Maid Service

From the starboard deck, a small set of stairs climbs to a door. Upon entering this door one is faced with the small mess hall, complete with a large wooden table and benches. Off the mess hall is another door which leads to the kitchen. Past the sinks, metal countertops and dishracks lies the small walk-in refrigerator where the enormous cuts of meat and bins of vegetables are stored for the months-long sea voyages. However, what most members of the crew remain unaware of is that, behind a large case of salted fish shoved against the wall in the freezer, there lies another door, only about three feet high and barricaded with a small wooden beam from the inside. On most occasions, if you were to stumble across this door by accident and force it open, no great or horrible surprise would greet you - just a narrow wooden shelf, a pillow directly before it on the floor, and a half-melted candle in a silver holder. Originally intended as a wine cellar of sorts, only one member of the Straw-Hat Pirates knew of this tiny, enclosed space, and used it for quite a different purpose: this was Sanji’s writing room. His secret, which he kept hidden from all other members on board, was that he kept a nightly diary in which he recorded his thoughts and events of the day. It was a habit he’d picked up from Zeff, a way to log his experiences and try to make better sense of the random and crazy things that happened to him (all the crazier since he’d agreed to become part of Luffy’s motley little group). And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that if Usopp or Zoro ever found out about this diary, his life as he knew it would be over.

However, if you were to open the diminutive door today, in fact, just this minute, you would find another sort of activity going on. Something a bit less wholesome than journal writing. The recipe might go as follows:

One pair of black silk panties, freshly laundered

One blond boy, hold the pants

Some grade-A virgin olive oil

A pinch of fear

Twenty-five minutes later, Sanji emerged into the kitchen, body temperature slightly higher than you might have expected from a person who entered the walk-in refrigerator over half an hour ago. He walked to the sink and ran cool water over his forehead, then toweled his face off on a dishrag. Tucking his new shirt into his pants, he checked himself for any signs of leftover moral degeneracy, and once assured there were none, ventured back out into the bright sun. The scrap of silk in his back pocket was already dry, and he had a delivery to make. But first, he really needed a smoke.