Ramsay stood in the middle of the promenade, white chef’s jacket open at the neck, staring up at a neon sign that read in looping cursive: “Syrup’s Wigs & Wonders.”
“Right,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I signed up to run the most exclusive kitchens on the planet, and I’m standing opposite a bloody wig shop.”
From inside, a bell jangled. Out shuffled Syrup: tracksuit, sliders, joint hanging from the corner of his mouth, belly leading the way like it arrived five seconds before the rest of him.
“Chef!” Syrup beamed, smoke curling around his head. “You found my little enterprise.”
Ramsay turned slowly. “Your what, exactly?”
“My wig lab,” Syrup said proudly, gesturing at the window packed with technicolour hairpieces and feathered monstrosities. “Part of the guest journey. New life, new look. They land, they eat your five-star pork nonsense, they get a fresh barnet from me, everyone’s happy.”
Ramsay stared. “I was told I’d have full creative grasp of the island’s restaurants and themed food outlets. No one mentioned I’d be across the path from a stoned wardrobe malfunction in human form.”
Syrup laughed, unbothered. “Mate, relax. You plate the dreams, I dress the nightmares. Symbiosis.”
Ramsay stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’ve cooked in Vegas, Dubai, bloody Disneyland. I’ve dealt with gamblers, oligarchs, and mouse security. But here? I’ve got the world’s elite flying in on private jets, and the first thing they see is you, baked out of your skull, selling wigs. Why is there a worthless, fat man smoking weed on my island?”
Syrup took a slow drag, exhaled, and pointed the joint at him like a wand. “Because your island, Chef, doesn’t exist without people like me. I’m the stress valve. I’m misdirection. While they’re laughing at the wigs, they’re not asking why the pork tastes so good or why no one ever wants to leave.”
Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me you’re here on purpose?”
“Everyone’s here on purpose,” Syrup replied, suddenly sharper. “You got drafted for your name, your standards, your pretty plates. I got drafted because nobody takes me seriously, and that’s the safest place on this rock. They sit in my chair, they talk. They think I’m a joke. I hear everything.”
Ramsay glanced back at the restaurant strip: flame-lit terraces, glass-fronted kitchens, private dining rooms with views of the Pleasure Beach and its lethal glamour. “So while I’m composing tasting menus for billionaires, you’re… what? Eavesdropping in a lace-front?”
“Information, Chef.” Syrup tapped his temple. “You feed their mouths. I feed the Syndicate their secrets. They feel safe with me. No judgement, no menus, no stars, just wigs and weed. You’d be amazed what people confess when they’re trying on a new identity.”
Ramsay let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “So I’m the bait, you’re the listening device, and the island’s one big, shiny trap.”
Syrup shrugged. “You wanted creative control. This is the canvas. Best ingredients on earth, best debtors on earth, best liars on earth. You can leave, by the way.”
Ramsay’s head snapped around. “Can I?”
Syrup held his gaze. “Physically? Sure. Heli pad’s still there. Metaphorically? You’ve already served the first course. They’ve tasted heaven. Walk away now and you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what they did with it.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere beyond the promenade, the Bacon Blaster screamed past in a streak of light and terrified voices.
Ramsay exhaled slowly. “You’re an absolute disaster of a human being, you know that?”
Syrup grinned. “And you’re the finest weapon they’ve ever hired in whites, Chef.”
Ramsay straightened his jacket, eyes hardening with that familiar, dangerous resolve. “Fine. I’ll cook. I’ll make this island taste like nothing else on earth. But if I find out you’re using my food for anything more than feeding them…”
Syrup raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’ll shout at me on camera?”
“No,” Ramsay said quietly. “I’ll shut this place down dish by dish.”
Syrup’s smile faltered for just a second, then returned, sharper now. He took a slow drag from his joint, exhaling a cloud that caught the neon light like a halo around his unkempt head. “Can you really leave, Chef? Physically? Sure, heli pad’s right there. But think about it, why would you want to? The real world out there? It’s crumbling. Wars, recessions, idiots ruining Michelin stars with molecular foam bollocks. Here? You’re part of the magic. We’re improving it all. Feeding the elite, shaping tomorrow, one perfect plate at a time. You walk away, you’re back to shouting at line cooks in rainy London.”
Ramsay paused, arms crossed, the distant scream of the Bacon Blaster punctuating the silence. “Magic? This island’s a bloody freak show. Wigs, pork lozenges that taste too good, rides that don’t end right. What’s your angle, you stoned slob?”
Syrup’s eyes gleamed as he shuffled to a velvet-curtained back room, parting the fabric to reveal his prize possession: The Golden Fleece. It hung suspended in a glass case, shimmering with an otherworldly golden glow, its wool-like strands rippling faintly as if breathing. Origin unknown, rumored ancient, whispered to hold magical properties like eternal prosperity or unbreakable luck, but it was the very thought that birthed his shop on Chow Island. “This baby? She’s why I’m here. Found her in a dodgy auction years back, felt the pull. Healing vibes, power vibes, whatever you call it. Guests come for a wig, stay for the fleece energy. Draws ‘em in, keeps ‘em chatting. I’ve even talked to the occasional bird on Flamingo Bay, proper fit ones, mind you. Never got anywhere, but hey, success is success.”
Ramsay snorted. “A magic sheepskin? You’re off your tits.”
Syrup shrugged, tapping the glass reverently. “Believe what you want. But this island? It’s the real Golden Fleece. Stay, Chef. Cook the future. Or piss off back to the shitty real world. Your call.”
Ramsay lingered, the fleece’s glow reflecting in his eyes, the weight of the island’s secrets pressing in. Outside, the Pleasure Beach roared on, thrills masking traps, pork lozenges promising paradise. He turned toward his kitchens, muttering, “Bloody madhouse.”
Ramsay turned on his heel, the Golden Fleece’s unnatural shimmer lingering in his mind like an afterimage burned into his retinas. He caught a glimpse of Zara outside the shop window, her silhouette sharp against the neon haze of the Pleasure Beach. Rage boiled over. “You fat, ugly waste of oxygen! You’ll never get a fit woman, you pathetic, stoned slob!” he bellowed, storming out the door, jacket flapping like a cape as he charged toward Zara, ready to confront whatever fresh madness the island had thrown his way.
