Frying, Stir-Frying, Boiling, and Deep-Frying in a Galactic Prison

I woke up with a restraint collar around my neck, prisoner number 739. My crime: “Destroying a space station by unknown means.”

The guard sneered. “Who’d have thought you could become a terrorist just by cooking?”

Then one day, the Abyss Prison, home to the most vicious criminals in the universe, ran out of food.

I picked up half a bag of sprouting potatoes from the corner of the kitchen and casually fried them into a tower of golden fries.

On the monitor, the leader of the dragon clan, imprisoned for a century after going berserk, slowly opened his slit pupils. “...What is that?”

Later, the top ten most powerful names on the interstellar wanted list tore apart half the prison fighting over my sweet-and-sour pork tenderloin.