GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE FEAST

THE FEAST

I should have known something was off the moment I downloaded an app specializing in underground food pop-ups. It was just another weak attempt by me to fit in with the young millennials at work. But this was the perfect chance to get Vanessa to go on a date with me.

After I downloaded the app, it required a full profile setup before I could even browse. Not uncommon, I thought. But then the questions started getting... weird.

"What is your average daily microplastic intake?"
"Do you prefer your meat lean or marbled?"
"How often do you moisturize? Would you consider your skin more oily, dry, or fibrous?"
"Are you currently taking any antibiotics, chemotherapy, or radioactive treatments?"
"On a scale of 1 to 10, how ethically raised were you as a child?"
"Do you sleep on your side, back, or stomach?"
"How often do you experience existential dread?"
"How tender do you feel today?"

I hesitated for a moment, then laughed it off. Probably some edgy branding gimmick. I answered truthfully, but also maybe subconsciously picked the ones that made me sound more refined. Like I knew what I was doing, but I had no clue. Frankly, I could care less about this shit—I just wanted to appeal to Vanessa’s tastes.

At the end of the quiz, the app congratulated me for being an ideal candidate. My exclusive invite had been unlocked. One destination lit up:

Sublime Bites.

The enigmatic "Sublime Bites" was shrouded in an aura of mystery. It lacked a physical address we wouldn’t receive until hours before our reservation. It had no online reviews to speak of and operated solely on an invitation-only basis. Its only claim was the tantalizing promise of an "unforgettable, underground dining experience."

As a programmer, my world revolved around logic and reason; skepticism should have been my default response. However, my personal life wasn't as neatly organized as my code. I should’ve been skeptical about their tagline, "We serve our guests like no other," but as a single man with a pronounced aversion to social interaction, I found myself in a situation that defied logic. I was attempting to impress a woman who was, by all accounts, far beyond my reach. Desperation had a way of overriding reason, and in my anxiety, I had cast logic aside.

So there I was, on a gloomy Friday night in Utica, New York. It would be too kind to call this city the armpit of the state. Once a vibrant hub of activity and promise, it now wore a mask of despair and abandonment. As I navigated through the urban decay, a chilling scene unfolded before us. A group of gaunt figures, high fentanyl, crack, meth or all of the above, their eyes hollow and their bodies ravaged by addiction, lined the sidewalk. Their attention was riveted on a pathetic spectacle: two men, their faces flushed with anger and their bodies bloated from years of neglect, engaged in a clumsy brawl. Their clothes, oversized and ill-fitting, seemed to mock their faded dignity as they bopped around like chickens pecking at each other. As the fight escalated, a hat flew up in the air and one of the men's pants, already precariously low, slid completely off, exposing his pale and flabby ass cheeks to the indifferent world.

Turning a corner, we thankfully avoided his full moon's unwanted glare, but the bleak reality of our surroundings followed us. Our destination, I suspected, was yet another symbol of the city's gentrification: a trendy pop-up shop, no doubt housed in a repurposed factory building. It would be an oasis of overpriced farm-to-table horse shit and artisanal goods, decorated in my generation’s millennial sorry, not sorry aesthetic while oblivious to the sea of poverty and despair that surrounded it. The contrast between the city's past and its present was stark and painful. The vibrant metropolis had been replaced by a hollow shell, its soul devoured by the relentless forces of neglect and decay.

I was right. Kind of.

We parked in a graffiti-laden lot between two towering brick walls of a factory. The remnants of an old fire left black scars along the busted windows, making the building look like a skull peering at me as I got out of the car. Vanessa, who grew up not too far from here, said this sad-looking monstrosity wasn’t a factory but "Charlestown," a once-bustling shopping center in the 1960s.

The parking lot, a haphazard canvas of graffiti, was hemmed in by the imposing brick walls of the factory. It was an ugly place ripe with industrial decay and smelled of dead dreams of forgotten times. The skeletal remains of the building, its windows shattered and its facade blackened by the ravages of a past fire, loomed ominously over us, giving the impression of a macabre skull leering down at me as I stepped out of the car.

Vanessa, who had spent her formative years in the vicinity, offered some context, explaining that this melancholic ruin wasn't always an industrial eyesore. In the 1960s, it had been a bustling hub of activity known as "Charlestown," a popular shopping center that had pulsed with life and energy. Condemned, the building met an unceremonious death in the late 90’s as the contrast between its past vibrancy and its current state of dilapidation was stark and unsettling.

As we exited the car, three tiny quadcopters buzzed down from above. Drones. They hovered around us, each with blinking red lenses that zoomed in and out on our faces. Vanessa laughed. "Oh my God, how cute, they're scanning us. This place is so high-tech." 

“Maybe they’ll offer us some craft beer,” I chuckled nervously as my anxiety heightened. The last thing I wanted were drones all up in my face reminding me why I hate people who try too hard so much. This was more unneeded but Vanessa seemed to like it so I just played it off.

The drones followed us the entire walk to the alley. They made a faint whirring sound that seemed to harmonize with each other, like some eerie insect choir. Occasionally, one would hover closer to me than her. The lens would dilate, blink, then buzz away like a curious bee. I had to restrain myself from squashing the little sonofabitch.

At the door, I stopped, checking into the app, letting them know we had arrived. Seconds later we followed the newly delivered instructions to our reservation. I guided Vanessa through a graffiti-covered alley, past an unmarked door with a glowing keypad. I entered the access code from the app, and the door slid open with an unsettling whoosh. The drones zipped inside ahead of us.

The restaurant was elegant. Almost too elegant for this shitty building. We checked in at an automated hostess counter and sat down in the waiting area to be called. It felt more like a hospital waiting room than a restaurant, and that should have roused my suspicions. But again, I just went along with it all.

The door hissed open, and a sterile, robotic voice from our automated hostess welcomed us in and sent us to table nine.

The other patrons, dressed in expensive clothes, were already seated at candlelit tables. It was strange, to say the least. It smelled, felt, and looked like an old-school Italian restaurant. But upon further inspection, little details were off. Plates and dinnerware were malformed. No tablecloth matched or fit the tables. It couldn’t help but think this place was what A.I. might imagine a restaurant to look like.

A waiter, eerily smooth in his movements, guided us to our table. His smile was… off. Not uncanny valley off. Worse. Too human. Perfect teeth, perfect posture—like a stock photo of a person brought to life. His voice made me laugh out loud and Vanessa asked me what was so funny. I told her the waiter’s voice reminded me of JP from Grandma’s Boy. “Adiois turd nuggets,” I said in his mocked robotic voice. My joke fell flat because she had never seen the movie so I slid back into my chair and my eye twitched with anxiety. I hoped she didn’t notice.

Vanessa giggled. "I love secret spots like this. So exclusive. How did you even find this place?"

"Oh, you know," I said, sweating. "Hacker stuff."

She laughed,”Hacker stuff? What kind of stuff do you hack?”

I stammered about, tripping over my tongue. “Umm you know, I don’t really do this stuff anymore, but we used to hack lots of things in college. One time I hacked into our grading system and gave all of my friends straight A’s and then I set it up so this jock dick, named Derek, took the fall. It was a brilliant execution--”

I stopped when I could see she was repulsed. Luckily the waiter dropped a glass behind us that shattered loudly and startled her, changing the subject quickly.

Handing me a menu, she said, “Let’s check out the menu, I can’t wait to see what’s for dinner. I’m so hungry. All I ate was an apple today.” 

I smiled nervously and a droplet of sweat rolled off my forehead and onto the menu. I wiped off abruptly and stared at the bizarrely designed menu. It was blurry in areas and the colors didn’t match at all. My OCD for organization and legibility was on fire as I tried to digest the even stranger offerings—items like "Prime Selection Special" and "Farm-to-Table Tartare." No descriptions. No prices. Just ominous italics. Before I could process, the waiter reappeared.

"The house recommends the tasting menu," he said, his head tilting just a bit too far. "A little bit of everything." I smiled at him and chuckled again, unable to get JP’s voice out of my head.

I looked at Vanessa who nodded in approval to his suggestion then turned to the waiter and said, “Okay, let’s do it.” 

He smiled creepily and nodded his head. I could have sworn I saw one of his eyes rotate and twitch as he turned away and walked away like he had a giant pole stuck in his ass. 

I glanced around. Other tables were eating. The food looked… normal. Steaks, pasta, salads. But something gnawed at me, something I couldn't quite—

Then, the lights dimmed further. A hush fell across the dining room.

A spotlight hit the center of the room where a man was being ushered forward by two waiters in tuxedos. "For your amusement," one of them announced, "the House presents: a demonstration of transformation."

A magician in a long, dark robe and unnervingly wide-brimmed hat stepped forward.

“Hello boys and girls, I am Optimum the Great, a magician for human pleasure!”

His soulless face was caked in theatrical makeup, his eyes painted in exaggerated spirals. He pulled out a deck of cards, a wand, and a small meat cleaver. Tall and intimidating, he was terrifying.

"May I borrow your hand?" he asked the man, who laughed nervously and offered it.

The magician tapped it with the wand, muttered something in static like gibberish, and produced a live pigeon. The crowd clapped. The man laughed in relief—until the magician pulled out the cleaver again.

With a wink, he brought it down hard on the man’s hand.

There was a sickening crack. The man screamed, blood spurting onto the white tablecloth.

Then the waiters closed in. As the man dropped to his knees. I assume it was his wife who got up and came to his side. 

The man didn’t get a second act. The waiters’ arms elongated with surgical precision, metallic fingers splitting into grotesque cutlery—knives where knuckles should be, forks sprouting from fingertips.

One stabbed deep into his gut, twisting. Another scooped something gelatinous from his mouth, shoving it into a bowl. Blood spattered their uniforms. His wife fainted and I watched the waiters closely as they whisked her away into the kitchen.

Then, they plated him.

One folded a napkin across his spasming chest. Another poured a rich, velvety sauce over his exposed ribs. The head waiter dabbed his mouth with a napkin before slicing into a still-twitching thigh like a Michelin-starred chef unveiling the main course.

The room erupted in applause.

Just then, a child across the room screamed. She was yanked from her chair by another waiter, her legs kicking in the air as she was dragged into the back. Her mother stood frozen, staring at her plate like nothing had happened.

My sweat turned cold.

I looked around. Everyone kept eating.

"Wow, that was incredible. It looks so real," Vanessa said.

"Umm, yeah. It does... and maybe it is," I muttered.

That’s when I noticed him. A hulking man in a metallic shirt, tucked in the corner in a haze of moody lighting. Something was wrong with his posture, his stillness. As I stared, he looked up and caught my gaze.

His eyes blazed yellow—not glowing, not reflecting. Burning.

He reached down, lifted something to his mouth.

It was a human foot.

He gnawed through the ankle bone like it was a chicken wing.

He saw me watching. He smiled. A single metal tooth glinted in the candlelight. As he sat upright, I could now see this wasn’t a man, but some sort of machine. 

That’s when I realized, with mounting horror, that they weren’t guests. They were androids. All of them. Dining alongside their human entrees, using forks and knives like we did, mirroring the ritual of fine dining.

"We have to get out of here," I whispered.

Vanessa turned. Her smile vanished.

The android in the corner stood.

Then a waiter, its metallic face spattered with blood, turned to us.

"Sir, madam—your meal is on its way."

Vanessa screamed. I ran. She followed me.

Straight to the bathroom.

Not the exit. Not the kitchen. The bathroom.

"Are you serious?!" Vanessa shrieked.

I looked around, grasping at anything to come up with a plan, "Umm…I can hack the window!" I panted. "The toilet, this is where I do my best hacking!"

She looked at me in disgust as the door clicked and locked behind us.

I pulled out my phone. The restaurant's ventilation and automation system was weakly encrypted, likely built on a cobbled-together API using outdated IoT components. I brute-forced the admin panel through a custom port-scan script I wrote in college, then backdoored into the local device array using SSH tunneling.

Within seconds, I accessed the bathroom module.

I forced a manual override on the window lock.

The window hissed open.

I shouted to Vanessa, "go!"

Then the doorknob turned.

"Vanessa, listen—one of us has to distract them. I’ll get the car and come back for you!"

"Are you serious?!"

"You’re faster, stronger, tastier—"

A metallic limb burst through the door. Vanessa punched it hard. The bot reeled back.

I was already halfway through the window.

"YOU FUCKING WORM!" she screamed.

I hit the pavement hard. As I gathered myself, I heard her scream in agony. The wet, sickening sounds of cutlery piercing flesh echoed out the window. Blood splattered onto my face.

I stumbled, turned, and ran.

I did not look back.

My lungs burned as I fumbled at the car door. I saw her blood on my face in the reflection.

I climbed in, winded, and peeled out.

In my jacket, my pocket, my phone buzzed. I fumbled for it. 

A notification from Sublime Bites.

"Thank you for dining with us! Bring a friend again and receive 50% off your meal."

Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio