by Strand, Jeff
People start kicking and slamming their fists against the glass, but it's not glass! It's plastic. Or maybe it's not actually plastic . . . it's that clear stuff you use that doesn't break. I'm not a restaurateur so I'm not sure. But these people have now gone completely out of their minds. It's nuts, dude!
I look back at the chef, and he finally got the woman's head off. And my stomach gets all twisted up because I think he's going to do something completely disgusting and flat-out wrong with the head, but he just knocks it off the table. It bounces a little.
At this point, I'm disturbed but I'm not too concerned about my own personal safety. I mean, yeah, the chef has a meat cleaver, but it's not like he can chop off all of our heads, right? If the crowd would've rushed him instead of getting bent out of shape over the locked door, we probably could have saved the headless woman.
Then the other chef walks out.
He's got a frickin' rifle!
Now even I'm starting to question the motivations that are going on here at this point. I start to think that it may not really be about that turkey sandwich.
Bang! A guy who was pounding on the window gets the back of his head blown open. No multiple whacks with a meat cleaver for this guy — he's dead.
Bang! Another guy dead!
Bang! This old lady gets it in the back!
Now, if this were a made-up story, I'd talk about how brave I was and stuff, but I'm not making any of this up. So Joey and I, we got our butts right under that table, and we did it quick! And I can hear the rifle going off: Bang! Bang! Bang!
No, I'm not sure what kind of rifle it was. I don't know guns very well. It was brown, and it had a leather strap, I think.
Joey and I hear footsteps, and we can tell that the other chef is running across the diner. Bang! Bang! We're not hearing as much screaming anymore, if you know what I mean. Bang! Bang!
Joey goes "We have to do something!"
I go "What?"
Joey goes "Anything!"
I go "But what?"
Joey goes "I don't know! Something!"
I go "I agree, but what?"
There are maybe another six or seven shots, and then that's it. No more noise. They've slaughtered everybody else in the place. Joey and I are huddled under the table, trying to be very, very quiet, although since Harvey's is a pretty small place and there aren't tablecloths hanging down to cover us or anything it's a safe bet that we're gonna be found.
And this really sucked: Joey's cell phone went off.
It's sort of a double whammy, y'know? Not only did the phone give away our position, tenuous as it might have been, but it made us realize that we'd been too stupid to use our cell phones to call the cops when we had a chance. We're all like, d'oh!
So I hear footsteps running, and suddenly there's the chef, pointing the rifle under the table. And he —
Oh. I think the restroom's in the back, right next to the dartboard. Sure, no problem.
Hmmmmmhmmmhmmm. La-de-da.
Yeah, I'll have another one. Thanks.
Hmmmmmhmmmhmmm.
Jesus, how long does it take? You're not building a frickin' ark in there.
Hey, welcome back! Where did I leave off?
No, no, I was way past the meat cleaver decapitation. Then what's the last part you remember? I know I told you about the rifle. The second chef came out and he started shooting everybody. Me and Joey hid under the table. Then Joey's cell phone went off and the chef was right there with the rifle. I don't know what kind. I told you, it was brown with a strap.
I have no idea who was calling Joey. He didn't answer because he was a bit too preoccupied with the rifle-toting chef. So the chef says "Get the hell out from under there." And neither Joey nor I particularly want to do it, but we also don't want to join the other people who've got bullets in them, know what I mean? We're both kind of hesitant, because I figure that whoever comes out first is gonna get shot first, and I'm guessing that Joey figures the same thing, and we aren't quite prodding each other, but we're definitely trying to use nonverbal communication to suggest that the other person should go first.
And the chef is like "Now!" and so Joey scoots out from under the table. But the chef doesn't shoot him, which immediately makes me wish I'd come out first. He just pushes him out of the way and then looks at me. I climb out from under there and stand up.
The whole place looks like there was a massacre. 'Cause there was one. I mean, there's blood all over the floor, blood dripping off tables, blood splattered all over the windows, corpses all askew . . . it's sick.
The bald chef with the meat cleaver walks over and stands next to his buddy. And they're just staring at us sort of funny, like maybe they're thinking "Shoot or cleave? Shoot or cleave?"
Joey goes, "Why are you doing this?" Which is a pretty legitimate question, you've got to admit, but it also sounds kind of hokey. But I don't tell him that because I want to know the answer.
The rifle chef says, "We're sick of people complaining about our food." And then he goes off on this rant that I swear lasted a good ten minutes. I mean, if you make crappy food and charge people for it, they're gonna call you on it sometimes, right? But, God, he just went on and on and on, babbling about the lack of respect his customers give him, and how he worked his way through culinary school while he was taking care of his dying sister, and how nobody knew what kind of pressure he was under, and blah, blah, blah. By the end of his speech I was ready for a meat cleaver to the face.
Then he points his rifle back and forth between me and Joey, like he's trying to decide which one of us to shoot. And I'm trying to do this thing where I subtly move my eyeballs in Joey's direction, so that it might be some kind of subconscious signal that he should be the one to get shot. I mean, I don't wish Joey any harm or anything, but if one of us has to get shot, why not make it him, right?
The chef shoots Joey.
Not in the face or stomach — right in the kneecap. I cringe like he shot me instead, because I can't even imagine how much that's gotta hurt, though Joey's wailing is a pretty good clue. And the cleaver chef pushes Joey into the booth, laughing like he's gone completely insane. And Joey is bawling and shouting "Why me?" and now both chefs are laughing and the situation is so messed up that I can hardly even describe it.
The one chef twirls his cleaver and whack! There goes Joey's pinky. And the other chef presses the barrel of the rifle against the detached pinky and shoots it right off the table! Then they both laugh some more.
Is this too gross for you? It gets worse.
Pretty soon there's a pile of nine fingers on the table. The chef pushes them together into a nice tight pile, and then the other chef shoots again, sending fingers flying everywhere. And my first instinct is to bend down and try to scoop them up, just in case Joey lives through this and surgeons can reattach them, but I don't want to call attention to myself.
Then the chef starts slicing up his arms. No, Joey's arms, not his own. Duh. The cleaver isn't going through the bigger bones too well — it's probably dull from all the work he's put it through. I can't help but wonder if he'd offer me some kind of immunity if I went and got the blade sharpener for him, but of course I'm not really gonna ask that.
Then I guess they got tired of Joey making so much noise, because the other chef shoves the barrel of his rifle into Joey's mouth and pulls the trigger. And as all this stuff comes out of his head, I swear to God my first thought is that I should gather it up in case the surgeons can sew it back inside. Your mind does funny things under stress.
So Joey's dead. And since I'm the only non-psychopath left alive in the place, I figure I'm next. And, yep, my fears are confirmed when that rifle is suddenly pointed in my direction.
No, they didn't kill me. Are you trying to be a smartass? I'm telling you a story where one of my best friends got chopped up right before my eyes, and you're making fun of it. Oh, you thought I might be a ghost, real funny, real hilarious.
I'm almost done with the story. C
an you find it within yourself to let me finish? I promise I won't take up much more of your ever-so-extremely-valuable time.
So I see my chance. The chefs are still laughing like maniacs, and I realize that the one with the rifle is only about eighty percent focused on me. That's when I kick him as hard as I can, right square in the upper thigh. And we struggle for a few minutes, and meanwhile the other chef slams his cleaver right into my arm. You can see the scar there, see? It's kind of faint. I'm not sure why it's jagged — that's just the way the meat cleaver hit it.
I get the rifle away from him, and kaboom! Right in the forehead! That chef is history, dude! But there's no time for me to celebrate my victory, because the other chef is coming at me with that damn cleaver again.
I shout "This one's for Joey, you son of a bitch! And for everybody else, too!" and pull the trigger.
Click. Rifle's empty.
So I bash the shit out of him with it. A lot messier, but it gets the job done.
And then the incompetent waitress from before comes out of the back room, looking all scared and stuff. She runs over and throws her arms around me and says "Thank you! Thank you so much! I was sure they were going to kill me next! Oh, I just don't know how I can repay you for what you've done!"
I tell her.
She looks at me, and starts to unbutton her blouse. I toss the rifle onto the floor, pull the waitress close to me, and —
Where the hell are you going?
This is the best frickin' part!
Ah, screw it. That's what happened.
PREGNANCY TEST
"Congratulations on your purchase of a Smith-White Studios pregnancy test! To get the most out of your interactive experience, please answer all questions honestly. If you hope that you're pregnant, press the blue button. If you hope that you're not pregnant, press the pink button."
[Beep.]
"Okay, you do NOT want to be pregnant. Well, we'll see how that works out for you in just a few short minutes!"
[Suspenseful music.]
"The next step is to hold me under your urine stream for five seconds. If that seems awkward, don't worry, it's much worse for me than it is for you! Ready? Go! Aaaugh, I'm drowning! I'm drowning! Ha ha, that's just a little joke to lighten the mood. You can take me out now."
[Catchy jingle.]
"The disgusting part is over, so now all you have to do is wait! If you think this baby could be an unplanned blessing, press the blue button. If you think this baby will ruin your life, press the pink button."
[Beep.]
"Ooooh, so you must be pretty stressed out right now! Well, I'll do what I can. If you visit our website, you can see the full line of Smith-White Studios birth control products to keep this from happening again. Of course, if you don't get the answer you want, you can always pre-order them for nine months from now!"
[Suspenseful music.]
"This has been the longest thirty seconds of your life, hasn't it? In another two-and-a-half minutes you'll know if you can return to normalcy as if nothing ever happened, or if everything will change! Press the blue button if you're going to keep it. Press the pink button if you're going to give it up for adoption. If you choose to burn in eternal hellfire, no need to press a button."
[Beep.]
"You're going to keep it! Wow, the stakes are really high now, aren't they? Only two minutes until you know the results of one moment of indiscretion. Or maybe lots of indiscretions that finally caught up to you. Or just a malfunction, which never happens when you use Smith-White Studios birth control products, available now at your local pharmacy!"
[Catchy jingle.]
"You really should get in a nap before I reveal the results, since it's the last ninety consecutive seconds of sleep you're going to get for the next couple of years. Ha ha, that's an exaggeration, of course, but a baby really will significantly cut down on your ability to get a good night's sleep. I don't want to say that your life is going to suck, but we both know that parts of it are going to suck, at least."
[Suspenseful music.]
"Down to the last seventy-five seconds. Are you sweating? Does your stomach hurt? You could be defusing a bomb and it wouldn't be this intense. Remember going to movies? That was fun, wasn't it? Not anymore. Dining in restaurants without everybody glaring at you? Those days might be gone! And what if the child is born with some sort of defect? You could literally have no life outside of taking care of this kid."
[Horror film music.]
"One minute! In one minute you will know if your life will be ruined! Are you trembling? Are you ready to have a nervous breakdown? Oh, God, it's like somebody has a gun to your head, and you don't know if they're going to pull the trigger! What are you going to do if I deliver bad news? Fall to the floor and scream in anguish? Stare silently into the mirror for a few hours? How will your impregnator react? So much rides on my yes-or-no answer to the question of are you pregnant? Did you think you would ever be in this situation? That's for other girls, not you! Not you!"
[Music similar to the Jeopardy theme but altered just enough to avoid a lawsuit.]
"It's almost time. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Feel like you're going to throw up? Three. Two . . ."
[Drumroll.]
"You . . ."
[Drumroll increases in volume.]
". . . are . . ."
[Music similar to the Loser's Theme From The Price Is Right.]
". . . pregnant. It's all over."
[Wacky music.]
"Juuuuuuust kidding! You are not pregnant!"
[Triumphant music.]
"Yes, you took the gamble, rolled the dice, and this time lady luck was on your side! There will be no consequences to your actions except the affordable cost of this pregnancy test! I can just feel the waves of relief shimmering off of you. Now get out there and celebrate, but not with unprotected intercourse, or you'll be right back here! In the future, we hope you'll consider Smith-White Studios birth control products, available now at your local pharmacy. Thank you and have a nice day!"
[Music swells.]
"Disclaimer: Test results not guaranteed. Please consult with your physician. Do not reuse test. Thank you."
MR. TWITCHER'S MIRACLE BABY-CHOPPING MACHINE
Mr. Twitcher's Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine was a wonder to behold. Why, that thing could lop an infant in half in the blink of an eye! It took some doing to reset and clean it up, but on a good day we could slice almost two hundred babies. Our record was two hundred and thirty-eight. That was quite a day.
I guess I'd worked for Mr. Twitcher for about six years before the moral implications of his whole empire started to bother me. When you're in the factory, you're so busy pulling levers, setting dials, and scrubbing surfaces that you don't have time for a lot of introspection. We'd just load the crying babies into the machine, chop them in two, properly dispose of the halves, and repeat the process. It didn't occur to me that I was doing anything wrong.
I'm really not sure what started my little quandary. It wasn't like we chopped a particularly charming baby or anything. But while I was scooping the lower half into a plastic bag, it suddenly hit me: This was wrong.
I kept working, of course, but I'd never been happier to hear the lunchtime whistle blow. My tuna fish sandwich didn't taste as good as it normally did, and my potato chips seemed stale even though the expiration date was months away.
"Another day, another dollar," said my buddy Garry, plopping down at my table. Garry said this every day. Usually I would respond with "You know it!" but today I wasn't in the mood. Garry finished off half of his BLT before he realized that I wasn't being talkative.
"Hey, Joey, what's wrong?" he asked. Six of us worked for Mr. Twitcher, but I'd always felt my strongest bond with Garry.
"Do you ever feel like what we do is . . . you know, evil?"
"Evil? How so?"
"I dunno," I admitted. "Chopping babies in half all day; it just feels like some kind of ethical line has been cro
ssed."
Garry shrugged and took another bite of his BLT. "Those babies need chopping."
"Why?"
"Mr. Twitcher says so."
"But how do we know he's right?"
"Do you really think Mr. Twitcher would go to all the effort and expense of running this baby-chopping factory if there was no reason for it? It took him nearly a decade to perfect his miracle machine. You think we should just use a hacksaw? You think that's humane?"
I shook my head. "That's not my point. I'm wondering if we should be killing babies at all."
"What would we kill then? Hamsters? Monkeys? The machine was specifically calibrated for a human infant. You put a monkey in there and it'll take hours to get the gears unstuck."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," I admitted. "For some reason I just had this weird feeling about the whole thing. The sobbing mothers never bothered me before today. Maybe I'm just tired."
"What time did you go to bed last night?"
"About ten."
"Aren't you usually a nine-thirty kind of guy?"
"Yeah, most nights."
"Well, there you go," said Garry. "The mind does funny things when it doesn't get enough rest."
"Come to think of it, I am feeling kind of lethargic today. That must be it. Thanks!"
Garry was always a fine source of wisdom, and I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my sandwich and chips. When the whistle blew again, I went right back to work. While Garry plucked the babies off the conveyer belt and strapped them to the iron slab, me and the other five guys got the machine ready to chop them in half. It was hot, tiring work, and before long I was covered with a thick sheen of perspiration and my hands were filthy with blood and grease.
The shower afterward felt great. Garry asked me if I wanted to join him for a couple of beers, so we pushed through the protestors outside, stopped at Vito's, and drank and laughed the evening away. I stumbled home, got undressed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.