, I’d be working with my fellow teammates. But of course, I wasn’t the main character, so who really cared?

I could see that there was a huge stack of time schedule sheets behind the one I was looking at, at least 100 pages, probably going back years, all right there for the sleuthing.

There would no doubt be important information there about missing employees and strange events. But I wasn’t going to search through it.

With one glance, Camden would be able to get a whole host of information from it. And I would leave it to him.

I was more of a director. Or a backup on this storyline. I had to let Anna, Camden, Avery, Cassie, Ramona, and Isaac have their day.

I wandered back to the kitchen. There had been no orders since I left, because why would there be?

It just looked like a normal place to work if one didn’t count the giant head-shaped oven.

It was hard not to suspect the giant head-shaped oven, whose eyes moved side to side, and whose giant metal mouth could eat a man… but instead just ate a metric ton of pizza.

I watched from the hall as the front kitchen packed up the pizzas I had made. Was I proud? I wasn’t sure. I managed to get a glimpse of a delivery driver carrying out an order I had made. Five pies.

A job well done.

Except… the driver was carrying six pizzas. Not five.

Six.

We did have a buy five, get one free promotion… but still… where did the sixth pizza come from? As I walked back to double-check the ticket to see if maybe the front kitchen had made it, all I could do was stare at Old Hot Hed.

Where did that sixth pizza come from, Hot Head?

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep