The Alternatron Deluxe

Alternatron Fast Food and Angst Apparel opened to create a market need for the 'gothic lunch' crowd whom realized their importance following the Alternatron's opening last year. Alternatron’s black clad, corpse-painted wait staff serve horror-themed meals with a death-rock flair as today's hottest underground bands are played at full volume and available on disc or digital download when you upgrade your value meal for only $6.66. T-shirts are also available if the air-conditioner is up too high. The atmosphere is stale and corporate-antiseptic, and against every fiber of my Roots Radical existence, but Kurt Vance is the manager, and I eat there for free.

Kurt doesn’t let me eat free. He hired Chloe Isis and Dr. Filth last month, and my appetite would be shocked out if either tried charging me. Neither do much, so if Kurt fired them they'd probably keep working. Spec already fired two managers for making too much noise, which is enough to keep Kurt in line. He has habits. After all, Doc and Chloe are handing out free samples. It's good for business.

Doc is sitting on the counter when I come in. Chloe is cleaning up after some disillusioned rich kids that trashed the condiment station in an attempt to smash the state. Kurt must be in the office. Even Chloe and Doc aren’t allowed to go back there, and Kurt takes great care to make sure the room is securely locked at all times. Doc doesn’t look up until Chloe cries “Rubin!” and runs to give me a hug. Her apron is covered with “Witch Blood,” a sticky red brew made from caramelized sugar and tomato flavoring, which glues us together when she embraces me. Chloe plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “What are you doing here, sweet thang?”

I peel myself off Chloe and push Dr. Filth off the counter. “Make me an Alternatron Deluxe!” I order.

“I was sitting there!” Dr. Filth protests.

The Alternatron Deluxe is the top of the Alternatron menu, the most delicious food item to ever come out of this place. “I want an Alternatron Deluxe. I came all the way down here for one, so don’t make me wait!”

“Have Chloe make it,” Doc says.

“I don’t touch the food, thank you very much,” Chloe says, quite put out. “I don’t know what that shit is. Nobody will ever convince me those are vegetables, and it sure as hell ain’t meat.”

“It is too meat,” Doc says.

“It’s disgusting, Rubin,” Chloe says. “Why would you put that in your body?”

“It’s delicious!” I say.

“He’s disgusting,” Doc says. “I’m not making you a sandwich.”

“I’ll tell your manager,” I say.

“Go ahead,” Dr. Filth says. “Chloe, Rubin wants to talk to Kurt.”

“Call his cell,” Chloe says. “I’m not going back in the office. He freaked out the last time I knocked on the door.”

The doorbell moans a sorrowful groan and a kid in a green mohawk and black leather jacket comes in, kicking a garbage on his way to the counter. “Give me an Alternatron Delux with fries!” he demands. “Extra Witch Blood.”

“Chloe!” Dr. Filth barks. “This kid wants a sandwich!”

“Not making it!” Chloe yells back from the black, high-backed booths with twisting antelope horns adorning the top.

Doc shrugs. “She said no.”

The mohawk kid stares at Dr. Filth a few seconds. Doc stares back. The kid shuffles his combat boots. “Did you hear the new Marilyn Munster album?” the kid asks.

Dr. Filth rolls his eyes. “I’m no longer allowed to express my negative attitudes toward the bands who sell merchandise through Alternatron, whether I think they suck balls or not,” he recites in a monotone. “I’m only allowed to express that I have different musical tastes from any such individual or fan-base.”

“Can I have my sandwich?” the kid asks, though I can’t tell if he sounds annoyed.

Doc sighs. “Hold on.” Dr. Filth takes his cell phone out of his pocket and makes a call. He pauses. “Kurt? Some kid wants a sandwich, and Chloe won’t make it. I told her to. You put me in charge. Yes you did. Yes you did. Yes you did. If I tell him, then I don’t have to clean the bathrooms tonight. No I don’t. No I don’t. No I don’t. Fine.” Doc turns off the phone and puts it back in his pocket. “The manager will be right out,” he says and sits on the counter again.

“He’d better make one for me too,” I say.

The door to the office is heavy metal painted white with “Employees ONLY!!” written in red letters. The exclamation points are drippy. The door rattles and unlocks and unbolts, and swings open. Silhouetted in red light and smoke is Kurt Vance with a bloody lab coat and handsaw. “Did anyone take his order yet? Do you at least know what I have to make?”

Doc shrugs. “I kept telling Chloe there was a customer, but she wouldn’t come back to the counter.”

“I’m not touching that food,” Chloe’s disembodied voice shouts from somewhere in the booths.

Kurt sighs and points the saw at the mohawk kid. “What can I get for you?”

“Why do you have a handsaw?” I ask.

Kurt looks at me in confusion a moment before realizing the bloody, circular blade in his raised hand.

“Why do you have a handsaw?” I repeat.

“I was cutting sandwich meat,” Kurt says. He looks back to the mohawk kid. “What can I get for you?”

“Don’t we have a meat slicer?” Dr. Filth asks. “You don’t cut all our meats with a handsaw, do you?”

“Some of them,” Kurt says impatiently, and back to the mohawk kid. “What did you want?”

“It’s a bone saw!” Chloe cries, returning to the counter. “I saw it in a movie!”

“Guys!” Kurt barks. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I know I can’t count on any of you to do any of it. Can I please take this kid’s order so he can get back to band practice?”

“How did you know I was in a band?” the mohawk kid asks.

“Wild guess,” Kurt says. “Your order?”

“I have a demo CD if you’d like to hear.”

“Does it sound like garbage?” Dr. Filth asks.

“Doc!” Kurt yells.

Dr. Filth sighs. “I was talking about the band, Garbage. If it does, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Can I have an Alternatron Deluxe with a side of fries?” the kid asks. “Extra Witch Blood.”

“I told him to put on his own damn Witch Blood,” Dr. Filth says. “Tell him, Kurt. Don’t let this kid push you around.

Kurt gives Dr. Filth a dirty look and opens the steam trays. Kurt pulls out a red, drippy slab of meat cooked only by its time in the pan, and slaps it between two slices of Panini bread. From another pan, he scoops out a pile of soggy black french fries and plops them on a paper plate. “Chloe, will you at least ring him out?”

“Of course, Kurt,” Chloe says, sounding offended. “You didn’t hire me to just stand around, did you?” She takes the kid’s money and hands back his change, slipping a dollar into the tip jar as soon as he turns away.

“I’ll take mine with less ketchup,” I say when Kurt tries escaping to the back room.

“You’re not getting one,” Kurt says, back still to me.

“You’re refusing a sale?” I ask, disgruntled.

“Are you planning to pay for one?”

“Hell no,” I say.

“Then it isn’t a sale,” Kurt retorts. “Try and get Chloe or Doc to make something for you.” He is gone in the back before I can make a witty response.

“I’m not making anything,” Dr. Filth says.

“I won’t touch that stuff,” Chloe says, taking a seat on the miniature crematorium next to the register. “You must be out of your mind to eat it.”

“Sick and wrong,” chimes in the Doc.

“Is that an ash?” I ask, pointing to the floor.

Chloe’s face turns white.

“You’re imagining things,” Doc says. This is the first time I’ve seem move fast all day, leaping off the counter, grabbing a hand broom and dustpan before he even hits the ground, sweeping up the single white ash from the black and red shag carpet.

“You guys actually use that thing?” I ask.

“Uh...,” Chloe responds.

“No,” Dr. Filth says. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not imagining things, you just swept an ash off the floor. Why is there an ash in your miniature crematorium if you don’t use it?” I always thought the crematorium was just a snazzy decoration. I never imagined it was actually used. “That’s fucking rad!”

The doorbell chimes a mournful wail and a ebon goth with pale skin enters, sweating profusely in his pleather body suit that is not made for these blistering summer conditions.

“Chloe!” Doc yells, even though she is only a few feet away. “Customer!”

“I’m not making a sandwich,” Chloe says, not even looking up. “I don’t touch that food.”

“Thalutathionth,” greets the goth as he reaches the counter, struggling with his words around the long points of vampire teeth protruding from his mouth. “Thertainly ith a thcorther thith afternoon.”

“Can I help you?” Dr. Filth asks. “Or do you just want to talk about the heat all day?”

“Theemth to me that nothing would go better than a delithiouth Alternatron Delukth thandwith. Could I have one pleath?”

“Chloe!” Doc yells again.

“Kurt!” Chloe yells louder.

The metal door jiggles and shudders and unlocks, and Kurt comes out, bloodier than before. “What?” he barks.

“Customer,” Doc says.

“So serve him,” Kurt snaps, furious.

“Do I have to tell everyone what you were listening to this morning?” Doc asks.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Jeff... Jeff...”

“Fine!” Kurt cries and goes to the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“An Alternatron Delukth, pleath.”

Eyes fixed on the task at hand, Kurt slaps another bloody slab onto a Panini.

“Do you guyth have any Thithterth of Merthy T-thirth?” the goth asks.

“He won’t fire me for spitting in your food,” Doc says.

“Yes I will,” Kurt answers, wrapping the sandwich in wax paper and handing it over the counter.

“Thankth,” the goth says and proceeds down the line to Chloe, who rings out and slides another dollar in the tip jar.

“Why are you so bloody?” I ask Kurt, who is watching the transaction with disgust.

“Ambianth,” says the goth. “It’th fucking thweet.”

“Get out!” Doc orders.

The goth complies, still smiling. Kurt stands motionless but for his eyes, thin and full of rage.

“I want a sandwich,” I say.

Kurt does not answer, and returns to his office.

“What was he listening to?” Chloe asks.

“Jefferson Airplane,” Dr. Filth answers.

“Weird,” I say. “I’m not leaving until you make me a sandwich.’

“You’ll leave after?” Dr. Filth asks.

“Maybe,” I say.

“Fine,” Doc moans. “If you don’t leave, I’m making you clean the bathroom.”

“No.”

“Whatever,” Doc says, sliding off the counter and pulling out two slices of Panini. “I’m not doing it. Chloe hasn’t cleaned them all week, and they are disgusting.

“I’m not washing a toilet,” Chloe says. “If Alternatron wants a clean bathroom, they can hire someone to clean it.”

Doc hands me the sloppy sandwich as Kurt returns, bloodier than ever, now holding a glistening hacksaw. “Did he pay for that?” Kurt asks.

“Of course,” Doc Filth answers.

“We wouldn’t let anyone steal,” Chloe adds.

“Why are you so bloody?” I ask, taking the first big bite of my delectable Deluxe.

“How can you eat that?” Chloe asks. “You don’t even know what it’s made of!”

“How often do any of us know what we’re eating? Especially Doc,” I say, jabbing a thumb in his direction. The blood has started to saturate the bread. I love it when it does that, gets all soggy, so it just falls apart in your mouth!

Kurt laughs nervously.

Before I can ask why, the door opens, and a tiny little old man walks in. He is dressed in a polo shirt and has a cane. Rather odd clientele for an Alternatron store, who targets angry fifteen-year-old’s, strippers, prostitutes, or all of the above. As I take another bite, I know why he’s come. The Alternatron Deluxe is to die for!

“I came here for the Alternatron Deluxe!” the old man announces proudly. “Please hurry, so I can get out of this den of iniquity.”

Breathing through his nose and keeping his head down, Kurt returns to the steam tables.

The old man eyes my sandwich hungrily, so I take another big bite, and moan over how good it is. Chloe is turning green watching me. It’s so hard having vegetarian friends always trying to impose their diets on you.

“Do you know what’s in it?” I ask her.

“No,” she answers.

“You should try it,” I say, pushing it towards her. “You shouldn’t bad mouth something if you don’t know anything about it.”

“It’s meat, Rubin,” she says. “I don’t eat meat.”

“You don’t know that it’s meat.”

Kurt hands over a sandwich that looks like an uncooked, bloody pile of muscle between two soggy Panini, and sends the old man to Chloe. He shuffles out quickly, looking around to make sure no one sees him.

“Come on, Chloe,” I say. “Just try it, they’re sooo good!”

“Eww Ew Ew!” she cries, sticking her tongue out at the sandwich. She looks over at Kurt. “I won’t eat that. I can’t eat that.”

Kurt nods. “You have to.”

“No,” Chloe pleads.

“Those are the rules,” Kurt says. “You signed it. If a customer asks, you have to eat the sandwich. How else can we prove our products are safe?”

“He’s not a customer!” Chloe cries. I hold out the dripping sandwich, making Chloe squeal and jump away.

“If you don’t eat that sandwich, I have to fire you, Chloe. You agreed to that.”

“Come on, Kurt,” Dr. Filth says. “Don’t make her break her veg. Just tell Rubin what makes the Alternatron Deluxe so popular.”

Kurt looks at the three of us in turn and sighs. “If I tell you, you can’t tell another living person. Not even other Alternatron employees.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say.

“Not whatever!” Kurt says sharply. “If you say a word about this, you’re donesies. Understand.”

“Whatever.”

Kurt looks over at the back door with the blood-red lettering. “We keep bodies in the back.”

“Why?” I ask, taking another bite of my delicious sandwich.

“We have a morgue in the back,” Dr. Filth informs me.

“I see!” I say through a mouthful of Alternatron Deluxe, so it comes out more as “Ahhthee!”

“Each week we buy ten cadavers from the hospital.” Kurt says. “Initially we used John Does, but sales really picked up with SpectraCom started buying bodies from families that had defaulted on their medical bills. Those bodies are sliced into sandwich meat.”

“It can’t be legal.” Chloe cries.

“Completely inhuman.” Dr. Filth says.

“That’s pretty messed up,” I say, shoving the last of my sandwich in my mouth.

“Rubin just ate a stomach,” Kurt tells us.

I giggle. “It’s like a yummy tummy in my tummy,” I say, which makes everyone laugh.

“That old man had a heart.”

“Really?” I say. “He seemed kind of like a cranky old man.”

“No,” Kurt says. “His sandwich was made from a human heart.”

“Oh!” I cry. “That makes so much more sense!”

Kurt looks down at his lab coat, and is momentarily appalled by the thick coat of blood down his front. He takes off the coat and shoves it in the crematorium. “Last year, SpectraCom noticed that everyone in the entire world dies, and they were not getting once red cent of profit.” He leans on the counter and smiles boisterously. “We offer to dispose of the deceased at a cheaper cost than those brand-name funeral homes, like Deathco, or BuryMart.”

“It’s almost closing time,” Dr. Filth points out. “Let’s hang out tonight.”

“I’ve got nothing to do,” Chloe says.

“Me either,” I inform.

“Let’s bring one of the bodies!” Kurt says.

“What?” the three of us ask in unison.

“It will be fun!” he defends. “It will be like Weekend at Bernie’s!” He goes over to the door with the blood-red lettering. “Come on back, you’ve got to check this out!”

I must admit, I’m a little worried. Have I been initiated into some secret Alternatron cult, or am I allowing myself to become the next sandwich to walk out the door? Never to pass up the chance at something previously forbidden, I go with them.

The Alternatron back room is cold, and antiseptic white, with cadaver-lockers. A long counter down the middle has an assortment of knives and saws laid out. I expected more gore.

Kurt points to a closet. “There’s some lawn-chairs in there, can someone grab five?”

Chloe goes while Kurt takes me and Dr. Filth to the corpse lockers. He pulls one open, revealing a man with a sheet pulled up to his chest. “This is Sean, he’s the freshest,” Kurt says. “We haven’t made anything with him yet. Help me lug this guy out.” He pulls the sheet off the corpse and Dr. Filth helps lift the body off the tray. Chloe holds the door with the blood-red lettering and we go out to the street.

I help Chloe set up the lawn chairs in front of the store while Kurt and Dr. Filth sit the corpse. We should have gotten clothes for him to look less conspicuous, but it’s a little late for that. So there we sit, me, Doc, Chloe and Kurt, and poor, dead Sean. The sun is creeping down, to begin it’s nightly slumber, and the whole sky is lit up red. There is only one way this can be better.

“I’ve got beer in the car!” Dr. Filth announces.

“Well, hurry up and get them!” I say. I’m kind of pissed, because they’re going to be warm. Dr. Filth will drink beer from a mud-puddle. Oh well, beer is beer.

He scurries off quickly and returns with two cases of precious green bottles. We each take one and Dr. Filth gives one to the corpse. I start laughing, and so does Chloe, overwhelming Kurt and Dr. Filth until we’re all laughing, sitting around a corpse in lawn chairs with alcohol in our hands.

“Is that good?” Chloe asks, punching Sean in the arm.

“What in the name of God’s Holy Hand Grenade are you little maggots doing?!” barks the biggest, ugliest State Trooper I’ve ever seen don a pair of mirrored shades and a moustache. Where did he come from? How did he get here without any notice. We’re all too stunned to speak. “Do you hear me?”

We nod together.

“I aught to beat your skulls to pulp and then beat that pulp to putty!”

Kurt tries to laugh but it’s no way convincing. “You see sir, it’s not what you think. SpectraCom purchased this cadaver. I can show you the permit in the office if you’d like...”

“I know what you do with bodies back here!” the trooper barks. “I’m talking about that!” His arm shoots out straight at the bottle clutched in Sean’s rigored fingers. “Don’t you know it’s a crime to serve alcohol to a corpse?”

Kurt takes a quick breath. “I... I didn’t know that.”

“I did,” Doc Filth says. “There’s a serious fine, and some jail time as well. Necrophilia is a felony in every state but this one. The law keeps offenders off the street longer for getting their victims liquored up.”

“Necrophiliacs only victimize corpses,” Kurt says, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief.

“And nobody violates the sanctity of a corpse in my town!” the cop barks and leans in close enough for his spit to fly in Kurt’s slack mouth. “Especially not the dirty little maggot that sold me slices of my cousin Seamus as luncheon meat!”

Dr. Filth nods. “We all thought that was funny at the time.”

Once we were handcuffed and shackled, the trooper opened Dr. Filth’s trunk with a crowbar. It turns out he was the mastermind of one of the widest and most horrendous bestiality porn rings in the Northeast. He had some sick stuff in there–people doing it with seagulls; Manatees doing the wild thing with a buffalo; horse on cow; two dogs and a cat. . . The list went on and on. We were charged all of us as accomplices.

The moral of the story is that all morality laws are always bad, all of the time.

End.