When his last leaf of truffle parsley disintegrated, he knew he would die soon. Even though his sous-vide yellow octopus was cooked perfectly at the razor-thin edge of done-ness, and the once-in-a-century smoky cassave was salivatingly well fried; he had failed.

Other competitors would not have lost consciousness long enough to fuck up the vital ingredient of a vinaigrette. Others would be more perfect than him.

He felt his artifical neurons firing for one last time. And then he wasn't him anymore.