The restaurant thing—and Cartoon Cat would later refer to it as "The Restaurant Thing" with capital letters and a sense of bewildered pride—started because of a very simple miscommunication involving Doctor Strange, a dimensional rift, and what was supposed to be a small favor that spiraled wildly out of control.
It had been three weeks since the Avengers Incident (also capital letters, also bewildering). Tony had delivered the promised toaster—a beautiful piece of technology that somehow interfaced with cartoon physics to produce toast that existed in a state of perpetual warmth and optimal crispiness. Cartoon Cat had cried. Well, not really cried—he couldn't actually produce tears—but his eyes had gotten larger and shinier in a way that conveyed deep emotional satisfaction.
Life had been relatively calm. He'd helped Spider-Man stop a robbery (using a giant cartoon magnet to pull the guns away from the thieves, which had been hilarious). He'd visited Deadpool and immediately regretted it (Wade had wanted to do a team-up involving chimichangas and incredibly poor decision-making). He'd even had tea with Doctor Strange, which had been surreal in ways that even Cartoon Cat's existence couldn't fully encompass.
It was during that tea meeting that Strange had mentioned, casually, that there was a dimensional rift in Hell's Kitchen that needed sealing.
"It's minor," Strange had said, sipping his tea with the practiced elegance of someone who regularly dealt with cosmic horrors. "Just a small tear in reality. Probably caused by all the mystical activity in that area. Between the Hand's rituals, demonic activity, and general supernatural nonsense, Hell's Kitchen is a dimensional weak point."
"CAN I HELP?" Cartoon Cat's sign had asked. "I'M GOOD AT REALITY STUFF."
Strange had paused, considering. "Actually... yes. Your toon force might be able to seal it. You operate on different physical laws than most entities. The rift might respond to cartoon logic where it would resist traditional mystical sealing."
"WHAT DO I NEED TO DO?"
"Just stand near it and... I don't know. Be yourself. Exist at it aggressively. Think cartoon thoughts."
"THAT'S VERY VAGUE."
"Magic is often vague."
So Cartoon Cat had gone to Hell's Kitchen—the neighborhood, not the cooking show, though that distinction would become hilarious in retrospect—and found the dimensional rift.
It was in an empty lot. Just a shimmer in the air, a place where reality looked slightly wrong, like a glitch in a video game or a scratch on a photograph.
Cartoon Cat had approached it, reached out with one cartoon-gloved hand, and touched it.
The rift had reacted.
Not violently. Not dangerously. It had just... changed. The dimensional tear had twisted, reformed, stabilized into something new.
A door.
A perfectly normal door. Wooden, with a brass handle, the kind you'd find on any building in New York.
Except it was standing in the middle of an empty lot, attached to nothing, leading nowhere.
Cartoon Cat had stared at it.
Pulled out a sign: "THAT'S NEW."
He'd opened the door.
Inside was a restaurant.
A full restaurant. Complete with tables, chairs, a kitchen, a bar, lighting fixtures, everything. All rendered in a style that was somehow both perfectly real and slightly cartoonish, like someone had built an actual restaurant but hired animators as interior decorators.
The space was bigger on the inside than the door suggested—significantly bigger. The dining area could seat maybe fifty people. The kitchen was professional-grade, with equipment that gleamed under perfect lighting.
It was beautiful.
It was impossible.
It was his.
Cartoon Cat had stood in the doorway of his accidental restaurant and pulled out a sign: "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH THIS."
That had been two weeks ago.
Now, through a series of events that he still couldn't fully explain, the restaurant was open for business.
He'd named it "The Glitch"—because that's what it was, a glitch in reality, a dimensional rift that had become a dining establishment. The sign out front (pulled from hammerspace, naturally) featured stylized text and a small cartoon cat logo.
The menu was eclectic, to say the least. Cartoon Cat had discovered that his hammerspace could produce food—not just random objects, but actual cuisine. And because he operated on cartoon logic, the food was perfect. Every dish was exactly as good as food should theoretically be. Steaks were perfectly cooked, pasta was al dente, desserts were the ideal balance of sweet and satisfying.
He'd started small. Just opening for a few hours a day, serving whoever wandered in. Word had spread quickly—a mysterious restaurant in Hell's Kitchen with impossible food and a giant cartoon cat as chef/owner/waiter/entire staff.
The reviews had been insane.
"Best meal of my life, served by what I think was a cryptid. 5 stars." - Yelp
"The carbonara defied physics. I watched the chef pull ingredients from thin air. I don't understand anything. 10/10." - Google Reviews
"I'm pretty sure the restaurant doesn't exist in normal space-time but the tiramisu was AMAZING." - Some food blog
And then, three days ago, he'd gotten a call.
Not on his cartoon phone. On the actual restaurant's phone—which had appeared when the restaurant materialized, connected to a phone network that probably violated several laws of telecommunications.
The voice on the other end had been British, gruff, and immediately recognizable even to someone who'd spent his previous life working retail and watching too much YouTube.
"Is this The Glitch?" Gordon Ramsay had asked.
Cartoon Cat had stared at the phone for a full ten seconds before pulling out a sign and holding it up to the receiver: "YES?"
"I've been hearing things about your restaurant. Impossible food. A chef who pulls ingredients from nowhere. I don't believe in impossible. I'm coming to see for myself."
"WHEN?"
"Tonight. 8 PM. And your food better be as good as people claim, or I'm shutting you down."
"YOU CAN'T SHUT ME DOWN. I DON'T TECHNICALLY EXIST IN NORMAL REALITY."
"Try me."
Click.
The call had ended.
And now it was 7:45 PM, and Cartoon Cat was experiencing what might have been anxiety if cartoon characters could properly experience anxiety.
The restaurant was immaculate—he'd cleaned it seventeen times using cartoon physics to speed the process. The kitchen was stocked with ingredients from hammerspace. He'd even pulled out a chef's hat, a proper toque blanche, which sat at a jaunty angle on his head and somehow stayed there despite having no real head structure to grip.
He was ready.
He was terrified.
He was about to be judged by Gordon Ramsay.
At exactly 8 PM, the door opened.
Gordon Ramsay walked in, and he looked exactly like he did on TV—tall, intense, with that distinctive presence that suggested he could reduce grown adults to tears with a single cutting remark. He was wearing a simple black shirt and jeans, but he carried himself like royalty.
Behind him were two other people—a man with a camera and a woman with a notepad. Documentary crew, probably.
Gordon's eyes swept the restaurant, taking in every detail with the analytical gaze of someone who'd seen thousands of establishments and could instantly identify problems.
His gaze landed on Cartoon Cat.
Who was standing in the middle of the dining room, ten feet tall, cartoon proportions, permanent nightmare grin, wearing a chef's hat.
There was a moment of perfect silence.
"Bloody hell," Gordon finally said. "The reviews weren't exaggerating. You're actually a cartoon cat."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "HELLO, MR. RAMSAY. WELCOME TO THE GLITCH."
Gordon approached slowly, circling Cartoon Cat like a predator assessing prey. "How? How do you exist?"
"CARTOON LOGIC. IT'S COMPLICATED."
"And you're the chef here?"
"CHEF, OWNER, WAITER, DISHWASHER, ENTIRE STAFF. I MULTITASK."
Gordon's expression shifted from shock to something that might have been respect. "Running a restaurant solo. That's... ambitious. Stupid, but ambitious."
"I'M VERY GOOD AT MULTITASKING."
"We'll see." Gordon moved to a table, sat down with the practiced ease of someone who'd evaluated restaurants on every continent. "Cook for me. Something that showcases your skills. Impress me."
Cartoon Cat nodded—his whole body bobbing in that exaggerated way—and headed to the kitchen.
The camera crew followed, filming everything.
In the kitchen, Cartoon Cat took a breath he didn't need and centered himself.
This was it.
Gordon Ramsay was watching.
Time to show what cartoon cooking could do.
He reached behind his back and started pulling ingredients from hammerspace.
Not randomly. Deliberately. Each item appeared in his hands exactly when he needed it, fresh and perfect.
He was making risotto—the dish Gordon was famous for judging harshly, the one that so many chefs failed at on his shows. If Cartoon Cat could impress him with risotto, he could impress him with anything.
Rice appeared. Arborio, the proper kind, each grain perfect.
Stock materialized. Rich, flavorful, the exact temperature needed.
Butter, cheese, white wine, shallots, all appearing in sequence.
His hands moved with speed that blurred into multiple after-images, chopping shallots with precision that would make professional chefs weep. The knife—pulled from hammerspace, naturally—was so sharp it could probably cut concepts.
The risotto came together in minutes. The rice cooked with cartoon physics efficiency—time meant nothing when toon force was involved. The stock incorporated perfectly. The final product was creamy, rich, al dente rice with a texture that existed in a state of platonic ideal perfection.
He plated it with an artistic flair that surprised even himself, the presentation magazine-worthy.
And then he carried it out to Gordon's table.
Set it down.
Pulled out a sign: "MUSHROOM RISOTTO. HOPE YOU LIKE IT."
Gordon looked at the plate. Leaned in, smelling it. His expression was unreadable.
He took a forkful.
Tasted it.
Chewed slowly.
Swallowed.
The silence stretched for what felt like hours.
Then Gordon spoke: "That's... fuck me, that's perfect. The texture is spot-on. The seasoning is exact. The balance of flavors is impeccable. This is restaurant-quality risotto. Better than restaurant-quality. This is..."
He took another bite, his eyes closing slightly.
"This is the best risotto I've had in years."
Cartoon Cat's permanent grin somehow conveyed pure joy.
Sign: "REALLY?"
"Really." Gordon set down his fork, looking at Cartoon Cat with something like wonder. "How long have you been cooking?"
"TWO WEEKS. PROFESSIONALLY. I WATCHED A LOT OF COOKING SHOWS IN MY PREVIOUS LIFE THOUGH."
"Two weeks. You've been cooking for two weeks and you can make risotto like this."
"CARTOON LOGIC HELPS. ALSO I CAN PULL PERFECT INGREDIENTS FROM NOWHERE."
"That's cheating."
"I KNOW. IT'S GREAT."
Despite himself, Gordon laughed. A genuine laugh, not the sardonic chuckle he used on TV, but real amusement.
"Alright, cartoon cat. You've impressed me. That doesn't happen often." He stood up, extending a hand. "What's your name? Your actual name?"
Cartoon Cat shook the offered hand carefully—Gordon's hand disappeared completely in his oversized cartoon glove.
Sign: "CARTOON CAT. THAT'S ACTUALLY MY NAME. OR CC FOR SHORT."
"CC." Gordon nodded. "You've got talent. Raw, bizarre, reality-defying talent, but talent nonetheless. Your restaurant is solid. The atmosphere is unique. The food—at least this dish—is exceptional. You could actually make this work."
"THANK YOU. THAT MEANS A LOT."
"But," Gordon continued, his expression shifting back to the stern intensity he was famous for, "you need staff. You can't run a restaurant alone, even with cartoon physics. You need front of house, sous chefs, support."
"I'M THE ONLY CARTOON CHARACTER IN THIS UNIVERSE. KIND OF HARD TO HIRE."
"Then hire regular people. Train them. Build a team." Gordon pulled out a business card—an actual business card, expensive-looking. "Call me if you need advice. Or connections. I don't usually do this, but you're... different. And good different, not just weird different."
Cartoon Cat took the card with reverence, immediately storing it in hammerspace where it would never be lost or damaged.
Sign: "I'LL TREASURE THIS FOREVER."
"Don't get sentimental. Just make good food and don't fuck up this opportunity."
"YES, CHEF."
Gordon smiled—a rare, genuine smile. "Yes, chef. I like that. Keep saying that."
The documentary crew had captured everything, the camera operator looking simultaneously thrilled and confused.
Gordon was heading toward the door when it burst open.
Not opened. Burst. Slammed inward with force that sent it crashing against the wall, hinges protesting.
And through the doorway stepped something that made Gordon stop mid-stride.
A man.
Tall, impeccably dressed in a white suit that probably cost more than most cars. His hair was styled perfectly, his smile was charming in a way that felt wrong, and his eyes—his eyes were ancient and calculating and fundamentally inhuman.
Mephisto.
Literal devil. Lord of Hell. Collector of souls. One of the most dangerous entities in the Marvel Universe.
And he looked pissed.
"YOU!" Mephisto pointed at Cartoon Cat, his voice carrying harmonics that made reality shudder. "Do you have any idea what you've DONE?!"
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "...MADE GOOD RISOTTO?"
"You created a RESTAURANT from a DIMENSIONAL RIFT! A rift that was supposed to connect to MY domain! I've been trying to expand my influence into Hell's Kitchen for DECADES, and you turned my carefully planned invasion point into a DINING ESTABLISHMENT!"
"OH. THAT'S WHAT THE RIFT WAS. SORRY?"
Gordon had backed away toward the wall, his expression cycling through confusion, fear, and a deep desire to understand what was happening.
"Who the fuck is this?" he asked.
"MEPHISTO. HE'S A DEVIL. LIKE, ACTUALLY."
"Of course he is. Why not. My Tuesday night now includes literal devils."
Mephisto ignored Gordon, his attention fixed on Cartoon Cat. "Do you understand what you've cost me? The planning, the ritual sacrifices, the deals I made to weaken the dimensional barriers? All wasted because some cartoon THING decided to turn it into a restaurant!"
Sign: "AGAIN, SORRY. BUT ALSO, YOUR LOSS. MY GAIN. THE RISOTTO IS REALLY GOOD."
Mephisto's eye twitched. "Are you... are you being flippant with me? Do you know who I am? I've corrupted heroes! I've stolen souls! I made a deal with Spider-Man that erased his marriage from reality!"
"THAT WAS A DICK MOVE, BY THE WAY."
"IT WAS STRATEGIC!"
"STILL A DICK MOVE."
Before Mephisto could respond—and he was clearly building up to something dramatic involving fire and threats—another figure appeared in the doorway.
This one was more dramatic. Wreathed in flames, riding a motorcycle that was also on fire, with a skull for a head that was additionally on fire.
Ghost Rider.
Johnny Blaze, currently possessed by the Spirit of Vengeance, revved his flaming motorcycle and pointed at Mephisto.
"MEPHISTO!" His voice echoed with supernatural reverb. "I SENSED YOUR PRESENCE! YOUR EVIL ENDS HERE!"
"Oh, for Hell's sake," Mephisto muttered. "Not you. Not now."
"YES ME! YES NOW! I AM VENGEANCE! I AM THE SPIRIT OF—"
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign and waved it: "EXCUSE ME. THIS IS A RESTAURANT. NO FIGHTING IN THE RESTAURANT. TAKE IT OUTSIDE."
Both Mephisto and Ghost Rider turned to look at him.
"Did you just..." Ghost Rider started, his flaming skull somehow conveying confusion.
"SHUSH. RESTAURANT RULES. NO VIOLENCE. NO FIRE. NO DEMONIC CONFRONTATIONS. IF YOU WANT TO FIGHT, DO IT IN THE STREET."
Gordon, from his position near the wall, spoke up: "I can't believe I'm saying this, but the cartoon cat is right. If you're going to have a supernatural battle, don't do it in a dining establishment. That's just rude."
Mephisto stared at Gordon. "Who are you?"
"Gordon Ramsay. Celebrity chef. And even I know you don't trash a restaurant during business hours."
"This isn't business hours! There's one customer!"
"I'M A VERY IMPORTANT CUSTOMER!" Gordon shot back.
Ghost Rider's flames dimmed slightly as Johnny Blaze's human consciousness surfaced. "Wait, are you actually Gordon Ramsay? I love your shows."
"Thank you. But we're getting off topic. Devil, skeleton, please leave."
Cartoon Cat pulled out another sign: "ACTUALLY, IF YOU'RE HERE, YOU SHOULD TRY THE FOOD. I HAVE MORE THAN RISOTTO."
Mephisto laughed—a sound like breaking glass and suffering. "You think I'm going to eat your food? I'm here to reclaim my dimensional rift and destroy your restaurant!"
"OKAY, BUT COUNTERPOINT: I MAKE REALLY GOOD FOOD. AND YOU'RE ALREADY HERE. AND WOULDN'T IT BE MORE EVIL TO WASTE PERFECTLY GOOD CUISINE?"
The devil paused. "Are you... are you trying to convince me to stay for dinner?"
"YES."
"Why?"
"BECAUSE I'M A CARTOON CHARACTER AND CONFLICT RESOLUTION THROUGH FOOD IS FUNNY."
Ghost Rider revved his motorcycle again. "I won't let you make deals with this creature, Mephisto! That's how you trap souls!"
Sign: "I'M NOT MAKING DEALS. I'M OFFERING DINNER. THERE'S A DIFFERENCE."
"IS THERE?!"
"THE DIFFERENCE IS CONSENT AND TRANSPARENT TERMS. ALSO NO SOUL-STEALING."
Mephisto considered this, his ancient mind clearly working through possibilities. "If I stay for dinner—hypothetically—what would you serve me?"
Cartoon Cat's eyes lit up—literally, they glowed slightly brighter.
Sign: "WHAT DO YOU LIKE? I CAN MAKE ANYTHING."
"I'm a devil. I appreciate suffering and corruption."
"SO... SPICY FOOD?"
Despite himself, Mephisto smiled. "Yes, actually. I do enjoy spicy food."
"GHOST RIDER, WHAT ABOUT YOU?"
The Spirit of Vengeance seemed taken aback. "I... I don't need sustenance. I'm a supernatural entity."
"BUT DO YOU WANT SUSTENANCE?"
There was a pause. Then, quietly: "I haven't eaten in months. Johnny misses food."
"GREAT! EVERYONE SIT DOWN. I'M COOKING."
Gordon raised his hand. "I'm sorry, are we just... accepting this? The devil and a flaming skeleton are staying for dinner?"
Sign: "YES. PROBLEM?"
"I... no? This is the weirdest night of my life, and I once cooked for the Queen while having food poisoning."
"THIS IS NEW YORK. WEIRD THINGS HAPPEN."
"Apparently!"
And so, in the most bizarre dinner service ever conceived, Cartoon Cat found himself cooking for Gordon Ramsay, the literal devil, and Ghost Rider.
For Mephisto, he made the spiciest curry imaginable—using peppers from hammerspace that might not have existed in nature, creating a dish that was less food and more controlled fire. The devil ate it with obvious enjoyment, his eyes glowing red with appreciation.
For Ghost Rider, he made a massive burger. Multiple patties, all the toppings, constructed with such precision that it achieved burger perfection. Johnny Blaze's consciousness emerged fully, the flames dimming to allow eating, and he consumed it with the desperation of someone who'd been denied solid food for too long.
For Gordon, he made a simple but perfect filet mignon, cooked medium-rare, with a red wine reduction that tasted like it had been prepared by French culinary masters.
The three sat at a table together—devil, spirit of vengeance, and celebrity chef—eating in surreal silence.
"This is good," Mephisto admitted grudgingly. "Annoyingly good."
"THANK YOU!"
"I still hate you for ruining my invasion plan."
"UNDERSTANDABLE. HAVE A NICE DAY."
Ghost Rider finished his burger and sighed—a sound that was part satisfaction, part supernatural reverb. "That was the best meal I've had since becoming the Spirit of Vengeance."
"WANT DESSERT?"
"YES."
Gordon cut into his steak, chewed thoughtfully, and spoke: "CC, this is perfect. The temperature is exact. The seasoning is precise. You have a gift."
Sign: "COMING FROM YOU, THAT'S HIGH PRAISE."
"It's deserved. You're weird, your restaurant exists outside normal reality, and you're currently serving dinner to supernatural entities, but you can cook."
"I TRY MY BEST."
They were finishing their meals—Cartoon Cat had served Ghost Rider a slice of chocolate cake that made the Spirit of Vengeance actually weep flames of joy—when the restaurant's door opened again.
This time it was just a normal person.
A man in dark clothing, moving with practiced stealth, clearly injured based on the blood on his tactical gear.
Daredevil.
Matt Murdock stumbled into the restaurant, one hand pressed against his side where blood was seeping through his fingers.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, his enhanced senses clearly overwhelmed by the presence of a devil and a Spirit of Vengeance in the same room. "But I'm being chased by the Hand and I need—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his sightless eyes somehow conveying shock as his senses identified the room's occupants.
"Is that Gordon Ramsay, Mephisto, and Ghost Rider?"
"YES," Cartoon Cat's sign said. "WELCOME TO THE GLITCH. ARE YOU BEING PURSUED?"
"Very much yes. About twenty Hand ninjas are about to—"
The windows shattered.
Ninjas poured through—black-clad figures moving with supernatural grace, weapons drawn, led by a larger figure in ornate armor.
The Hand.
Elite ninjas trained in mystical arts and assassination.
Currently interrupting dinner service.
Cartoon Cat's permanent grin took on a dangerous quality.
He pulled out a sign: "DINNER. RUSH. IS. SACRED."
And then he moved.
Not toward the ninjas. To the kitchen. He grabbed his chef's hat, positioned it more securely on his head, and reached behind his back.
He pulled out fighting gloves. Not cartoon gloves—he already had those. Fighting game fighting gloves. The kind worn by Street Fighter characters, wrapped and reinforced.
His stance shifted.
This time he wasn't using just Street Fighter moves. Or just Mortal Kombat techniques.
He was combining them.
The first ninja lunged.
Cartoon Cat caught the blade with his bare hand—toon force making him invulnerable to the cut—and delivered a punch that combined Ryu's Shoryuken uppercut with Scorpion's enhanced strength.
The ninja went flying, crashing through the ceiling and disappearing into the night sky.
Three more attacked simultaneously.
Cartoon Cat moved with Ultra Instinct precision, his body dodging on autopilot, and countered with a combination: Chun-Li's Lightning Kicks merged with Liu Kang's Bicycle Kick, his legs becoming a blur of motion that struck all three ninjas before they could react.
They collapsed, unconscious.
The larger figure in ornate armor—clearly the leader—drew two swords and charged with supernatural speed.
Cartoon Cat met him head-on.
He blocked the first sword strike with Guile's defensive technique, deflecting the blade with his forearm. The second strike he dodged with Sub-Zero's fluid movement, his body flowing like water around the attack.
Then he countered with a combination that shouldn't be possible: Ken's Shinryuken combined with Raiden's electric enhancement and Dhalsim's stretching limbs.
His fist extended, wreathed in blue energy and electricity, striking the leader's chest with force that combined three different fighting game universes.
The armored figure flew backward, crashed through a table (Cartoon Cat winced internally—that would need fixing), and didn't get up.
The remaining ninjas, seeing their leader defeated, attempted a tactical retreat.
Cartoon Cat wasn't having it.
He performed Scorpion's spear technique—pulling a kunai with a rope from hammerspace and shouting with a sign that appeared in mid-air: "GET OVER HERE!"
The rope caught three ninjas, dragging them back into range.
He finished them with Akuma's Raging Demon—the rapid-fire punch technique enhanced with toon force, moving faster than the eye could follow.
The entire fight lasted maybe ninety seconds.
When it ended, twenty Hand ninjas were unconscious or incapacitated, scattered across his restaurant like dropped toys.
Cartoon Cat stood in the middle of the carnage, slightly out of breath (did he breathe?), his chef's hat askew.
He straightened it carefully and pulled out a sign: "SORRY ABOUT THE MESS."
Gordon Ramsay, who had watched the entire fight without moving from his seat, spoke in a voice of forced calm: "Did you just... did you just use Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat techniques? Combined?"
"YES."
"That's not possible."
"I'M A CARTOON CHARACTER. POSSIBLE IS RELATIVE."
Daredevil was leaning against the wall, his injury forgotten in his shock. "Thank you. I think. That was... excessive."
"THEY INTERRUPTED DINNER SERVICE. THAT'S UNFORGIVABLE."
Mephisto was laughing now, actual genuine laughter. "Oh, this is delicious. The cartoon chef just demolished elite ninjas using video game physics. I haven't been this entertained in centuries!"
Ghost Rider stood up, his flames reigniting to full intensity. "I should take these criminals to face justice."
Sign: "SURE. BUT HELP ME CLEAN UP FIRST? THEY BROKE MY WINDOWS."
"...That's fair."
What followed was perhaps the strangest cleanup operation in New York history.
Ghost Rider used his chains to bind the unconscious ninjas, dragging them outside where police could collect them.
Mephisto, still amused, used minor magic to repair the broken windows—"Consider it payment for the excellent curry," he said.
Gordon helped right the overturned tables, muttering about "bloody ninjas" and "supernatural nonsense" but also looking oddly energized by the chaos.
Daredevil sat at the bar, accepting first aid from Cartoon Cat (who pulled a full medical kit from hammerspace) and looking like he was reevaluating his entire worldview.
"So," Matt said as Cartoon Cat bandaged his wound with cartoon physics precision, "you run a restaurant. In Hell's Kitchen. That exists outside normal reality. And you cook for celebrities and devils. And you fight like a video game character."
Sign: "THAT'S A PRETTY ACCURATE SUMMARY, YES."
"Why?"
"THE RESTAURANT THING WAS AN ACCIDENT. THE COOKING THING IS BECAUSE I LIKE FOOD. THE FIGHTING THING IS BECAUSE PEOPLE KEEP INTERRUPTING ME."
"That's... oddly reasonable."
"I CONTAIN MULTITUDES."
When the cleanup was finished and the police had collected the ninjas (with confused looks at Ghost Rider but too professional to ask questions), the unusual dinner party reconvened.
Mephisto stood to leave, adjusting his white suit. "This was... not what I expected when I came here to reclaim my dimensional rift. But it was entertaining. And the food was exceptional."
Sign: "DOES THIS MEAN YOU'RE NOT GOING TO DESTROY MY RESTAURANT?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely still angry about the rift. But I respect good food and better entertainment. Consider this a temporary truce. I'll find another way into Hell's Kitchen."
"PLEASE DON'T."
"No promises." Mephisto headed for the door, paused, turned back. "Actually, one more thing. Your restaurant exists in a dimensional pocket that technically touches Hell. Which means it's neutral ground by infernal law. Demons can't directly attack it without violating ancient treaties."
"THAT'S... ACTUALLY REALLY USEFUL INFORMATION."
"Consider it a professional courtesy from one establishment owner to another. Plus, I might want to come back for more curry."
And with that, the literal devil walked out of the restaurant, disappearing into the New York night.
Ghost Rider approached Cartoon Cat, his flames low, Johnny Blaze's humanity showing through.
"Thanks for the burger," he said, his voice less reverb-heavy. "And for not being scared of me. People usually run."
Sign: "I'M A TEN-FOOT-TALL CARTOON CAT. I'M NOT SCARED OF MUCH."
"Fair point." Johnny hesitated, then continued. "Can I come back? For more food? It's been a while since I've had something besides gas station snacks."
"OF COURSE! ANYTIME! FRIENDS GET A DISCOUNT!"
"We're friends?"
"WE JUST HAD DINNER AND FOUGHT NINJAS TOGETHER. THAT MAKES US FRIENDS."
Ghost Rider's skull somehow conveyed a smile. "Yeah. I guess it does."
He mounted his flaming motorcycle and rode off, leaving tire marks of fire that faded slowly.
Daredevil stood, his injury bandaged, ready to leave. "I should go. The Hand will regroup, and I need to be ready."
"WAIT," Cartoon Cat's sign said. "TAKE SOME FOOD. YOU'RE INJURED. YOU NEED ENERGY."
He pulled out a to-go container from hammerspace—already filled with a nutritious meal that would help with healing—and handed it to Matt.
Daredevil took it, his enhanced senses identifying the contents. "Thank you. Really. For the food and the help."
"ANYTIME. COME BACK WHEN YOU'RE NOT BLEEDING."
"I'll try."
Matt left through the door, moving with that practiced stealth despite his injury.
Which left just Gordon and his crew.
The celebrity chef stood up, adjusting his shirt, and regarded Cartoon Cat with an expression that was hard to read.
"That was," Gordon said slowly, "the most insane dinner service I've ever witnessed. And I've filmed in restaurants around the world, in war zones, in places with active volcanoes nearby."
Sign: "SORRY?"
"Don't apologize. It was brilliant. Absolutely mad, but brilliant." Gordon moved closer, his expression serious. "You defended your restaurant. Protected your space. Maintained quality even during a crisis. That's what great chefs do."
"I JUST DIDN'T WANT NINJAS RUINING DINNER."
"Exactly. You have priorities. Standards. Despite being a reality-defying cartoon entity, you understand what hospitality means."
Gordon extended his hand again. "I meant what I said earlier. You have talent. Call me if you need anything. I'll help however I can."
Cartoon Cat shook his hand, his oversized glove completely engulfing Gordon's.
Sign: "THANK YOU. THAT MEANS EVERYTHING."
"Keep cooking. Keep improving. And maybe hire some staff so you're not fighting ninjas solo."
"I'LL WORK ON THAT."
Gordon and his crew left, the camera operator still filming, the woman with the notepad scribbling frantically.
And then Cartoon Cat was alone in his restaurant.
He looked around at the space. The repaired windows (thanks Mephisto). The righted tables. The kitchen where he'd cooked for celebrities and devils.
His restaurant.
The Glitch.
A dimensional pocket that was now neutral ground by infernal law, a place where anyone could come and eat regardless of their nature.
He pulled out a sign for his own benefit: "TONIGHT WAS INSANE."
Then another: "I COOKED FOR GORDON RAMSAY. AND HE LIKED IT."
Then a third: "I MADE FRIENDS WITH GHOST RIDER."
And finally: "I FOUGHT NINJAS WITH MORTAL KOMBAT AND STREET FIGHTER MOVES."
He sat down at one of the tables, his too-long body folding into the chair in ways that shouldn't work geometrically.
His phone buzzed. Multiple messages.
Tony Stark: "JARVIS picked up a massive energy spike in Hell's Kitchen. Was that you? Also, are the reports about Gordon Ramsay visiting a dimensional pocket restaurant true?"
Spider-Man: "DUDE! I heard you have a RESTAURANT now?! Can I visit?! Do you serve pizza?! Please say you serve pizza!"
Deadpool: "You have a restaurant and didn't tell me?! Betrayal! Hurt! I'm coming over tomorrow and ordering everything on the menu!"
Unknown number (Star-Lord): "Rocket says our sensors detected demonic energy near your location. You okay?"
Cartoon Cat smiled—not that he had a choice—and typed responses.
To Tony: "Yes and yes. Long story. Come visit sometime."
To Spider-Man: "I can make pizza. Best pizza. Cartoon physics pizza."
To Deadpool: "The menu is literally infinite. Good luck."
To Star-Lord: "Met Mephisto. Served him curry. It was fine."
He put the phone away and stood up, heading to the kitchen.
Even though dinner service was technically over, even though he'd fought ninjas and served devils and impressed Gordon Ramsay, there was still work to do.
Prep for tomorrow. Cleaning. Planning.
Because he was a chef now.
A cartoon chef.
Running a dimensional pocket restaurant in Hell's Kitchen.
And somehow, improbably, impossibly, it was working.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a chef's knife from hammerspace and began prep work for tomorrow's service, his movements practiced and precise.
Outside, New York carried on, unaware that in their midst was a restaurant that existed outside normal reality, run by a cartoon character who could cook perfect food and fight like a video game character.
But word would spread.
It always did.
And The Glitch would become legendary.
A place where heroes, villains, devils, and everyone in between could come for a good meal and neutral ground.
Where the chef was a ten-foot-tall cartoon cat who combined Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat techniques and made risotto that impressed Gordon Ramsay.
Where the impossible was just Tuesday night.
Cartoon Cat chopped vegetables with precision that would make professional chefs weep, and he was happy.
His second life—this bizarre, chaotic, wonderful second life—was turning out better than he ever could have imagined.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New customers. New chaos.
But tonight, he was a chef.
And that was enough.
The End... of Chapter Six.
(Somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Daredevil was eating the to-go container's contents and having the best meal of his vigilante career. In Malibu, Gordon Ramsay was reviewing footage of the night and planning a documentary about the most unique restaurant he'd ever encountered. And in Hell—actual Hell—Mephisto was telling his demons about the cartoon cat who stole his dimensional rift and made excellent curry. But those are stories for another time.)