ketchup, grease, caramel, and cheesy beans—shuddered for a moment, and was stilled.
Johnny stood in complete shock, his eyes filled with the sight of the monster's body, his ears filled with the sound of dripping as its splattered remnants found their ways to the tile floor.
The suited man stepped gingerly over scattered pieces of the mess and made his way to the condiment stand. He plucked a handful of napkins out and began wiping at his high-polish shoes.
After a moment, he returned to stand beside Johnny.
“Thank you,” he said. “I should have had the Diet Pepsi ready earlier. It's just unusual for us not to catch it in time.”
Johnny's mind was numb—more numb than it had ever been as he had stood before the deep fryer. He knew that thoughts were racing about within his head, but he couldn't grab any. He knew emotions were roiling inside his heart, but he couldn't feel any.
Numb.
Finally, he grabbed hold of a thought.
“Is it dead?”
“What's that?” the man said, as if deep thoughts had been interrupted. “Oh, dead. Yes. Once the entree's been—or, the head that is—has been destroyed, they're usually done for after that.”
“But the bullets....”
“No, bullets don't always work, son. Lesson one at the academy: bullets and guns will help you, but only quick-thinking and guts will save you.” He picked his handgun up off the floor, grabbed another napkin, and wiped it down before putting it away in its shoulder holster.
“W-Who—?” Johnny stammered.
“Who am I?” the man said. “I'm Special Agent Simpson, USFDA. And you're lucky I was here.”
“What…?”
“Special Agent Simpson,” he repeated. “United States Food and Drug Administration.” He looked at Johnny, whose eyes were still fixed on the beast's body. “The shock'll wear off, kid,” he said.
“What is it? Where did it come from?”
“Hard to say for sure,” Simpson said, moving back to where he had been seated before. He started packing up, placing a few small gadgets and a laptop back inside a briefcase. “They really only started coming around in the last hundred years or so. It's a bit complicated, but....” He looked over at Johnny, and remembered his state of mind. The complicated answer obviously wouldn't do. “Let see….” he said, watering it down in his mind. “There are things that go into making food. Chemicals. Lots of chemicals. Particularly fast food. Well, those chemicals combine in complicated ways—particularly inside machines like deep fryers. They tend to act as an accidental witch's cauldron, of sorts.”
He snapped his briefcase closed and walked back to where Johnny still stood. “After a while, all of those chemicals build up and, well, for lack of a better term, occasionally create a portal.”
Johnny didn't say anything. He didn't move. He just kept staring, so Simpson continued.
“Well, they don't create a portal. Just the physical components necessary for one. They still need something extra, unmeasurable, supernatural even.”
“What's that?” Johnny asked, just barely whispering.
“Different people define it different ways,” Simpson said. “Some call it ‘life energy,’ some call it the soul. I just call it happiness.”
Simpson set his eyes on Johnny's face for a moment. “How long have you been working here, son?” he asked.
“Eight years.” Johnny heard himself say it, and thought he heard his heart breaking as he told him. “Eight long years.”
“Hmmm. Well, seems like it might be time for a career change. Maybe something outside. Get some fresh air.” He gestured to Johnny's face. “Get some sunshine and clear up your skin a bit. It'd do you good.” He looked back at the body. “I'm sure it was your happiness that was used up in creating the portal. You'll need to get away from this kind of thing.”
“Yeah....” Johnny finally tore his eyes away from the thing. “Where's it a portal to?” he said.
“Who knows, kid?” Simpson said, turning to face him. “The realm of nightmares. Hell, maybe?” He shrugged. “R&D is still trying to figure this all out.”
“Oh.”
“Yep. It doesn't happen often—an instance like this is really rare. Our inspections almost always catch it in time. We just didn't know about this place, though. Tony’s Burgeria? I don't think you guys are licensed. I'll have to report you.”
“Yeah, probably,” Johnny mumbled, barely parting his lips.
Simpson shook his head. “Shady Hollow, huh? Tony’s Burgeria? Never heard of any of it, and I've been working this region for nearly a decade.”
“We don't get many visitors here in Shady,” Johnny said. “Seems nobody knows about us.”
“Well, you're lucky I heard about you, or you would've had a real disaster.” He stepped over to the door, then stopped over the body of Mr. Olgen. It looked like it had been left in the deep fryer for a long time, and the stench of it was starting to fill the restaurant. Simpson gestured to the body. “Don't turn him over. He's dead, obviously. But don't turn him over, and don't look at him—especially not his face. Does things to you. Things therapy can't fix. Okay kid?”
“Yeah, o—okay.” Johnny nodded.
“Some of our people will come by and clean the place up. Take care of him and the rest of the mess. They'll probably come by and talk with you and the girl later tonight, too.”
“Okay.”
“Well, alright then. So long.”
Special Agent Simpson, USFDA, stepped out through the door, the chime twinkling cheerily over him as he left. Johnny could just hear him say “’scuse me” to Lacie and her partner—whose lips were still locked—as he stepped around them. Then he was gone.
Johnny stood there. It was all too much. He knew he would be sick.
He staggered to a chair and slumped into it, staring.
The bell over the door chimed again.
Lacie's voice, aghast. “Bologne, what did you—”
She must have seen Mr. Olgen's corpse, because she suddenly cut off. Then she started to scream, and at the sound of her shrieks Johnny thought he could feel his cheek twitch.
THE END
Dear Reader,
I hope that you found this story entertaining, wherever it happened to find you. If you enjoyed it, please leave a favorable review on Amazon and check out my other writings. As an author, I depend upon people like you.
Thank you.
Chauncey Rogers.
About the Author
Chauncey Rogers was raised in Arizona and Missouri. He served for two years as a missionary in Los Angeles, CA. He graduated from Brigham Young University with degrees in history education, linguistics, and editing. He is happily married, has two children, and dreams of owning a pet rat.
Go to chaunceyrogers.com for more stories from Shady Hollow, and for his other works.
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