You’d heard of La Manifique; the ritzy new French restaurant that opened up on the corner of Fait and Champignon. It’d been around for years, but you’d never really seen anyone go in before. Intimidated by the upper-crusty atmosphere, perhaps? It was one day you decided to venture in – if nothing else, then simply to size up the prices. Surely a joint like this wouldn’t be charging less than $100 per plate…
	As you entered, you found much of what you expected from the outside of the building. The room you found was positively beautiful; tables set up against rich black walls that almost gave each one the air of being framed for a portrait, magnified by the beautiful marble columns supporting the walls. True to your observations in passing… You were the only one present, barring the staff. Yet, the din of forks clicking against plates teased your ears, every now and again…
	But your attention was drawn away by the staff… Perhaps, the only staff member. A young-looking woman with dark hair cropped rather close to her head, and seemingly constrained by a stiff, dark suit; given how slowly she moved. “Ah, welcome, monsieur.” she greeted you, her voice rolling off of her lips like smoke. “Shall I see you to a table?” 
	There was no mention of reservation or price; just a gentle sweep of the woman’s arm as she led you to a table in the center of the room. Had you any observers, you’d say you were the center of attention. Withdrawing a rather small menu from under her arm, the woman slides it across the table to you. “’ave you dined with us before, monsieur?” she muses. Before you even have the chance to ask, she flips the menu open. A smokey chuckle fills the empty room. “Apologies – I can tell you ‘ave not. Let me assure you zat et es our ‘ighest priority to ensure zat, zough zis es your first time, zis shall not be ze last.” 
	Her finger runs across the page, almost seeming to block some of the other dishes – which you hadn’t yet had a chance to examine. “Might I suggest ze ‘ouse special for ze day? La Torte Mechant. A rich turtle soup spiced to perfection; sure to leave a lasting impression on monsieur’s tastebuds.” There’s a soft clap as she shuts the menu and withdraws it; your choice seemingly locked in. With that, she likewise withdraws into a room in back. You aren’t left waiting for long – as she returns with a platter in hand a moment or two later; eerily soon. 
	When she lays it down upon your table and removes the lid, smoke billows out – not the soft white steam one might expect of their food, but a pillowy grey puff rising up and mingling in the light of the chandelier above you. The soup, you see as you crane your neck over the rim, is a golden yellow; thick enough to be a stew, with a sizeable bone sticking over the edge. The scent wafting off of it is enough to sting your nostrils; savory, thick, and… As the woman had said – spiced to perfection… Though one might presume it went a little further beyond. 
	But as the first spoonful graces your lips, you can tell differently. Yes, the spice runs across your tongue like fire – and yes the warm, syrupy liquid makes your throat tighten as it runs downward – but… The taste is ecstatic. Euphoric. This one spoonful begets another, and another furthermore, and-
	You cough; your throat feeling warm. You didn’t feel like it was burnt, per se, but it was hot. Another spoonful of the delightful soup only magnifies the heat. Another cough and sputter – you almost drop the spoon, but your grip tightens on it firmly. So tightly you can feel your fingernails scrape against the inside of your hand. If that nagging, itching cough in the back of your throat didn’t stop you, then you’d be guzzling the soup as hastily as you could. 
	After another coughing fit, you wipe some sweat from your brow – you hadn’t even noticed when you’d begun to sweat, or when your clothes had begun to feel so tight. You pinch the collar of your shirt between your nails and pull it, and you can feel it strain. Tch; you should’ve put on something a little more durable for a trip to a nice place like this, you think. Something nicer, and a little – you take another sip – darker. Yes; bright colors did so clash with the décor. And, it is a bit chilly out, so a jacket might be nice, but the only dark jacket you own is leather, and – you take another sip – what’s wrong with that? Leather had its charm, even in this atmosphere…
	Your spoon clinks against the bottom of the bowl. Looking downward, you can see that you’ve already drained it. Your brow furrows. “Waitress.” you call, to an empty room. Wiping sweat from your brow again, you cry a little louder. “Waitress!” It isn’t much longer before the woman is at your side again. 
	“Oui, our valued client?” she muses. She gives you a smile nothing short of predatory. You don’t care for it. 
	“I need another bowl.” And it’s true. You want it, sure – but that… Petty little sample wasn’t enough to curb your appetite. There’s a fire growing in your gut, and you need more of that soup to quench it. Or fuel it? You’re not sure.
	The woman smiles and bows. “Of course; it will be out shortly.”
	Shortly – hah! She gives you a longer wait than you bargained for. You stewed in your seat as you waited, badgered by that heat in your throat and gut, those damned coughing fits, and your clothes – your clothes! At first you were tugging at the collar, then you resorted to tearing a wider collar for yourself; thank god you’d been growing your nails out for a while. Your teeth clench as you see flesh poking out from the lower half of your shirt, too; shit, what did you need to do to get a shirt that fits well? 
	Only when your jaw goes sore do you realize you’d been clenching your teeth for a while; your face contorted in a sneer. You only drop it to spare yourself more discomfort, rubbing your cheek; softer, but a little rougher. The tips of your fingers run across tiny bumps. Bumps? What’s tha-
	“’ere you are.” the woman coos, placing a new bowl on the table – about damn time. By the time you’re digging into it again, she’s already slinked away. You let the soup run through your teeth; let the delectable meat rest on your tongue… It’s positively delightful. It’s-
	You have to choke down the last of it as another coughing fit flares up. As you hack and sputter, you feel thick smog spit out of your nose and past your lips – it doesn’t add to your breathing problems… In fact, it feels smooth; normal. Natural. You don’t pay it much mind – something much more important is on your mind. The décor. It’s…
	Starting to grate on you. Marble is beautiful, as are the tables, and the few paintings even moreso. Of course, that’s just beautiful to… Conventional sensibilities. Plebian sensibilities. You roll your eyes – you could’ve done better decorating this place. You-… Actually, you could. You take another sip of the soup. It needs a little more natural lighting… Torches? Another sip. Loose fire. Yes, that would work… Another sip. A more natural background as well. Brick? Another sip. Gray brick. It would really make the fire pop. It would be-
	You feel a pressure rising in your throat. All at once, you feel that heat build, rising up your throat and finally spill out. Lashes of flame slip across your long, sinuous tongue and past your plump lips; the sensation makes them tingle. The shock of the event gives way nigh-instantaneously. The smoke hasn’t finished rising from your nostrils – your snout, more like – before you start laughing. “Wahawhawhawhaw!” you belt out, slamming one hand on the table and making the bowl jump, sloshing a little soup onto the platter below. “That was a good one!” Only the best from you, you think.
	Besides, it proved your point about the fire lighting this place up a little. You slam on the table a few more times for effect – barely noticing the sounds of shredding fabric. “Waitress!” you bark. Nobody comes. You growl, and smoke once more begins to flow from your nostrils. “Waitress!!” You can hear wineglasses, upturned on tables nearby, begin to shake and quiver. 
	“Oui, mademoiselle?” the woman coos. You furrow your pronounced brow and sneer at her. You wrap your claw around the bowl and jab it against her chest.
	“More.” you bark. “And make it quick.” Wordlessly, she retreats. She better damn well not take too long. Your gut gurgles and you run a hand across it, feeling the ridged bumps of your abdominal scales. You can’t tell if you’re starving or need to let out a little more flame. 
	While you wait, you sneer and grab some tatters of fabric from your shoulder and cast them off – your girthy breasts sag as the last remnants of fabric remove what little support they had. How long did it take to get those off? A minute or two? And she still isn’t back?
	“WAITREEEEESS!!!” You shout, embers belching from your lips. Heads turn at the tables around you as they stare at the huffing, puffing, smoldering reptile before them… Wait, heads?
	Your eyes turn to a nearby table; a couple Toads sit around it. As soon as your gaze falls upon them, they yelp and turn away, back to their food. Damn right they do – you’ve half a mind to sauté them and serve them up if that damned waitress doesn’t get here soo-
	“Your food, mada-“ As soon as you notice her presence, you grab the bowl from her and snarl. You lean forward and put the bowl to your lips, drinking from it greedily… Rightly so. This was the only proper way to eat; ravenous and craven. It’s quickly drained – and when you slam the bowl down, you give a harsh, fiery belch of satisfaction. When you move to sit up again, you bump up against something.
	Or, something of yours bumps up against the chair. Your shell, in specific. One of the wicked spikes has skewered the wood, as well. You’ve half a mind to complain to the waitress, but you find her offering something to you. A… Box. A green one with a big, red icon of a Koopa on it. “From ze gentleman at table seven.” she whispers. Following her hand, you find your gaze drawn to the left… And there it stays.
	There sits a colossus in yellow scales; his wicked face framed by a mane of fiery red. That shell of his… That shell, though… Pierced by wicked spikes, just like yours. If you were close enough, you could doubtlessly see your reflection in it. He offers a toothy smirk your way, and your heart flutters. You look over to the box again, averting your eyes… Uncharacteristically bashfully. You weren’t bashful. You were-
	Y-you were going to see what he wanted to give you. You reach up, and you place one fatty finger upon the box, trying to fumble the small thing open… Try as you might, your claws make this a challenge. It takes a dangerous gaze toward the waitress for her to open it for you. Inside, you find… Just what you expected; just what you hoped for… What only a suitor could offer.
	A ring. Gold band, fine-cut emerald, with that same dangerously-grinning, red Koopa emblem in the center. You pluck it out of the box and let it hang on your claw, admiring the piece. It’s…
	“Mmmmm…” A bassy, throaty thrum fills the air. 
	Your eyes turn up, and there he is; that mysterious suitor. “Is that… Brimstone in the air?” Yes, you think – yes it is. A lady like you only settles for the best scents; and you always preferred Imperious Brimstone… “With a hint of charcoal.” 
	“My,” you say, almost breathless. “it’s…”
	“Enrapturing.” He holds out his hand, and you’re dumbstruck for a moment, eyelids fluttering. When you return to your senses, you turn your hand over and let the ring drop into his… While yours is still presented, expectantly.
	“Bowser.” he introduces himself. “And what may I call you, miss…?” He takes the ring in his surprisingly-dexterous hands and hovers it over your ring finger – you can feel smoke rising from your lips. 
	“I…” You feel the ring slip higher and higher… “Am Repugna Koopa XIV.” Your only trepidation comes from how flattered this gentleman leaves you.
	He chuckles and leaves the ring at the high end of the finger. “Some call me King Koopa,” he introduces, and your heart jumps. “and now, some might call you Queen.” 
	Your lips open to say something, but you’re interrupted by the waitress. “Ah, monsieur and mademoiselle…” she begins. At once, the two of you sneer at her.
	“What!?” Your eyes then fall back upon each-others’… With unity like that, you know you found the right man. 
	“The bill…” The woman murmurs; though it isn’t clear if her tentative tone is genuine or coy. 
	You spit a plume of flame. “Bill!? You’re lucky we didn’t level this place.” you grunt, then turn to Bowser. “C’mon, dear… We’ve got places to be.”