Gristle

Ham and eggs, a ravenous shadow, and a waitress.

GRISTLE

The diner was pretty empty, stocked by the sort of losers that had nowhere else to be. They’d just be pounding the pavement instead, doing nothing much, but the drizzle in the dark outside was plain to see, even with those goddamn bright electric lights blinding everyone.

“I’ll get the ham and eggs. And keep the coffee coming,” Arthur said, offering the menu back to the girl. She smiled sweetly and dropped her pad back into the front pocket of her green apron, but didn’t take the menu. Ignorant bitch.

Arthur wasn’t one of these losers. The dark guy at the front booth, dressed up nice with nowhere to go. Who was that guy kidding? The old lady at the counter, sticking her nose in her coffee like she might be fixin’ to drown herself in it. She kinda looked like Arthur’s gramma, but with a melted-sorta face like you find in those creepy wax museums. And then there was the trucker, all lumberjack shirt and looking tired as hell. Arthur had seen his truck outside – nearly drove right up it. Shit-heap of a truck it was, though Arthur didn’t know trucks.

No, Arthur was somebody. He didn’t wanna be here any more than the rest of them, but he’d got a reason. And it wasn’t that goddamn dive of a motel next door. He’d not stepped foot in it, but it was clear as day what it was. Hookers would be hovering ‘round its busted lights any minute now, like midges at a swamp. No, Arthur would be on the road again soon. He had business here first, and it wasn’t the ham and eggs.

The plate was delivered, and it looked just like Arthur had expected. More water than egg, and more cremation than ham. Couldn’t get it right either way. He didn’t thank the girl. Why was she working here anyhow, out in bumfuck-nowhere? Bad decisions, is what it was. Arthur had no respect for that.

The egg went down like liquid, and the ham was a tough ask. The bits that weren’t rubber were gristle, sparking on his tongue like popping charcoal. Arthur wanted to march over and shake the chef’s hand, for having the goddamn audacity to butcher such an easy fixing. He drained the shame of it all away with the sharp coffee.

He wasn’t here for the ham and eggs. Or the coffee. He wasn’t here for him to eat at all anyhow. But eating was on the menu.

It took a while for the shadow to turn up. He always knew it was there, but over the years it had grown used to the pattern. It was a vulture, and it knew Arthur. Heck, they’d been shackled for years now. At first it came when it smelled the blood, but now it knew the plan. It always sat across from Arthur, like this was a fucking interview, here in a greasy spoon diner. It was insubstantial at first, just a shiver in the air. But that air grew darker, and filled up the shape of something almost-human.

“Took your time,” Arthur muttered.

It didn’t respond. It never did. He didn’t like looking at it – not really. But if he did, if he really forced himself, he could make out the shape of a head of some sorts. It bobbled from side to side, this time, like it was interested.

“Anything else for you?” The girl chimed, sticking her thumb in the mess of yolk-water and gristle as she took the plates. “We’ve got some fresh pie.”

The shadow reached out. She couldn’t see it, but it could see her. It got restless like this sometimes. Like it wanted to have fun, too. Arthur watched as its inky bulk roiled over to the girl’s behind and moved it around. Was it making a joke?

The girl jumped and squeaked. She’d have felt something cold, dribbling into her. Her thumb lost its grip and one of the plates flew to the floor. The shatter drew the attention of the three other diners. “I’m so sorry, sir! I just felt something…”

Arthur had to play this all careful. “Don’t worry, darlin’. These things happen. No pie for me. Just keep the coffee comin’.”

She did. She scraped away the scattered ruin of the plate and its indigestible ruin of a meal, and the shit-coffee kept flowing.

The diners filtered out as the night drew longer. The dark guy in his suit went first – probably staying in that shit-heap motel. That nice suit would be crisp with fleas, come morning. The trucker and the old lady went next. Arthur guessed she was an old whore, ready for one last trick. Maybe the trucker’d take her somewhere nice after. Give her a smoke and let her drown herself in all the coffee she wanted.

Then the chef appeared. Young guy. Heavy-set. Might be the owner, too.

That’s why Arthur always waited.

“Be patient,” he seethed at the shadow.

That’s why Arthur always listened, too.

“You sure you’re alright locking up?” the chef asked, already pressing the key into the girl’s palm, as if there were no point to the question. “You done it before?”

The girl was all sweetness and charm. Ignorant. “Sure thing. Just one customer left, and he seems like a sweetheart. I’ll get him his last coffee and shut up shop, no problem.”

Arthur waited, and took that last cup, as a necessary sacrifice. The shadow was bubbling now – because it knew the pattern, inside-and-out. It was like clockwork, these days.

Arthur didn’t want to do this. Not any of it. Not the ham and eggs, and not the fucking coffee, and not what came after. But did he have a choice? If he could get this vulture off his back, he would. Of course he fucking would.

But he couldn’t.

He stood, and the shadow rose with him. He paced toward the girl, where she was doing her last-minute tidy. He didn’t creep, and he didn’t falter – there was no guilt; it’s not like this was his doing, As he walked with purpose, he felt that goddamn chill as the shadow fitted inside him like a cheap suit.

He almost wanted her to turn around. To see him. To see the fucking vulture. Maybe Arthur would lose his calm, and give up. Maybe this girl, this time, didn’t have to die. But she was too fucking ignorant.

No, this wasn’t his fault, was it. The girl was goddamn ignorant but she probably didn’t deserve this.

--

Arthur locked up, as he left, and kept the key. He’d find a place to bury it later. He’d made this mistake before – missing persons don’t forget to lock up unless there’s been foul play. They lock up, then they hit the road. Maybe this girl headed to California, to be in the pictures. It practically wrote itself.

There wouldn’t be anything left to prove otherwise. The shadow was a vulture. It gorged on it all. Bone and sinew. Didn’t matter how fresh or how rubbery-tough. Drank the eggy-water from their eyes and choked on the gristle.

He rubbed the side of his mouth as he was swallowed by the dark of the night and the sleet. He always tasted it, too. Like burning charcoal.