The Bride Of Juggernaut by N.P. Yuggoth

The steady hum of the exhaust fan canceled out the Phish album that Chester was playing at a lowered volume over the kitchen stereo.  He was still sulking next to the prep sink, a frown carved into his face, as he recalled being yelled at by Stacy minutes earlier.  He kept his eyes off of Clayton, who was ripping off bits of lettuce and throwing them in the deep fryer. 

Clayton and Stacy.  Stacy and Clayton.  It turned his frown further downward.

Whatever it was, Chester never asked, as he didn't want to know.  He had seen Stacy lead Clayton off to the bathroom at Gatsby's by the hand, but it was enough to explain why Clayton never got in trouble.  Clayton also got to share Stacy's coke, something which Chester desperately needed at this time. 

No such preoccupations entered Clayton's mind as the shreds of lettuce sputtered and spun, their moisture evaporating in the nearly four hundred degree grease.  Clayton didn't even notice the smell of the fryers as he breathed through his mouth. 

Outside, the sun had just sunk below the horizon, but enough residual glow painted the sky a macabre red, which reflected in the windows of now vacant cottages down the beach.  The red was too deep to be mistaken for actual fire, but imbued the cottages with an enticing cozy feel all the same, especially given the cold autumn winds that were howling off the lake. 

“All right boys,” Stacy said as she stepped up on the line.  “Choose one.”

Stacy stuck out her hand, the crimson nails folded into her fist.  Protruding from the top were two tooth picks. 

“M'kay,” Clayton intoned with the pitch and cadence of a mentally handicapped foghorn, and snatched one of the toothpicks.  He thrust it into his mouth and began picking his teeth.

“Clayton!  Wait, let Chester pick one.”  Stacy turned to Chester, who looked up with a scornful look.  “Come over and take a toothpick. 

Chester sauntered over, he face contorting as though he were tasting a lemon.  “There's only one,” he pointed out. 

“Well, so it's yours,” Stacy smiled.  God, her teeth were white.  And big.  Slabs of ivory. 

Chester snatched it out of Stacy's hand, not making eye contact.  Clayton stared on dispassionately. 

“Now, compare them,” Stacy said. 

Clayton and Chester compared their toothpicks.  Chester's was shorter. 

“Well, Chester, you lose.  Clayton, you can go home,” Stacy said. 

“That's so gay,” Clayton mumbled. 

“So you want to stay?” Stacy asked.

“I don't know,” Clayton shrugged. 

“This isn't fucking fair!  You know that I want to go watch the game tonight!”

“Fair is fair, you drew the short straw,” Stacy said.  “So you close.  Clayton leaves.”

“What the fuck?  Why does Clayton always get to do whatever he wants?  It's always about Clayton, and letting him go fishing when his parents come to town!  And you also let him go to that concert, too!”

“Chester, settle down,” Stacy said.

“No, I won't settle down!  Because this isn't fair!  I've worked here longer than he has, and they let me run the cash register sometimes, and Van lets me drive his truck sometimes, so why don't I get a break sometimes?”

Stacy started to answer, but Chester continued his animated rant, the wind outside howling to match his fury.  His eyes were bulging out of his head, and a lone, dirty dread lock had fallen out from under his hat.

“And when I even want to watch the game on the television in the dish room, you never let me, because then Miguel can't listen to his Mexican polka music--”

“Chester, calm down!”

Chester threw a handful of pickles at the wall. 

“It's not fair!”

Clayton continued staring at the floor, but Stacy was incensed. 

“Hey!  Do you want me to call Van to come in?  I'm sure he'd be real happy to come in on his family day, and find you throwing his pickles away.”  Stacy shook a finger at Chester.

“But it's not fair!”

“Jesus Christ, Chester, you were already scheduled to close.  It's not like you're going to do anything different, and plus, it's a slow night.  One person can close and still be out before 9:30.”

“But I'm going to miss the game!” Chester protested, stomping his foot on the floor. 

“If high school football is really that important to you, you can work something out with Clayton,” Stacy said.

Chester turned to Clayton.  “Clay, dude, could you close up tonight?  I'll pay you $25.”

“Twenty five bucks is gay,” Clayton mumbled.

“All right, $50.”

“Meh, okay,” Clayton said, drawing out the “okay,” like the two note blast of that distant foghorn.

“Well, if that's settled, I guess you can leave, Chester,” Stacy said.  “I'll keep you here, boytoy,” she said, turning to Clayton and winking. 

Chester had already wheeled around on his heels before Clayton had time to digest what Stacy had said.  “And not a moment too soon,” he said under his breath, as he unplugged his iPod and threw the cord behind the stereo.  He took off his hat, and undid his ponytail, letting his cluster of dreadlocks spill down his back.

“Hey, you settle down, unless you want to close, and I'll send Clayton home,” Stacy snapped, jabbing one of those crimson nails at Chester.  It looked like a blood soaked dagger, or maybe a cosmetically pleasing bullet. 

“It's all right, I can say,” Clayton mumbled. 

“I'd rather have you here too, all to myself,” Stacy smiled, and pinched Clayton's butt. 

“You fuckers make me sick,” Chester hissed, barging off of the line and out of the kitchen.  Stacy and Clayton could hear his footsteps slamming on the floor, his fingers hammering the computer to clock out, and finally the backdoor of the restaurant slamming.  It could have been the gale force winds, but Chester no doubt took his frustrations out on the poor door. 

“Adios, amigo,” Mike, the metalhead night dishwasher, said to Chester, but was seemingly ignored. 

“What's wrong with Chester?” Stacy asked. 

“Meh,” Clayton said with a shrug.  “I dunno.” 

“He's probably upset that I told him to turn his music down.”

“Yeah,” Clayton mumbled and turned his attention back to throwing lettuce into the fryer. 

“So what are you doing after work?  Do you want to go to Gatsby's?”

Clayton threw another piece of lettuce into the fryer and shrugged his shoulders.  “I don't know...Gatsby's is gay.”

“Well, maybe the TA Grille?  They've got a nice ham and cheese sandwich.”

“I guess,” Clayton said with a sigh.  A large chunk of lettuce exploded with a pop, sending a spurt of oil out of the fryer. 

“Why don't you just think about it, we can go someplace else, too, if you'd like.  Maybe you'd like to go the Harborview?  We haven't been down there in a while.”

“Meh, that place is so gay.  And it's dirty.”

The jingle of bells came through the kitchen. 

“Oh, sounds like someone's just shown up,” Stacy said.  “We'll talk later.”

“Whatever,” Clayton said. 

Clayton stared at the wall for a few moments, listening to the fury of the gusts coming off of the lake, then plugged his phone into the stereo and put on his favorite Sublime album.  Clayton stood, staring at the stereo for the duration of the first song, then squatted in the middle of the line and put both hands to his temples. 

“Uuuuuuh!” he let out a long moan from his mouth, as the other end of his digestive tract responded in harmony.  “This is so gay.”

The printer fired out a ticket.  Clayton made an effort to tear the paper off, but his first attempt was too weak.  He grabbed the printer, and cut the ticket off with a paring knife.  2 burgers with fries.  One no pickle. 

“So gay,” Clayton mumbled as he put the burgers on the grill and watched them cook. 

Clayton buzzed the waitress when the food was complete.  She showed up at the window and smiled back, a big, toothy, mouth-breathing grin. 

“Thanks, Clayton!” she chirped. 

“Whatever,” he said, keeping his back turned to her. 

Two more songs on the Sublime album played.  Clayton picked up his cellphone and wrote to Chester. 

When can u get me my $?

Mike sauntered into the kitchen.  “Hey man, can you burn me up a burger?  Put extra bacon and cheese on it, like Rick does, okay?”

“What?” Clayton said.

“A bacon cheeseburger, extra bacon, extra cheese,” Mike said.  His eyes were glazed over from the weed he had just smoked behind the dumpster with Stacy and the brain dead waitress.

“Okay,” Clayton said and started cooking that burger. 

“Thanks, pal,” Mike said, and returned to the dish pit.  Clayton could faintly discern the inhuman roar of Cannibal Corpse that was blasting over the dishwasher's radio. 

Clayton flipped the burger.  His phone buzzed.  A message from Chester. 

I can't pay you in money.
Someone must have coke, Clayton realized, and typed a message in. 

U O me dude.

On the grill, the burger was nearly finished.  Clayton put one slice of Swiss on the patty, eight pieces of bacon, and a slice of American.  He covered it with a lid, and splashed some water underneath to melt the cheese.  His phone buzzed again.

How about a massage?  I got the magic fingers.

Clayton moaned, and then typed in a reply. 

Massages r gay.

Removing the lid from the burger, Clayton caught a whiff of delicious steam.  It reminded him that he too needed to eat.  He served the burger up and walked back to the dish pit. 

Mike was talking to the mouth-breathing blonde waitress, speaking over the Cannibal Corpse playing at an obnoxious volume.  She was evidently too stupid to complain about this horrible music, but then again, Mike would have just laughed at her.  Whatever they were talking about, they were both smiling. 

“Here you go,” Clayton said, and dropped the burger on the dish line.  The burger turned over in the basket, and the top of the bun flew out, landing on the counter. 

“Dude, be careful with my food,” Mike barked.  “And don't fuck up my dish pit.”

“Meh, whatever,” Clayton mumbled and started waltzing back to the kitchen. 

“Thanks anyway, it looks good,” Mike said, giving a thumbs up to Clayton's back.  He turned to the waitress.  “That guy's a fucking wet blanket.”

“Huh?” the waitress asked. 

“It means he's a fucking buzzkill,” Mike said, and took a bite out of his burger. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, her mouth hanging open. 

“I mean he's like a big fucking smelly turd that some fat truck driver plopped down in a toilet at a party.  Or a big, brown cloud shitting all over everyone's fun,” Mike said, his mouth full of masticated burger. 

“I don't get it,” she said, shaking her head. 

“Nevermind,” Mike said.  “He's just a douche.”

“Oh,” she said.

Chester had written back. 

Shot in the dark.  How about a BJ?

Clayton wrote back, ignoring the ticket hanging out of the printer. 

What?

Apple pie a la mode.  Clayton got a piece of pie out of the cooler, and placed a scoop of vanilla ice cream next to it.  He threw it up in the window, and turned back to his phone. 

A blowjob.

Clayton responded. 

B serious.

Chester responded almost immediately.

I am serious.  Come over to my place after work.  I've got meth and coke.  We'll do some lines.  And you'll cum your brains out.

Clayton responded. 

Thats so gay

Chester's reply came instantly.

I KNOW.

Clayton put down the phone and squatted again in the middle of the line, pressing his palms to his temples.  He let out a greater moan this time, but did not fart. 

The next hour and a half was uneventful.  Clayton began closing procedures 15 minutes before 9, and managed to get nearly everything done. 

He had just shut down the freshly cleaned grill when Stacy's face appeared in the window. 

“Hey, I've just sat another customer,” she said.

“It's five after nine.  I've just shut the grill down.” 

“Clayton, please, just serve her.”

“Her?  Is she hot?” Clayton asked. 

Stacy shook her head.  “No.  No, she's not.  But she's the last customer.  Will you please just serve her?”

“Only if it's easy.”

“I think she just wants pie,” Stacy said and walked away, swinging her booty with each step.  Oh, how often Clayton had heard that ridiculous assumption.  A table of 8 walks in right as they're closing, and of course, they just want pie.  Then they order hot dogs and fucking Ruben sandwiches, so you have to turn on the fryer to make fries and dirty up the grill.  And then clean all that shit again.  It adds a good 15 minutes to closing. 

Clayton squatted and moaned again.  “So gay,” he said as he got up.  He put on a Rusted Root album to help mitigate his suffering, but Mike countered immediately with a Deicide album at full blast. 

“Muuuuh,” Clayton moaned, just as the printer vomited forth the last order of the night. 

1 kid grilled cheese

  *add onion

  *add peanut butter

  *add pickles

  *extra cheese

  *ON SANDWICH

1 chili cheese fries

  *side mayo

  *side garlic ranch

  *LARGE MAYO/LARGE RANCH

“This is so gay,” Clayton mumbled, and started putting the order together.  It was worse than he had expected—not only did he have to fire up the fryer and grill, dirtying everything up, but he had to get out the chili, and nuke a large portion of nacho cheese. 

The nacho cheese exploded in the microwave and he spilled the garlic ranch all over the line.  The estimated time added to clean up was about five minutes.  Clayton would definitely not be getting out at 9:30. 

“This is for one customer?” Clayton asked the waitress as she picked up the order. 

“Yeah, one lady,” the waitress responded with a stupid grin.

“She must a great big fat person,” Clayton said right through the window.  There was no way that the combined forces of Rusted Root and Deicide could cover up that remark, and it floated right through the empty restaurant.  Lightning flashed outside. 

“Shhhh!” the waitress hissed, and blushed.  “She might hear you.”

“Whatever,” Clayton said, and started cleaning up. 

A gust of wind shook the restaurant, and the windows rattled loud enough to be heard over the music. 

“Clayton!” Stacy barked in the window. 

Clayton turned around slowly and sauntered over to her. 

“What do you want?” he asked. 

“That lady heard what you said.”

“No, she didn't,” Clayton countered, and wiped off a dirty spot on the counter. 

“I fucking heard you, and I was at the cash register,” Stacy said.  The wind shook the building again.

“So what do you want from me?” Clayton said. 

“I've already apologized to that poor woman for your dumb ass.  But I think a slice of apple pie a la mode is in order.”

“Meh, that's gay,” Clayton mumbled. 

“Do you want to come out and apologize yourself?  Or maybe let Van learn about this?”

“I guess not,” Clayton said with a shrug. 

“Good,” Stacy said.  “So make it an apple pie a la mode.”

Clayton went to serve the apple pie.  “So gay,” he mumbled as he put the pie in the microwave.  His phone beeped as the pie was being microwaved.  It was Chester again.

So are you coming over?

The microwave dinged, and Clayton took the pie out and put it in the window. 

“So have you decided where you want to go?” Stacy asked. 

“My dad wants me to send me on a sailing trip in France this winter.  It's gonna be so gay,” Clayton said. 

“No, I mean tonight.  Where do you want to go after work?  Toilet Brush is playing at the Harborview, by the way.  They always put on a good show.”

“They're so gay,” Clayton mumbled. 

“Well, then let's just go to Gatsby's,” Stacy said.  “I'll get you good and drunk, and then you can sleep at my place.”

“Meh, okay,” Clayton said, and went to get the broom. 

He had only touched the broom when the lights went out.  The music died instantly, but the exhaust hoods hummed to a halt in the ceiling.  A flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the street outside, and was followed with a distant growl of thunder. 

“Fuckin' rad, man,” Mike said in the bowels of the dish pit.  “Ghosts and shit'll be coming out.”

“Don't say that,” the blonde waitress pleaded. 

“Ooooooh!” Mike said with a giggle. 

“I'm scared,” the waitress whined.  Another flash of lightning, and a grumble of thunder, closer than the last.

“Boo!” Mike said, and the waitress instantly squealed.  Mike exploded in laughter, and the waitress soon joined him with nervous giggles. 

“Let's go to the cooler,” Mike whispered, just loud enough for Clayton to hear.

The restaurant fell silent, but Clayton could see Stacy flashing a light around in the dining room.  Another flash of lightning.  Another wave of thunder, this time an actual boom.

“Hey!  I need some light in here!” Clayton barked.  “Stacy!”

“I'll get to you, Clayton, just hold on,” she said, making a thorough examination of the restaurant. 

“Uuuuh!” Clayton said, performing his squat yet again.  He remained in this position longer than normal, lamenting the fact that he definitely wasn't going to get out of here before 9:30. 

Footfalls could be heard in the corridor leading to the kitchen, but they weren't the clack of Stacy's high heels.  Perhaps they were Mike and the waitress?  No, they said they were going to the cooler, maybe to smoke weed or to make out, but probably both.  Clayton looked into the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse.  A flash of lightning did not provide the necessary illumination to reveal the intruder, only to paint the walls a ghastly white. 

“Hey!  Shine some light in here!” Clayton yelled.

“Hold your horses, jeez,” Stacy said from somewhere in the dining room. 

Two methodical steps advanced on Clayton. 

“Hey Mike, go get me a flashlight,” Clayton said towards the footsteps. 

Two more steps.  There was something menacing in their slowness. 

“Come on, Mike, I can't see shit.  It's really gay.”

Two more steps.  The hair on Clayton's neck stood up.  He could discern a faint sulfur smell.  Another flash of lightning illuminated the corridor, and this time Clayton saw a great black shadow cast upon the wall opposite the windows. 

“Hey, Mike!  Get me a flashlight, you dick!” Clayton yelled, his voice quavering. 

The lightning flashed, this time to reveal the corridor as it should be, without the shadow.  Clayton breathed a sigh of relief.  Rain began hitting the windows.  A light pitter-patter at first, quickly followed by a torrential downpour.

“Clayton, stop swearing!” Stacy shouted. 

“Stacy!  Get me a flashlight.” Clayton yelled back. 

“I've got to go outside and see if I can get the generator working.”

The front door opened, and for a brief moment, Clayton could hear the maelstrom raging outside.  The wind blew into the restaurant, into the kitchen, and out through the exhaust hoods.  Clayton could smell the wet pavement and the spray off the lake. 

Bang.  The front door closed, and Clayton felt so completely alone.  There was only him, and the customer.  That lady who was described as not attractive, who had been munching on (she had been munching on it, no way she could have finished it) that pile of repulsive food.  The lightning flashed several times in rapid succession, illuminating the road outside being slashed with a deluge.  The rain was hitting the pavement so hard that its impact seemed to be driving it back upwards.

BANG!  A clap of thunder rocked the building.  The sulfur smell increased and Clayton could notice other subtleties behind it.  Soybean oil.  Garlic.  Cumin.  Onions. 

“Mike?  Stacy?”  Clayton said.  “Are you guy out there?” 

For the first time he felt scared.  The breeze brushed against the back of his neck, but this time it was not the cold lake breeze, and it stunk of the sulfurous bouquet that had been seeping into the kitchen.  All at once he realized what it was: a grilled cheese sandwich and an order of chili cheese fries, with a lot of heinous alterations.  And the smell of a sweaty, unwashed body. 

“Mike?  Is that you?  Knock it off, this is really gay,” Clayton said, his voice trembling ever so slightly, as he hoped against all hope that it was Mike.  But he knew it wasn't, because there was nary a hint of bacon to that scent. 

“I WANT YOUR COCK!” came a deep voice, belching out that infernal stench. 

Clayton's cellphone sprung to life with the melody of Papa Roach's “Last Resort,” and Clayton was smacked with what seemed to be a really heavy, damp, hot pillow. 

The blow knocked him across the kitchen, into the line cooler.  Pain exploded in his shoulder.  As he reached for the source of his agony, a second blow launched him up and away, down the line and into the garbage can.  

“THROW YOUR COCK IN ME, LITTLE MAN!” roared the voice of a mother bear in rut. 

The garbage can tipped over, spilling Clayton out with a pile of trash.  His ribs were screaming in pain, but at least that kept his mind off of his shoulder.  Papa Roach continued to play, and the screen flashed Chester's name. 

“MUUUUUUUUUAH!” roared the ursine matriarch.  The illuminated face of Clayton's phone rose in the darkened room, then flew with blinding speed to a foul corner somewhere behind the fryer.

Clayton crawled away from the garbage can, trying to get away, and under the bread rack.  As long as his assailant didn't have night vision, it would be hard for him to be found.  He rolled under the bread rack, and pulled his legs in, wincing as they failed to bend normally.  He wasn't sure if something was broken, but his left leg was certainly fucked up. 

“Muh-huh, muh-huh,” came a one-two note of frustration from the assailant.  Then the horrific sound of a great beast sniffing the air. 

“Hey, Clayton,” chirped Chester's voice over the phone.  Somehow it had picked up, and was now on speakerphone.  “It's me.  Chester.  Are you listening?  I can hear you breathing.”

There were two shuffling steps towards Clayton, a halt, and two more sniffs.  Then two more steps, a stop, and two deep sniffs. 

“You don't have to talk if you don't want.  I understand.  I've done a lot of cocaine, man.  A lot.  The game's over, and I'm just sitting here at home.  Would you like me to sing to you?”

Two steps.  Halt.  Sniff sniff.  Moving away now.  Two steps.  Halt.  Sniff sniff.  Further away.

“'I'm not a perfect person...'” Chester began in an off key warble, trying to sing Hoobastank's “The Reason.”  

Clayton looked up, and saw nothing but blackness. 

Then the lightning flashed. 

She was bigger than big.  She was huge.  The top of her head almost met the ceiling.  The frame of her body was big enough to block the window looking out on the road, so all Clayton could mercifully see was the gruesome outline of her gargantuan body.  The gloom obscured all facial features save two small, greedy eyes glinting, like marbles pressed deep into a mound of sugar cookie dough, and a porcine nose turned upwards to the scent of food. 

The next crash of thunder covered up the sound of the bread rack crashing into a far wall.  Clayton only felt the vacuum it left as it was plucked away. 

“GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING WANGER, LITTLE MAN!” the mother bear roared. 

“Oh yeah, now you're talking, Clay-baby!  I can call you that, can't I?” came Chester's voice from under the fryer. 

Two enormous paws gripped Clayton's feet and yanked him with brute force to the center of the kitchen. 

“FUCK MY SLOPPY WET CUNT, YA WEE SHIT!” the woman yelled. 

“Oh, I'll fuck you all right, Clay-baby!” Chester panted through the phone. 

The lightning flashed again in rapid succession, and Clayton watched in horror as the great being was suspended in mid air, her legs clutched tightly into her body, as she cannon balled towards him.  How much could she weigh?  How could she jump like that?

She landed just as the thunder boomed, but Clayton could nonetheless hear the crunch of his pelvis, hip, and lower spine breaking in innumerable places.  He screamed so loud, he was sure that trans-galactic entities from the Pleidean system could hear his S.O.S. 

“Oh yeah!  You like that!  You like my dinky in you, Claybaby?” came Chester's voice, fainter and farther away now, it seemed. 

“UUUUUUUUH!” roared the woman, grinding her pubis into Clayton's shattered pelvis.  “BRING YOUR DICK!  BRING YOUR DICK!”

“Oh, I'll bring my dick...I done brought it, for your little bitch ass!” Chester panted. 

Clayton heard none of this.  The immense weight ground his broken bones together in a sick symphony of suffering.  Even if he could be aroused over the horrific stench emanating from this creature of foul desires, the internal bleeding in his lower extremities was robbing his Johnson of erectile function. 

She leaned forward, trying to adjust his privates into her baby chute, only to smother Clayton's face in the zeppelins of perspiring cellulite that were her tits.  He gasped, sucking in a mouthful of pheromone drenched sweat.  Robbed of his senses of smell and sight, Clayton's hearing and taste were amplified tenfold. 

“Yeah, you like that, don't you?” Chester said.  “Uncle Chester's got those magic fingers...”

“WHY COME YOU AIN'T HARD, BOY?” the assailant growled.

“Oh, I'm hard, believe you me, Claybaby,” Chester replied. 

She sat up, and Clayton gasped for air. 

“I'll leave you gasping, oh yeah,” Chester said.  “Chester knows how to work a man!”

Clayton's pants and underwear were ripped off in one swift motion.  The beast snorted, and spit a great wad of saliva and mucus on Clayton's taint, then snorted a wad of snot out of her nose, and spat that onto her fist, which glistened in a flash of lightning. 

“Meeeeeeeh!” Clayton moaned in protest.  But by now his body was so shattered that he could not move. 

Then her hand was inside him, seemingly in his stomach, pawing, grasping.  Was she trying to rip his heart out, or what?  The pain was too great to scream. 

“I NEED TO SPAWN!  FILL ME WITH YOUR SPERM!”

“Oh, I will, I will!” Chester panted. 

The creature's claws slammed shut on Clayton's prostate, squeezing it like a vice.  Through some miracle, Clayton's nether regions responded with blinding speed.  She was on him again in flash, and Clayton could feel the inside of her body grasping, pulling his member ever deeper into her.  The pain mixed with a perverted ecstasy, and at once became all too much to bear.  Clayton sent a gasp out through his privates, and into the womb of the succubus. 

Her task complete, she rose and hustled out of the kitchen.  Just then the power came back on, and the hoods commenced their humming.  Clayton didn't need the lights to let him know that the warm, sticky liquid around him was a puddle of his own blood. 

“That was so gay,” Clayton mumbled his last words. 

“Yeah, I know,” Chester said over the phone, trying to catch his breath.  “Did you cum?"