mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
67 lines
2.7 KiB
TeX
67 lines
2.7 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{Yogi Byron}
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\chapter{Horror D'oeuvres}
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I am on the verge of tears by the time I arrive at Espace, as
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I'm sure that I won't have a good table. However, the
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maitre'd shows me my place, a cozy booth next to an aquarium,
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and I feel relief wash over me in an awesome wave. I sit down. The
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sound of knives scratching against bone china, however, sets my
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nerves on edge. My name is Luke Bavarious. I am a private
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detective. I like my work.
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Complaints had been trickling in for a little over a year about
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cases of food poisoning emanating from this restaurant. I look
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carefully over the menu and order a lobster roll with arugula
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bedding. I choose this food in particular because it is my
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assignment to stop these complaints.
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My suspicion is first aroused by a loud belch from the table
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directly to my left. The gasses reverberate against the glass of
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the aquarium and offend my nostrils. A dark and horrid man is
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clutching his stomach, fork gripped tightly in his free hand. This
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scene elicits a grimace of pain from his face, and, suddenly, he
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shouts violently, jabbing the fork into his abdomen. A stream of
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vile stomach acid and gastric juices billow forth, burning his
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hands in acidic bile and causing him to vomit from behind pursed
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lips onto the tablecloth in front of him. My Beretta is already
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drawn as I attempt to calm the surprised crowd that is gaping at
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the food-poisoned man. His wife has urinated onto the carpet and is
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troubled by unwilling spasms that are shaking her body. I fire a
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round into the plate of food that sits between them, while
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grimacing. I snatch the ejected shell from my Beretta like
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it's a flying bumblebee and place it in my mouth, clamping
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down on the brass with my teeth to dull the pain of my miserable
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and human, all too human, existence.
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Blood is now mixing with the bile and urine into a disastrous
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chemical. I fire a round with my Beretta into the man, who is
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gripping the tablecloth in pain. He giggles as he is relieved of
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his cruel fate, lapsing into the sweet embrace of untimely death. I
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draw a bead on his poor wife, who is sitting in a pile of her own
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waste like a squalid dog or cat. I fire twice. Three shells hit the
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concrete. ``You!'' I yell at a waiter hiding behind the
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aquarium. ``Let me speak to your manager!''
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He wipes his miserable face with a cloth. ``Beggin' your
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pardon, but{\ldots}I am the manager,'' he says. I motion
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towards the table with my Beretta. ``Sit down.'' I say.
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While he takes his seat before the lobster roll and arugula, I
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catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass of the aquarium. A
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white shirt and cummerbund are smoothed elegantly around my
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midsection, and on my right side is a gleaming nametag. ``Luke
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Bavarious, Head Waiter, Espace.'' Suddenly, I am sobbing.
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