Part 1
Because of the strong superhero presence in Metro City, the Party Mayor abolished the Department of Sanitation. The only cleaning would be the weekly pressure washing of every building from the fourth floor up. He presented a strong case that the used water would trickle into the streets and wash away the detritus of city life. That was all well and good on Hero Island, where the shortest spire raised 14 storeys. Bristol Creek was across the river in Doom City, where very few buildings topped five floors. Very little washed away, and garbage was left piling on corners until well-meaning citizens tossed them over the wall into the abandoned cemetery.
Richard M. Nixon Memorial Cemetery was known as Dicknixcem to the locals of Bristol Creek in the south corner of Doom City near the end of the Black History Month Parkway. The cemetary operated from 1781 until 1955 before it was abandoned in 1974 until "someone to figure what the fuck to do with it." No one ever visited, and the entire cemetery stank like a festering landfill.
At precisely 3am, the order came for ten falafel sandwiches to Dicknixcem. A maniacal laugh followed. The order was placed online, meaning the customer had typed the laugh, or had excellent voice recognition software. The balance was already paid in full by credit card, $36.66, which is a very good price for 10 falafel sandwiches.
The order had no location inside the cemetery, and no callback number. Chez Manderville did not understand why this was a problem to wander in an abandoned cemetery at 3am where three other deliverers already disappeared. Chez Manderville threw a cheesecake at the first deliverer to refuse. Dr. Filth convinced himself this was the delivery he’d been waiting for.
Chez Manderville was not Middle Eastern, and he never checked to see if Habab was a real name. He saw only a desire for a fast, unhealthy vegetarian food to gorge while drunk. He promised delivery anywhere in Metro City in 30 minutes or your falafel is free. This was neither possible or legitimate, and deliverers were not permitted to honor the promotion. Chez Manderville had adopted this tactic after winning a court case for his pizzeria, “Case-O-Morphine,” by arguing that such a claim was so absurd no person in their right mind could believe it possible. Few ordered from Habab’s that were sober enough to tell the time.
All orders were taken online now after a screaming rage where Chez Manderville ripped the phones from the wall and hurled the receivers across the room. His rages were legendary, and they normally happened in front of customers. A switch would flip, his eyes went blank, and any semblance of language disappeared. He was all fists and noise, normally punching himself more than anyone or anything else. Occasionally beating his head against such inanimate objects as walls, counters, and coolers. After only a week on the job, Dr. Filth saw Chez Manderville burn his forehead beating it against the oven door.
Delivery staff were independent contractors, so Chez Manderville could pay them cash. They manipulated Metro City’s byways and highways on Manderville’s own design of a bicycle with a falafel warmer bolted to the back. It carried 10 sandwiches and after 1, Habab’s served only falafel, no alterations. Deliverers could ride out with an order and pick up more along the way. Dr. Filth was working undercover, investigating the disappearance of deliverers to Dicknixcem. Habab’s was the last place in town delivering there. Habab lost three drivers already, but Chez Manderville never turned away an order.
The warmer was powered by the pedals, maintaining a legal 400 degrees should a deliverer be subject to stop and search by the Health Department. The warmer was heavy and unwieldy, and burnt the driver’s ass if he peddled for more than two blocks straight. This meant the mile long slope leading to the cemetery had to be taken in stages. Dr. Filth took a zig-zag pattern on the approach, coasting down side streets to keep the bike from overheating.
Habab’s food was nearly inedible, and Manderville stayed in business only through the generosity of a crowd so drunk so late at night they couldn't eat anywhere else. On his first night, Dr. Filth came up one sandwich short on an order to a frat house. He wrapped a desiccated dog turd in a stack of napkins and slathered it in ranch, and the thick-neck, popped-collar dude with an orange tan called it the best falafel he’d ever eaten. Despite 95% of business being between 2am and 5am Thursday to Saturday, Manderville insisted on keeping Habab’s open 24 hours, seven days a week, negating any profit earned in the busy late-night rushes.
Manderville opened Habab’s after closing Fat Burger, but remained in the same location, kept the same phone number, most of the same menu, and a significant portion of memorable staff. The website was still case-o-morphine.com, which was at least two restaurants prior to Fat Burger. Veteran staff could not remember if Manderville owned 5 or 6 restaurants in that space, and if there had been 3 or only 2 in the previous location around the corner. None of the drivers or cooks had worked at more than 3, but turnover was so fast that Chez Manderville had to often rehire staff he’d fired from previous restaurants.
The falafel bike was large, noisy, and unmistakable. Dr. Filth had been announcing his presence all the way up the street. He could feel the eyes on him as he peddled through the open cemetery gates. He was not alone though. As soon as he left Habab’s, he’d put in a call to his partner, St. Eva, the luckiest woman in the Superhero Gang. Only because he knew where to look did Dr. Filth see St. Eva slip over the wall into shadows. Dr. Filth hoped for a little bit of her luck tonight. In case he didn’t find it, he had his trusty Desert Talon locked and loaded in the holster under his arm.
St. Eva was easily the most popular female on the Superhero Gang. She had purple hair and burning red eyes that Dr. Filth believed were contact lenses. Her costume was only a long white scarf that relied on that luck to swirl and twist to keep her decent during battles. In all her crime fighting, there was not a single photo captured that needed to be blurred on television. In her origin story, she met the Devil, who gave her luck that would never run out. She celebrated each victory with mind-blowing sex with her fellow superhero. She now worked only with Dr. Filth, making his unpopular position more unpopular among the other superheros.
Dicknixcem had previously been the James A Polk Memorial Cemetery, and before that it was the Bristol Creek churchyard. The Pisceans repurposed the church into a lodge of their own around the turn of the century, but that had been out of use for a generation as membership of that organization flagged.
He was not sure how many drivers had disappeared already, as most went unreported. Restaurants simply stopped delivering to the location and assumed the family would notify the police and proper authorities.
As. Dr. Filth approached the wooded area surrounding the former Piscean lodge and churchhouse, he heard a moan. Then two, and they were getting louder. Dr. Filth stopped pedaling, but still the voices approached. There were more now, many more.
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