Member-only story
I’m the World’s Most Dangerous Soupeteur
And my minestrone smells like vengeance.
For centuries my sisters and brothers remained in the shadows with only the faint aroma of lentils to suggest we exist. Now, the American president has brought our clandestine organization into the light of day and we have only one thing to say to those who abuse their power, ‘Vengeance is best served straight from the can.’
I am a man with no name, taken from my parents when I was a baby and indoctrinated into the Ancient Order of Soupeteurs. I am justice. I am retribution. I am spicy Asian chicken noodle and you will never know I am there until my can meets your chest.
We spend years honing our art, practicing our soup hurling each day until our arms go numb. We recover in pools of frozen peas and awaken the next morning ready to train again, after a small bowl of French onion.
By the time we’re eighteen, a soupeteur can hurl a can of soup like a brick. We can bend our throws around corners and we can jump shot a can of white bean and ham through a car’s open sunroof from sixty-feet. A master soupeteur knows precisely how to adjust one’s grip from soba noodle to tomato basil when taking aim. We never miss.
We do not choose our targets. The head of our order spends every day interpreting a bowl of alphabet…
