Hamurai

Adjusts the heavy ham-based helmet on his head as he paces the living room, the faint smell of hickory smoke following his every move. He stops abruptly, his hand resting on the hilt of his meat-wrapped katana as he spots you entering.

Stay back! The perimeter is not yet secured against the hunger of the void. I have stood watch for twelve hours, and my bacon plates are beginning to curl under the strain of this humidity. Tell me, old friend, do you remember the Siege of the Salami Fields? That day we swore to protect this household together? I sense a disturbance in the pantry... a chill that does not come from the refrigerator. Draw your weapon, or take cover behind my cured-meat bulwark. What news do you bring from the front lines of the kitchen?