[This story isn’t too bad. It’s a great idea. The wording
could have been light years better, though. I wrote this bizarro story before I
even knew bizarro was a thing. It was inspired by a dream I’d had once. That
dream was probably inspired by my disgust whenever I ordered a burger with
extra mustard, extra ketchup, and never getting what I wanted. Also, for some
reason the editor changed “ketchup” to “catsup.” I much prefer the former, but
ah well. It’s a cosmetic change. This was published in Chicago Commuter, Feb.
2002. It is the second story I submitted to my boss at that ad space job. The
third was “Baseball Players are a Superstitious Lot,” which is in TALES OF
QUESTIONABLE TASTE.]
Buzz stepped up to the counter and said, “Hi. Give me two
cheeseburgers with extra mustard, extra catsup, large fries, and a large Coke
with no ice.”
“That be all?” the man with the paper hat asked.
“That’s it,” Buzz said.
“Four fifty-four.”
Buzz handed the man a five. When he got his change, he
stepped aside so Timmy could make his order.
About five minutes later, they were sitting at a booth,
unwrapping their food.
“So I said to her, ‘Why not? It’s been so long since we did
anything, you know?’ And she—” Buzz stopped to take a bite of his burger. A
grimace clouded his face. “Jesus, Timmy, how do you stand this place? What the
hell?” He peeled to top bun off, and his face slid into dismay. “You call this
extra mustard and catsup?”
Timmy just shrugged.
Buzz dropped the burger onto the tray and unwrapped the
other one. Upon careful inspection, he decided it was good enough and bit into
it. Catsup squirted out the back end and hit the tray with a plop. As for the
first cheeseburger, the unworthy one, when the meal was done, it went into the
garbage with the rest of the wrappers, cardboard fry boxes, and tray paper.
-
Willy Smith locked the door. Closed at last, he thought as
he took off his ridiculous paper hat and stuffed it into his back pocket. All
he had to do now was wipe down the tables and take out the garbage, and he
would finally be able to go to Matt Inglewood’s party. Trish was going to be
there, and she had a hell of a set on her. Willy figured if he could get her
drunk enough, he might even get laid tonight.
“Willy.” It was the manager, Dick Reese. Willy, a young man
of simple tastes, called him Dick as often as he could, always emphasizing the
name. Everyone thought it was funny. Dick thought it was very unoriginal.
“Yeah, Dick?” Willy said.
“I’m going to clean the bathrooms. Get to work on the
garbage, okay?”
“Sure, Dick,” Willy said, and he went to the supply cabinet
to retrieve five plastic garbage bags for the five containers. As he worked at
replacing the bloated, soiled bags with fresh ones, he thought about Trish and
her breasts. Yeah, there was no doubt about it: he would have to get her drunk
if he was going to score with her. Trish was a pretty uptight type of girl.
Sure, she drank a little, but she was also president of student council, editor
of the school paper and yearbook, cheerleader, and cello player for the
orchestra. Willy was sure he had left out one or a hundred other things, but
something else overshadowed all her other accomplishments: her daddy was the
mayor, and she aspired to someday take his place, meaning that she had no time
for a lowlife like Willy.
So yeah, he would have to break out the hard stuff.
Definitely.
Willy dragged the five stuffed bags to the back door, where
he pulled them one by one and threw them
into the dumpster. He was tossing the last one when he felt something slip into
the flesh of his hand. Pain carved its way up his arm, and he gave a small cry
and swore under his breath. He looked at his hand. Blood trickled down his palm
and across the lines on his wrist. He swore again as he wondered what kind of
diseases he might now have because of this stupid damn job.
Standing on tip-toes, he looked into the dumpster to see if
he could get a glimpse of whatever had opened up his hand. At first he saw
nothing, but then something moved.
He backed up, thinking it to be a cat. But the bag moved, he
thought, and he stepped forward again to get a better look. The bag moved
again, and he muttered, “No way.” Was it a rat? If so, how the hell did it get
into the bag? Did someone throw it away?
Something jumped from the bag, splitting it like a rotten
tomato, and latched onto his nose. At first he was numbed with fear and didn’t
realize what was happening to him. Then, the pain set in as what felt like
needles dug into his nose, and blood poured down his lips. He screamed and
tripped over his own feet, falling to the ground. He battered the thing, trying
to knock it off, but he only made things worse. The thing wriggled and dug
deeper into Willy’s cartilage.
“Help!” he screamed. “Help!” Over and over again.
He managed to grab the thing and pull; it came away easily,
but Willy closed his eyes and screamed harder. God no oh God don’t tell me, he
thought as he dropped the thing and grabbed at his face. “No,” he groaned.
“No!” Half of his nose was gone.
He looked up from his bloody fingers just in time to see the
thing come at him again, this time at the throat. He managed to get his hand
up, and the thing tore through his palm. Willy screamed again, but this time,
he got a better look at his assailant. When he recognized it as a cheeseburger
with one bite taken out of it, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The cheeseburger opened, and he could see it had a row of
teeth just like he had seen on a piranha. (Willy was an avid viewer of Animal
Planet.)
He was about to shake it away when it leaped from the back
of his hand and latched onto his lower lip. Willy screamed even louder as he
grabbed the cheeseburger and pulled it, and a good portion of his lip, away. He
threw the cheeseburger and scrambled for the door, puzzled that he couldn’t
close his mouth all the way.
Please, God, he thought. Whatever I did, I’m sorry, just
don’t let me die like this, please!
God must not have been listening. In his haste to get out of
work early, Willy had forgotten to prop open the back door, which locks
automatically if it closes. When Willy grabbed the knob and tried to turn it,
it refused to budge.
His bladder emptied when he felt something scuttle up his
back. He had enough time to realize that the closest he will ever come to a
sexual encounter was touching up his baby sister in her crib when he was ten.
Then, he felt more pain in his throat, and the front of his shirt was suddenly
very wet. Willy collapsed and drained away.
-
Dick put down the mop when he heard the first scream. There
was a moment of silence before he heard the cries for help.
Damn that kid, Dick thought. I told him a thousand times to
prop that door open whenever he goes out.
He stopped at the sink to wash the soap away, but then he
heard more screams. Scared screams, not dammit-I’m-locked-out-please-let-me-in
screams. He forgot about the hand drier and ran for the back door.
By the time the door was in sight, the screams stopped.
Dick’s hand touched the knob and turned slowly. He opened up a crack and took a
peek. On the ground, he could see Willy, except something had torn his throat
out and mauled his face. Dick didn’t think the poor kid was breathing.
Something jumped off Willy’s body at Dick. On reflex, he
slammed the door. Whatever that thing was, it hit the door hard. It tried a
couple more times, but the reinforced door merely shuddered.
Only then, in the moment of silence, did he realize what it
was. Not again, he thought, but looking back on the last time he had been
attacked by a cheeseburger (twenty long years ago, at a restaurant in the city),
he knew it was happening again. He had been lucky the first time: there had
been a Vietnam
vet working as manager, and the guy was able to take the cheeseburger by
throwing a knife at it. Now, all Dick knew to do was back away from the door.
There was a crash from out front, and he knew the
cheeseburger had gotten in.
Dick grabbed a knife from one of the cutting boards and
started toward the cash register. He held the blade down, waiting for the
burger to make its move. Distantly, he wished Ellroy, the Vietnam vet,
was here. For Ellroy, this would have been no problem at all.
Dick heard a miniscule squeak and turned just in time to see
the cheeseburger scurrying across the floor toward him. He whipped his body
around as it jumped at him. He meant to stab it, but all the knife did was
block the cheeseburger. It squealed, and Dick could smell mustard.
Wounded, it tried to escape, but Dick knew he had the upper
hand. He went after it, following its yellow-red trail. It tried to flee into
the bathroom, but it couldn’t open the heavy door. Before it could come up with
a back-up plan, Dick stepped on it. It gave another squeal, and Dick stepped on
it again. This time, it didn’t make a sound. It stopped moving.
“Damn.” Dick sighed. The burger was stuck to his shoe. He
shook his foot, and the pulpy thing plopped to the tiles.
“Jesus Christ, that was close.” He knew he would have to
call the police, but there was no way they would believe a cheeseburger had
done this, especially since that thing’s teeth had disappeared upon its death.
No, he’d leave the burger out front and let the police come to their own, safer
conclusions.
After all, would anyone believe that a killer cheeseburger
so much as existed? These things don’t happen, right? Right?
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