A Lovecraft Pastiche
I wrote this in response to a prompt from my writing group. I can’t recall what the prompt was, but it inspired my usual bullshit. A quick note: When the narrator talks about “the heathen language of the short-order cook”, they mean kitchen slang like “drag it through the garden”, not an actual foreign language.
A wintery wind colder than the ghastly Plains of Leng in the frozen wastes of unknown Kadath howled through the forlorn town, chilling me as I had never been chilled before. Clutching my wool peacoat closer around me, I trudged the dismal streets in search of sustenance.
When hunger seemed about to sink its wretched claws into my frost-riddled frame, I espied a diner a few blocks away. Its feeble neon-lighted sign proclaimed it to be called “Whately’s Place”. The ambiance of back-country malaise hung over the establishment like the fog of hoary London. If there had been any other recourse for food—even such a hideous excuse of a restaurant as Skyline Chili—I would have patronized it. But as it was, the diner was the only occupied building in sight, although I could not quite shake the creeping sense that unseen eyes watched me from the decrepit buildings, marking my every step.
Upon entering the diner, my ears were assaulted by the tintinnabulation of the bell which hung above the door. The halogen lights flickered erratically, perchance spelling out the ravings of a lunatic via Morse code. The vinyl floor was sticky with some viscous residue that clung greedily to my loafers. The diner was empty save for myself and a sullen, sallow youth wearing a paper hat. He stared at me as if I had committed some unpardonable sin by entering his domain. Nevertheless, I sat down at the chipped Formica counter, determined to obtain victuals.
“What d’ye want?” asked the youth, more accusatory than inquisitive.
My limited funds dictated that I be frugal in my choice, but if the tattered menu board were to be believed, a cheeseburger and fries were only $3, and drinks only $1. Hopefully, this was still the case as I had little more than $5 to my name.
I placed my order, requesting a Diet Coke to drink, hoping against hope that the waiter would not inform me they only had Pepsi. He merely grunted at me, then yelled something over his shoulder in the heathen language of the short-order cook, who presumably lurked in the bowels of the kitchen.
Moments seemed to spin into untold eons as I awaited my meal. Finally, as my vision grew hazy from hunger, a tray of food appeared in the window to the kitchen. I still did not catch sight of the cook, which may have been for the best, as they were not likely to be a Michelin-star chef.
The waiter sat the tray in front of me with another surly grunt. I cared not about his abysmal service, for my stomach rumbled like peals of thunder. I devoured the burger and fries, barely tasting them for the grease and salt that coated them.
How often one thinks one knows what to expect from a situation. How often is one proven wrong. This was one such situation. For as I lifted my drink to my lips to quench my thirst and wash down my repast, I realized with ever-dawning horror as the liquid slipped past my tongue and down my gullet that instead of Diet Coke, I was indeed imbibing regular Coke.