V: Certain Doom

He pulled the door open to find Dixie, battered and bloody, standing over the body of an equally battered and bloody woman who looked exactly like her. Dixie had just plunged a metal pitchfork into the woman’s throat with such force that the pitchfork was embedded into the floor of the barn. She was leaning on it, gasping.
Quietly, Johnny walked up to Dixie and took her hand. He glanced down at the dead twin, then silently led Dixie to the barn door just as the others arrived. Johnny pushed Dixie through the door, and closed it behind them, blocking the view of the inside. The others looked shocked at Dixie’s current state. Chichay was about to speak when Johnny cut her off.
“Hey guys! I think Dix could use a burger and a couple of shots of bourbon. Let’s get her back to the house and fire up the grills. We have a menu to plan!” Without further questions, the group took Dixie and walked slowly back toward the ranch house.

“Ok, I’d say that’s a big yes to deep fried chicken and waffles,” Chichay Milano said, making a note on the large chalkboard that they had set up on the porch of the ranch house.
“It’s a fuck yes,” agreed Sweaty Mulligan. He was sitting at the large dining table, which was covered in the remnants of several different dishes, all deep fried, that they had tested that afternoon as they sought to design a menu for their new restaurant, Certain Doom. Rex Ponticello sat at the end of the table, finishing off a deep fried chicken, as the two ranch hands, Johnson and Wang Chung Troubadour, attacked a pile of fried dough, not unlike funnel cake, trying out different combinations of toppings.
Out on the lawn, several large drums of cooking oil boiled rapidly, one with a lasagna bolognese in it, which had been Rex’s contribution to the test kitchen. This would be their last dish left to sample that day. They did the testing on the lawn at Chichay’s insistence. She didn’t want the house to smell like deep fry.
“Rex,” Sweaty said, “You better keep an eye on your lasagna.” Rex nodded and got up, wiping his face with his hands, and his hands on his pants as we went. He heaved the basket out of the fryer to reveal an oozing, dripping, perfectly crisp in all the right places lasagna. With a shake, he slid it onto a platter and carried it to the table where he plunked it down in front of Sweaty.
“You magnificent bastard,” Sweaty said, looking up at him in awe.
“Didn’t think I could do it, huh?”
“I am humbled, sir,” Sweaty said, bowing his head. “Alright, cut this sucker open!” He reached for a large knife and got to work cutting the lasagna into squares. “Dixie! Johnny! Rex is playing god, you better get out here!”
A moment later, the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go and his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks burst through the back door of the ranch house, their arms full of potted cactus plants that had previously lined the window sill in the living room.
“Looks great,” Johnny said as he headed across the porch. “Save us a piece, we just gotta test one more thing.” He walked down the porch steps with Dixie close behind, and the two crossed the lawn toward the fryers. Concerned, Chichay got up and called to them from the edge of the porch.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Throwing these cactuses in the fryer,” Dixie replied simply.
“Uh, why?”
“Why?” Johnny asked, looking over his shoulder, his hand poised to drop a cactus into the oil. “Why not?”
“Well, you can’t eat it.”
“Says you,” he replied, dropping it in. The oil bubbled up, but didn’t breach the sides. Dixie followed suit, dumping the plants she’d been carrying into the drum, as well, along with the pots they’d been planted in. On the porch, Chichay rolled her eyes and looked at the Troubadours.
“Once that’s cool, can you two dump it? We’re gonna need to change out the oil now.” She sat back down as Dixie and Johnny returned to the porch, taking seats opposite the Troubadours and reaching for Rex’s lasagna. “I appreciate that you both are taking an interest in developing the menu,” Chichay said, “But I thought we agreed that we’d stick to deep frying actual food?”
“You’re the one who said you’d eat a tire if it was deep fried,” Johnny replied. “Put up or shut up time!”
“Actually, I’m the one who said that,” Sweaty interjected, “And even I think we need to stick to actual food items that we could sell at the restaurant.”
“Boring!” shouted Dixie with her mouth full of lasagna. She reached for a cooler that sat between her and Johnny and pulled out a bottle of Boone's Farm Orange Screw. She handed it to Johnny, then pulled another out for herself. She was about to take the top off and drink when she looked around the table at the others. “Oh, how rude of me. Would anyone else like one?”
“No thanks,” Chichay said quickly. Her primary career as an assassin guided many of her life’s decisions, abstaining from alcohol primary among them. Beside her, Sweaty also shook his head.
“We’ve got to head up and check the cattle later,” Johnson said, by way of an explanation. The Troubadours were in recovery. Dixie turned and locked eyes with Rex.
“How ‘bout you, spindly?”
“Ah, why not?” Rex said, reaching for the bottle. “What’s this, anyway?”
“Boone’s Orange Screw,” Johnny said. “It’s one of their seasonal blends.” Rex turned the bottle slowly in his hands, examining the label, which featured the legs of a woman, clad in fishnet stockings and high heels, spread open across the bottle. A large orange blocked the view of her crotch.
“These labels are really something,” Rex said, taking a sip. He nodded. “Not bad!”
“It might be sorority house bullshit, but I’ll always have a soft spot for Boone’s,” Dixie said. She took a drink, draining half the bottle in one go.
“Ok,” Chichay said, “Before we get back to our other work-” at this, Dixie snorted. Chichay shot her a look, then continued. “Who has ideas they want to try tomorrow?”
“Me and Dix’ve got some ostrich coming in. Steaks and legs, mostly,” Johnny said. Everyone looked at him.
“Where’d you get ostrich meat?” Sweaty asked.
“Eh, we’ve got a guy,” Dixie replied.
“Tommy?” Rex asked.
“Nah, Tommy’s meat can be a little,” Johnny made a blow job motion with his hand and his mouth. No one at the table knew what that was supposed to mean. “So we got a guy who just does meat.”
“Muffuletta Jones,” Dixie added.
“That’s his name?”
“Uh huh.”
“Can he get us actual muffulettas?” Chichay asked, excited. “I think that’s something we should look into deep frying.”
“I mean, we can ask him,” Johnny said, dismissively. “But you can get muffulettas anywhere. Jonesy really shines when it comes to the less common meats.”
“Less common?”
“Yeah, like okapi,” Dixie said.
“Condors,” Johnny said.
“Platypus.”
“Wombat.”
“Uh,” Chichay said.
“Aren’t a lot of those endangered?” Sweaty asked.
“So?”

***

Dixie and Johnny waved goodbye to Muffuletta Jones the next afternoon as his battered, homemade looking refrigerated truck clattered back down the driveway of the ranch house. The rest of the staff was on the porch, getting ready to test some more recipes. They watched the truck as it departed, not really thrilled at the idea of eating anything that had come from it.
On the lawn, Dixie and Johnny stood over a pile of parcels in various sizes, mostly wrapped in butcher paper, although it seemed like at a certain point, Muffuletta Jones had run out and resorted to using newspaper for the rest. The sun beat down on them, but they made no effort to get the meat into the fridge or the freezer, or even just into the shade. Instead, they dropped to their knees and began unwrapping the parcels.
“This one’s white,” Dixie said, holding up an oblong hunk of meat, oozing with blood. “Maybe this is the gator?”
“Smell this,” Johnny replied, thrusting something under Dixie’s nose that looked like poultry. “D’sat smell like falcon to you?” Dixie leaned over and sniffed.
“Yeah,” she said. “Wanna start with that?” She didn’t have to ask again, Johnny was already on his way to the fryer. He plunked the whole thing in. Sweaty Mulligan came down slowly from the porch and walked over to the fryer.
“Didn’t wanna season it or anything?” he asked, looking into the rapidly boiling abyss.
“Nah,” replied Johnny, heading back to the meat pile. “Meat like this, it’s so fresh it doesn’t even need anything. You’ll see.” He picked up another package and unwrapped it, while Dixie made her way over with the gator meat.
“Gonna just butter this gator when it’s done cooking, though,” she said. “Keep it simple. Maybe a little salt, but not too much. This was a saltwater gator.”
“Uh huh,” said Sweaty. “There’s a lot of meat here, guys.”
“Yep,” said Johnny. He unwrapped another parcel to reveal a skinned bear head.
“We’re probably not gonna be able to eat all this today,” Sweaty tried again. “Maybe you should put the rest in the freezer?” Johnny shrugged, then placed the grotesque bear head on top of his own.
“Dix!” he cried. “Check it out!” She turned away from the oil drum and gasped.
“Oh! Let me try!” Soon, Dixie and Johnny were taking turns dancing around the yard wearing the bear head, their frying meat utterly forgotten. With a sigh, Sweaty began to pick up the packages of meat and move them into the freezer, and Chichay rescued the cooking meats. The falcon was tough, but the gator was surprisingly good.

***

Chichay, Sweaty, Rex, and the Troubadour brothers were gathered in the kitchen of the ranch house looking nervous and excited. They were about to head over to the restaurant for the first trial run of their dinner service. They had secured the space, designed what they felt was an homage to American gluttony, and finally nailed down a small menu that was as impressive as it was detrimental to your health.
They’d been inspected, registered, and paid the appropriate and necessary bribes. Their liquor license was approved and their bar was stocked. Rex had even invented a shot that was served in an edible, deep fried cup.
Staff had been hired, food had been purchased, and they’d invited several friends, neighbors, local dignitaries, and media personalities in for a greasy, exclusive sneak peek meant to drum up interest in the restaurant. If all went well, they’d have their grand opening a week later.
Shazbot Industries was going legit, and the team was thrilled.
“Has anyone heard from Dixie and Johnny?” Chichay asked, as they headed out to the driveway. “They’ve been gone for a few weeks now.”
“That’s normal for them,” Sweaty replied.
“I know,” Chichay said, “But I figured they’d want to be here for the grand opening.”
“Yeah, but do we want them here for it?” Sweaty asked.
“He’s right, Chich,” Rex said. “Best case scenario would be if we get a few weeks under our belts before they get back.”
“Honestly,” said Sweaty as they reached the car, “I’m kind of trying to mentally prepare myself for when they show up just in time for the grand opening.”
“Maybe we reserve a table for them, with a keg, and hope that keeps them out of the kitchen,” Rex suggested.
“Good idea. I’ll tell Hans,” Sweaty said. “Why don’t you ride with the Troubs so you don’t have to wait around for us all night?”
Rex nodded, and with that, the team piled into two separate cars and headed off to Certain Doom.

***

The night was a bigger success than any of them had anticipated. The guests were wild for the menu, ordering seconds, and, in the case of one larger than life Texan, fourths. Rex’s drink menu was hugely popular, and the bartenders rushed to keep up with the orders for the Scotch Scotch, the Double Down, and his personal favorite, the O-K City, which was a take on a car bomb, with the shot served in a deep fried bacon cup.
Chichay took several guests from local media outlets on a tour of the restaurant, including the bank of huge fryers, which they had smartly displayed along one side, separated from the dining room by a wall of glass. It was a novelty that captivated the guests, and they watched, entranced, as fry cooks dipped their food in the boiling oil.
In the kitchen, Chichay introduced the media to their executive chef, a woman by the name of Orlandrea Wallace. At the bar, she introduced the head bartender, a guy known only as Paddy. She introduced their newly hired manager, Hans, their pastry chef, and their hostess. Each person got a few minutes of fame, being interviewed for this publication or that.
Chichay and Sweaty circulated through the dining room, speaking to each guest, giving them all a moment where they were important. Chichay’s years of having to adapt to any situation made her perfect for this role. She’d worried about how Sweaty would do when it came to schmoozing, but as she glanced over at him, he seemed to be doing well, discussing the science behind cooking, and his mechanical expertise that helped design the fryers. He even hinted at the mysterious origins of his secret deep fried ribs.
After the last guest had gone, Chichay and Sweaty helped the staff clean up, then they sat down together to go over their notes for the evening. What worked, what didn’t, what kind of feedback they’d received. They would make adjustments based on this, and get ready for their grand opening.
Finally, Chichay and Sweaty locked up and headed to their car hand in hand. They were exhausted, but happy.

***

It was several months later and Certain Doom was a huge success, proving definitively that people really don’t want to eat healthy and live longer. Over the weeks since their preview night, Chichay and Sweaty adjusted, expanded, and fine tuned until they finally felt like they were hitting their stride. It was exhausting, but rewarding and they loved every minute of it.
“I think we should put that brisket on special tonight,” Chichay said. She and Sweaty were sitting in the kitchen having breakfast. Sweaty was tooling around on another one of his homemade laptops, and nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, we have a delivery coming in tomorrow and I don’t think we really have the space for it in the walk-in.”
“My thoughts exactly.” She got up and grabbed the coffee pot, topping off both their mugs before sitting back down at the table and attacking a stack of mail that they’d been too busy to go through earlier. Rex appeared a moment later, wearing a luxurious silk dressing gown and looking pretty hungover.
“Hey Rex,” Chichay said without looking up. “Big night?”
“The usual,” he croaked, making his way to the coffee pot. “I was gonna stop by last night, but things got a little hectic.” Chichay had no idea what that meant. She didn’t really understand where Rex went when he left the ranch house, but she knew enough about Rex to know that she didn’t care to find out. She just nodded.
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that the O-K City is so popular that we’ve sold out of them the past three nights. Can’t keep up with making the cups.”
“Yeah?” he asked, smiling as he took a seat at the table with them. “People just can’t say no to bacon.”
“And only one person was offended by the name,” Sweaty added.
“Tourist?”
“From New England.”
Rex snorted. “Figures.”
“Anyway, we think we’re gonna update the drink menu about every quarter, so start thinking about new drinks. Paddy wants you to come in a few nights next week and brainstorm with him.”
“Happy to,” Rex said. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “I’ve got a couple little ideas I’ve been ruminating on. Anyway, a few nights away from the scene’ll do me good. I’m starting to get sore.”
“I really don’t want to think about what you’re doing that’s making you sore,” Chichay said, getting up from the table. “Sweaty, I’m gonna go up and get ready.”
Chichay disappeared up the steps and Sweaty turned to Rex. “Amazing how normal things are when the twin tornadoes aren’t around, huh?”
“Yeah,” Rex said with a chuckle, “I’m usually up for some debauchery, but I prefer to keep it separate from my home life.”
“I appreciate that, buddy,” Sweaty said. He got up from the table and took his coffee mug to the sink, where he pounded the rest before giving it a quick rinse and setting it in the dishwasher. “Stay mellow, my man.”

***

That night was proving to be one of the busiest nights Certain Doom had had yet. They were completely full for reservations, and the wait for walk-ins was over two hours. It was a warm spring evening, and the people waiting on the benches outside of the restaurant didn’t seem to mind, although several mentioned that the smell of food frying in hot oil, which was blasting into the air through the special ventilation system Sweaty had designed, was making them unbearably hungry.
No one on staff had time for a break, but at one point while covering the hostess station for Emmy so she could finally use the restroom, Chichay made a mental note to look into the permitting process for building an outdoor bar and garden. If people were going to be waiting for a table, they might as well be buying drinks.
Emmy returned to the hostess station and Chichay was about to walk away when a commotion outside caught her attention and she went to the door. When she saw the source, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to the ceiling with a sigh.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, before reaching for the small earpiece communicator. “Chichay to Sweaty,” she said.
“Go ahead, Chich,” came his reply seconds later. It sounded like he was in the fry-room.
“I need you at the front door. Stat. The dervishes are whirling.”
Outside the restaurant, a clanking, smoking, rusty, battered hearse rolled to a stop in front of the crowd of diners waiting for their tables. The rear of the hearse was packed full of things wrapped in blankets, carpets, and tarps, and several things of the same shape and size were stacked on top of the roof, held there with bungee cords. It took the diners a moment to make the connection that the vehicle was a hearse and wonder whether these items were, indeed, bodies.
A moment later, a very disheveled Dixie and Johnny spilled from the front of the hearse. Their hair wild, their faces suspiciously tanned, and wearing extremely stained hospital scrubs and lab coats. They began unstrapping the bodies from the roof, and a few curious yet disturbed patrons got up to take a closer look.
“Whatcha got there?” a man in jeans, boots, and an American eagle t-shirt stretched tight across a huge beer belly, stepped down off the curb.
“This one’s Bill something,” Johnny said as he reached up and started pulling on the edge of the tarp. On the other side of the car, Dixie was pushing at the body, but stopped to take a drink from a flask.
“No, Bill’s on the bottom,” Dixie said. She was about to start shoving the body again when Chichay rushed from the restaurant.
“Hey!” she called. “Hey guys.” Johnny turned and looked at her.
“Oh hey, Chich!” he exclaimed. “Give us a hand, will ya? We need to get this stuff inside. It’s been a long, hot drive here they’re startin’ to-”
“Deliveries are supposed to go through the back,” Chichay said, she hoped loudly enough that all the waiting patrons could hear. “Drive this meat delivery around and I’ll let you in.” Johnny Go stared at her for a moment, scratching his ear. He was about to speak when Chichay leaned in, hissing, “I don’t know what you two are up to, but this is a legitimate business and we can’t have your shenanigans fucking it up. Now get this ghoul mobile away from the front of my restaurant!” She turned back to the restaurant just as Sweaty came out the door. He took one look at the situation and stopped, shaking his head.
“Well, had to happen sooner or later, “ he said as Chichay reached him.
“Can you go let them in the back door?” she asked. “I have no idea what they’re up to, but I don’t want a car full of corpses anywhere in our parking lot.”
“Yeah, I’ll get ‘em into the freezer and we’ll figure out what to do with them tonight after we close.” He turned and raced back into the restaurant. Chichay looked back at Dixie and Johnny and made a hurry up motion with her hands. They looked at one another over the hood of the car and shrugged, then climbed back in.
“Jeez, they’re really taking this whole restaurant thing seriously,” Johnny said as he turned the key. The engine wheezed and sputtered, but after a few tries finally caught. He put the hearse in gear and eased it toward the back of the building. The engine backfired, startling the waiting diners.
“At least if it’s a restaurant now, it’ll already have a big freezer,” Dixie said. “These guys are starting to stink.”

***

After getting Dixie and Johnny’s cargo discreetly stashed away, Chichay and Sweaty had managed to redirect them to a small, out of the way table in the restaurant where the two proceeded to happily eat and drink until well after close. They were profoundly drunk by that time, and Chichay and Sweaty decided to just get them back to the ranch, rather than hang around and figure out what to do with the bodies. While Dixie and Johnny were still in a pliable phase of their drunkenness, they ushered the two into the back of Sweaty’s panel van and headed for home, depositing them on the living room couches before heading up to bed themselves.
When Chichay and Sweaty awoke the next morning and went downstairs, they found the living room empty, a half eaten tub of cheeseballs on the floor and the coffee table overturned.
“Guess they went up to bed,” Sweaty said.
“I figure they’re gonna need a while to sleep this one off,” Chichay replied. “We should get over to the restaurant and clean up their mess before they wake up.”
Sweaty nodded in agreement. “With any luck, they’ll have moved on to some other scheme by tonight.” He grabbed his keys and headed toward the door with Chichay close behind.
“What do you think they were planning to do with those bodies?” she asked as they slipped out into the quiet mid-morning sun.
“I honestly don’t want to know. But the fact that we have a freezer full of human remains in our restaurant is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Fortunately, we just passed our health inspection,” Chichay said as they climbed into the van. “I don’t expect that guy to come back for a little while at least.”
“Yeah, unless someone calls and narcs on us for havin’ a freezer full of bodies,” Sweaty said. “Which is why we gotta get in there before any of the staff.” He started the van and they drove off down the long gravel driveway.

***

A short while later, Chichay and Sweaty pulled up to the restaurant. The lot was empty, and they drove around to the back to let themselves in. As Sweaty unlocked the heavy back door and pulled it open, he noticed that the security alarm didn’t react. He looked back over his shoulder at Chichay.
“Coulda sworn I set that alarm before we left,” he said. Chichay instinctively reached for the small but powerful firearm that she always kept in her purse. They flicked the lights on and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place, but as they walked down the hallway toward the storeroom, prep kitchen, and the large walk-in freezers, they began to hear music. They walked quickly but cautiously toward the sound.
A light was on in the walk-in, a stripe of light visible along the cracked door. As they got closer, Chichay recognized the music as some kind of girl band, popular for furious lyrics and a hostility toward men. Chichay and Sweaty looked at one another and pushed open the door.
Inside the walk-in, Dixie and Johnny had generated their usual amount of chaos and destruction, but it was far more disturbing this time. As the music blared loudly, the angsty vocalist singing about wanting to kill someone and blow them away, Johnny Go stood above a dead body, which had been laid out on one of the tables intended for food preparation. He wore a pair of rubber galoshes, a Victorian-era swimsuit, and an apron. On his head, he had on a pair of novelty New Year’s sunglasses, which for some reason said 1889, and in his hand he held a large kitchen knife.
Johnny was in the process of inexpertly hacking open the abdomen of the dead gentleman on the table while Dixie stood beside him, dressed similarly (although her sunglasses said 1886 instead) and holding a plastic shopping bag filled with ice. Chichay and Sweaty watched for a moment in horror as he reached down and grabbed a clump or organs from the gaping hole in the man’s stomach and pulled until they came loose. Then, singing along with the gritty alternative rock, plopped the mess of bloody parts into Dixie’s bag.
“That’s about all we’re gonna get from that one,” Johnny said to Dixie as she closed up the bag, tying the handles in a double knot and placing the whole thing in a styrofoam cooler.
“Lemme get the twine and we can sew him up,” Dixie said. “His wife said to put him in that stupid tuxedo from their wedding, so we’re gonna have to-”
“What the holy shit fuck are you sick slime monkeys doing?!” Sweaty interrupted, his voice a cross between an angry scream and that sound you make when you’re trying not to vomit.
“Hey guys!” Johnny said, turning around with a delighted wave. “What’s kickin’?”
“Uh,” Chichay stammered. Disgust and rage were vying for her reaction. “I’ll second Sweaty’s question. What the fuck are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” Dixie asked. She reached into her apron pocket for a tangled wad of twine and began hunting for the end. Locating it, she pulled a huge needle from behind her ear.
“It looks like you’re hacking a body apart,” Sweaty said. “In the walk-in freezer of our restaurant!”
“Yeah,” said Johnny, climbing down off the table. “It’s not ideal. That other room with the long tables woulda been better, but it just took us so long to get back here yesterday that we figured we really needed to keep these guys cold, if you know what I mean.”
“You two can’t do this here,” Chichay said. “I mean, whatever it is you’re doing, you probably aren’t allowed to do it anywhere, but definitely not here. This is a legitimate restaurant!”
“Yeah, about that,” Dixie said. She had managed to thread the twine through the needle.
“Yeah,” agreed Johnny. “Listen, we’ve given it some thought, and even though me and Dix are kinda over the whole restaurant thing, we figured since you both seem to like it so much, we can share the space.”
“Share the space?” Chichay asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, like maybe you get half that long table out there for your restaurant, and me and Dix get the other half for our funeral home.”
“Funeral home?”
“Well, the funeral home is front,” Dixie said frankly. Chichay and Sweaty stared blankly for a moment, so she continued. “For our black market organ farm.”
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Sweaty muttered.
“What?” Dixie asked, offended.
“No,” Chichay said. “You aren’t doing this here. You aren’t going to ruin everything we’ve worked for with this restaurant.”
“But a funeral home and black market organ farm is a way better idea than a stupid restaurant,” Johnny insisted.
“Way more lucrative,” Dixie said.
“Lucrative? Who is going to pay you for these organs?”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got a guy.”
“But they’ll be worthless,” Chichay said. “There are standards for this stuff! It’s a highly sensitive and technical medical procedure that follows a specific protocol.”
“Yeah yeah,” said Dixie. “Our guy told us everything we need to know, and we’re following his advice to the letter.”
“That’s why we have these safety goggles on,” Johnny added. “Soon’s you see how much we get from this first batch, you’ll be out of the restaurant business so fast!”
“No!” cried Sweaty. “Certain Doom has been a huge success! We’re already talking about opening a second location in Lubbock!”
“Fine,” Johnny said, rolling his eyes behind his ridiculous sunglasses. “Then we’ll share. I mean, you’re not even using all the space in here.” He gestured around the walk-in. Several of the shelves had been cleared out, but quite a few crates had been tossed carelessly on the floor to make room. Sweaty sighed and looked at Chichay.
“What if we get that other fridge fixed? The smaller one?”
“EW! Sweaty, no!”
“Yeah!” shouted Dixie. “You move all this food and crap into it, and me and Johnny have some space to expand our operation.”
“No,” Chichay insisted. “There’s absolutely no way we can allow dead humans in the same vicinity of food that we cook and serve to the public. It’s like, a million code violations!”
“What if it’s just until they find another space?” Sweaty said.
“Yeah, Chich!” Johnny said.
“Yeah, Chich!” parroted Dixie.
“It’ll only be a matter of weeks, or days, probably, before we make enough money that we buy a brand new funeral home.”
“State of the art!”
Chichay hung her head, defeated. “You have one week,” she said, looking up again. She turned to Sweaty, “Call the repair guy. Get him out here and get that other fridge fixed. I want no trace of this fucking slasher movie by the time the prep crew gets here.” She stormed out of the fridge. Sweaty gave a sheepish shrug and followed. Dixie and Johnny high fived, then got to work sewing up the body on the table.

***

“He looks a little hollow, doesn’t he?” Dixie asked. She was standing back and admiring the body on the table, which they still had not moved into the other refrigerator, despite the repair having been done an hour ago, and the prep crew arriving any minute. They had managed to sew up the dead man, and get him dressed in his slightly dated tuxedo, but looking at him now, the midsection of the suit seemed to be collapsing, making him look as if his legs weren’t connected to his chest.
“I guess cause we took all his guts out?” Johnny wondered.
“Oh yeah,” said Dixie, “I hadn’t thought of that. He used to have stuff in there.”
“Maybe we should stuff some stuff back in?” Johnny suggested.
“Ugh, but then we have to undress him, cut out the stitches, stuff him, sew him back up…” she trailed off.
“That’s a lotta work, and we were supposed to be out of this room like an hour ago,” Johnny said. He thought for a moment. “I know! We can just stuff something under his jacket. Hold him up.”
“Yeah! Then we gotta remember for the next one that we need to stuff him before we sew him back up.”
“There’s a newspaper box down on the corner,” Johnny said. “Wanna run down there and get, like, all of em? Meantime, I’ll drag him out to the hearse. That other cold room is a lot smaller, so we better get him to the church today instead of tomorrow.”

***

A short while later, after Dixie had plumped up the man’s midsection with a bunch of crumpled newspaper, she and Johnny rattled off in the hearse. Sweaty, hearing the clank of the car as it left the parking lot, rushed into the walk-in and was greeted by the same grotesque tableau from earlier, sans Dixie, Johnny, and that one body.
He glanced at his watch, then in a panic, set about dragging all the other bodies into the next fridge, followed by all of Dixie and Johnny’s other implements of destruction, and the cooler full of the man’s organs. He then raced back to the fridge and started cleaning, burning through a whole bottle of disinfectant before the staff arrived.
As they commenced the prep work that evening, Chichay and Sweaty reminded the staff not to go into the smaller walk-in, and hoped they didn’t sound too suspicious. After working hard alongside their staff to get the restaurant ready, they had all but forgotten the earlier horror by the time the first patrons were seated. In fact, it was an hour from closing before either Chichay or Sweaty even noticed that Dixie and Johnny hadn’t returned.
“Good,” Chichay said when Sweaty mentioned their absence in passing. “Maybe they found something else to occupy them and this whole nightmare’ll be over.”
She spoke too soon, of course.
“Emmy to Chichay,” the hostess’s voice came over the earpiece as Chichay was in the back office, counting the mid-shift cash from the bar, writing it up, and putting it into the safe.
“Go ahead, Em,” she replied.
“There’s a guy here, says he’s here to pick up a shipment. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I think he’s referring to your colleagues?”
“Motherfucker!” Chichay shouted to the empty office before touching the earpiece and replying to Emmy, “Can you sit him at the bar and tell him I’ll be right out?”
“Uh, yeah,” came Emmy’s hesitant reply, “I’ll put him at the far end, ok?”
As soon as Chichay saw the man, she understood why Emmy had seated him out of the way. He was dressed in filthy, stained overalls with a more-yellow-than-white t-shirt underneath. He had on work boots with a thick layer of something that could have been mud around the soles. And, setting him apart from even their most slovenly clientele was the fact that was wearing some kind of leather apron, like that which a blacksmith or pre-industrial revolution serial killer might wear.
Chichay took a deep breath and approached the man. He smelled terrible. “Hello. Chichay Milano, co-owner and general manager. What can I help you with?” She forced a smile.
“Here ta pick up a package,” the man growled. “Someone called Mary Kelly said it’d be ready.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Chichay said. “Mary isn’t here at the moment, but I think I know what you’re looking for. Why don’t you pull around the back and I’ll bring it out, Mr…?”
“Tug.” Chichay just nodded, hoping that she had concealed her disgust, then nodded her head toward the door.
“Ok, Mr. Tug,” she said as she walked toward the back of the restaurant. “Meet you there in just a sec.”
Chichay raced to the second walk-in and fumbled with the padlock, which she’d had Sweaty install earlier. She’d give a key to Dixie and Johnny, but didn’t want to risk the staff wandering in there. Just in case. As she pulled the door open and flicked on the lights, she glanced around.
The fridge was somehow trashed already, with tools and supplies strewn about. Dixie and Johnny had apparently considered starting to desecrate their next body, and had hauled it up onto the work table where it was sprawled out, arm dangling and half uncovered by a stained tarp, but then left before doing anything else. There were somehow, still, a good deal of unidentifiable bits of blood and gristle, as well as a case of malt liquor covered in bloody handprints.
Chichay spotted the styrofoam cooler across the room, and hurried over to get it, not wanting to touch anything else, lest it ever be investigated as a crime scene. She grabbed the cooler, holding the dented lid in place with her hands, and left the room, kicking the door closed with her foot. She was about to head out the back door when she stopped, placed the cooler on the ground, and ran back to the office, where she fished her gun out of her purse and stuck it into the back of her pants. Just in case.
Outside, Chichay was surprised to find the man called Tug sitting in a brand new Camaro. The engine growled, anxious to take off. She wondered for a moment how he came to drive such an improbable car, then quickly walked toward the trunk. She resisted the urge to look around and make sure no one was watching. If her long career as an assassin had taught her nothing else, it was that the key to not getting caught was to behave with the confidence of a person who wasn’t doing anything wrong.
As the trunk of the car popped open, it dawned on Chichay that this was exactly how Dixie and Johnny got through life. Only in their case, they truly believed that everything they did was right. She placed the cooler into the trunk and slammed it closed, then walked to the driver’s side window. She stood a few feet away, not wanting to get any closer.
“That should be it,” she said to Tug. He nodded and reached into the large pocket of his leather apron. Chichay shifted her left hand to the small of her back. One of the best things she’d ever done was taught herself to shoot proficiently with either hand. People never suspected when you went left. The man extracted a stained envelope and passed it out the window to her, and she sighed with relief as she stepped forward to take it.
“I’ll see that they get it,” she said.
“Tell ‘em I’ll be in touch,” he said and the car roared out of the parking lot.

***

“Are churches even open this late?” Dixie asked as she and Johnny drove across town in their battered hearse. “Isn’t it midnight or something?” Neither ever wore a watch.
“It’s probably pretty late, but if no one’s there, we’ll just slide him through the mail slot and be on our way.”
They pulled up to a church a short while later that was, indeed, closed. They dragged the body up the steps to the large front doors, its head thumping on each step, and hunted around for a moment, looking for a way to get the dead man inside. Finding none, they simply left him there, hopped back into the hearse, and rolled away.
“I guess we gotta get back to it,” Johnny said as they drove through the darkened streets. “Who’d a thought that making an honest living would be so much work.”
“It’s kinda bullshit,” Dixie agreed. She hunted around in the glove box, which was as full of trash as the rest of the car, and eventually found a bottle of whiskey. She unscrewed the top and took a drink, then passed it to Johnny.
“I don’t know, though, Dix,” Johnny said, passing the bottle back. “We did work pretty hard today. Maybe we deserve the rest of the night off.”
“We totally do. What should we do?”
“Waterpark?”
“We’re kicked out of that one,” Dixie reminded him.
“Oh yeah,” he replied. “I guess we could go to that other one. Oh my god!” Johnny screamed suddenly, slamming on the brakes. The hearse’s brakes squealed, and it fishtailed over the road before coming to a stop. Dixie and Johnny peered out the window at a rundown strip mall. At the far end was a grimey looking honky tonk, which was right up their alley anyway. This one, though, was advertising a mechanical bull.
Johnny cut the wheel hard to the right, driving up over the curb, across the sidewalk, and diagonally through the parking lot. He came to a stop in front of the bar, taking up two spaces. He and Dixie jumped out and rushed inside, leaving the doors to the hearse open.

***

“If they aren’t back by close tonight, I think we should just get rid of those bodies,” Chichay said to Sweaty as they got ready to leave for the restaurant. Chichay was in the bathroom, combing her hair. Sweaty stood in the doorway, his hair wet and stuck to his forehead, his plain white t-shirt stuck to his chest and shoulders, having not bothered to dry himself off after getting out of the shower.
“What’re we gonna do with them?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Chichay admitted. “I’ll make some calls to a few contacts and see if I can get any leads.”
“I’m used to them making a mess and then disappearing and leaving it to someone else to clean up,” Sweaty said, “But this really takes the proverbial cake.”
“Yeah, this one’s gross even for them.” She turned the bathroom light out and she and Sweaty headed downstairs.
“I mean, they’ve only been gone two days,” Sweaty said.
“Sweaty! Don’t make excuses for them,” Chichay scolded. “And anyway, we’re not a fucking morgue. We shouldn't have bodies in the restaurant at all. Two days is beyond unacceptable.”
The restaurant was busy, as usual, that night. Chichay was able to make some calls to her various underground contacts, and had a lead on a cleaner who could help her out. She put in a call, left the appropriate coded message, then headed back out to the floor. It was several hours later before she had a need to go back to the area with the storerooms and walk-in refrigerators.
When she saw the smashed padlock on the floor in front of Dixie and Johnny’s walk-in, she stopped in her tracks. Chichay sighed.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course they’re back.” She pushed the door of the walk-in open, bracing herself for what she might see inside.
“Hey Chich!” Dixie said, happily. She was sitting on the prep table next to the body of a man that was partially covered in a Members Only jacket. She was eating one of the desserts from the restaurant and drinking straight from a bottle of vodka. She also sported a massive bruise on her forehead and her hair was even more disheveled than usual.
“Hey Chich!” said Johnny, who’d been crouched under the table, plugging in a small electric saw. When he stood up, he also looked suspiciously bruised.
“Where have you two been?” Chichay asked.
“At this honky tonk,” Dixie said through a mouthful of fried dough. “We were ridin’ the bull.”
“For two days?”
“I, uh…” Dixie and Johnny looked at one another and burst out laughing.
“You need to get all these bodies out of here tonight, ok?” Chichay replied angrily.
“Yeah, no prob,” Johnny said. Chichay looked at him. She narrowed her eyes, immediately suspicious. It couldn't be that easy. “We were planning on getting ‘em all done tonight anyway.”
“Uh… ok. Great,” Chichay said. She turned to leave.
“We’ve got a whole new delivery coming in tonight,” Dixie said. “So unless you let us have some space in that other fridge, we need to make room.”
“By the way,” Johnny said, “Do you have any sawdust or, like, cat litter we could borrow?” The only response he got was a generous slam of the walk-in’s heavy door.

***

Dixie Doublestacks stuffed the dead raccoon into a pillow case and threw it into the back of the hearse. She climbed into the passenger side and Johnny Go floored it. The hearse lurched forward slowly.
“Keep an eye out for another one,” Dixie told him. “Or anything else, really. We have a lot of cavities to stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Johnny, sipping from a Slurpee cup that was mostly liquor. “Speaking of eyes, think maybe we should swing by the driving range? Tug says they’re runnin’ low on eyeballs, but I think the bodies look weird once we take ‘em out.”
“Totally. They look like they’re dead.”

An hour later…

The crowd waiting outside Certain Doom heard the clatter before they saw the golf ball picker fly into the parking lot, two drunks clinging to the cab, waving liquor bottles around. They took a sharp turn, spilling a bunch of golf balls from one of the baskets attached to the back. The balls rolled through the parking lot. Quite a few patrons raced after them, ignoring the golf ball picker as it disappeared behind the building.
Dixie and Johnny got out of the little cart and let themselves in the back door of the restaurant, each dragging a basket of golf balls. Johnny unlocked the padlock, which Chichay had insisted on replacing, and they entered the walk-in.
“Ok,” Johnny said, cracking his knuckles, “Let’s get to it! Once we sell these assholes, we can take that money back to the honky tonk.”
“Fuck yeah,” Dixie said. “I’m gonna destroy that fucking bull.” Dixie pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her apron pocket and looked it over, sipping from her liquor bottle as she did. “Says here Tug wants arteries, kidneys, tendons, and lungs, in addition to the eyes.” Johnny uncovered the body on the table and grabbed two knives, holding them as if he was about to eat dinner.
“Where’s the arteries?” he asked.
“I’unno. Isn’t there some in the legs?”
“I think you’re right, but how do we get ‘em out?” They stared at the dead body for a while, puzzling over this question. “Why is this so hard?”
“Fucking Tug. Why couldn’t he give us the easy ones. Like the nuts.”
“Know what I think we should do?”
“Huh?”
“Just cut the legs off and give ‘em to Tug. If he wants his precious tendons he can remove them himself.”
“Solid idea. You want the saw?” She reached for an old, rusty saw and handed it to Johnny. He got into position and was about to start sawing the dead man’s leg off when he remembered the safety gear.
“Better get our glasses on.” They spent the next fifteen minutes hunting for their glasses. When they finally found them, Dixie got into position holding the leg, and Johnny got to work.
The sawing took longer than they imagined it would, but eventually they’d separated both of the man’s legs from the rest of his body. Dixie heaved a leg off the table and carried it to one of the coolers. It didn’t fit.
“I’m so sick of this,” she complained. She was starting to slur her words. “I’m’unna just get a trashbag and call it a day. She left the walk-in and went to hunt around the storeroom. After a few minutes, Johnny, wondering what was taking so long, wandered out into the hallway with one of the legs resting on his shoulder, figuring he’d meet Dixie halfway. Then he decided to just go look for her, and strolled down the hallway, whistling an indistinct tune as he went.
He strolled past the open door of Chichay and Sweaty’s office, and Sweaty, who was sitting at the desk working on a supply order, heard him and looked up. At first he didn’t believe what he was seeing, but then the reality set in and horror washed over him. He jumped from the desk and raced out of the office.
“What in the bittersweet fuck are you doing!” he tried to keep his voice down, not wanting to draw the attention of either the patrons or the staff. Or Chichay, for that matter. He grabbed Johnny by the shoulder, careful not to touch the still bleeding leg, and dragged him back to the fridge. “You aren’t allowed to leave this room unless it’s to take all this mess out the back door!” he cried, shoving Johnny into the fridge.
Dixie appeared at the door just then, holding trash bags and a bucket of ice. “Hey Sweaty. Sorry that took so long. I got the bags, but then I thought maybe we need to fill them with ice.” She tossed everything onto the floor, then picked up one of the trash bags, searching for the opening. Without another word, Sweaty stormed out of the walk-in, slamming the door. “What’s his problem?”
“Who knows,” Johnny said, sliding the leg into the open bag. “People get so stressed out at work. It’s really a shame.”
“Working themselves into an early grave,” Dixie said sympathetically.
“Well, at least we’ll know we can make some money off Sweaty when he keels over at work.”
“I bet we get a lot of his time travel organ.”

***

Dixie and Johnny kept up their funeral home and black market organ farm far longer than anyone expected.
“This is really out of character for them,” Rex commented one morning at breakfast. He was sitting with Chichay and Sweaty, as he did many mornings. Dixie and Johnny were nowhere to be seen. “They almost never stay interested in anything for more than an hour.”
“Does it concern either of you,” Chichay asked, “That possibly the only thing they’ve sustained an interest in involves the desecration of bodies?” She looked around the table. Sweaty and Rex looked mildly uncomfortable, but said nothing.
On the drive over to the restaurant that day, Chichay and Sweaty continued to marvel at Dixie and Johnny’s focus on their current endeavor.
“The weird part is that I hardly notice that they’re back there now,” Sweaty said.
“Yeah, if it wasn’t for the fact that what they’re doing is disgusting and illegal, I wouldn’t mind them being there.”
“I did see them bringing a bunch of bags of cat litter in the other day,” Sweaty noted. “I think they’re filling the bodies with them.”
“That’s fucking gross.”
“I know. Imagine being the families of these people?”
“Well, that’s what you get when you go with a discount funeral home,” Chichay said.
“You know, the costs of funeral services are indecent,” said Sweaty. “I wouldn’t want my loved ones stuffed with sawdust or cat litter-”
“Dead animals.”
“Ew, right. But some of ‘em probably don’t have a choice. That shit’s expensive.” He was quiet for a minute, then said, “Hey, when I go, just bury me at sea. Ok?” Chichay smiled and reached over to pat his hand.
“You got it, sweets. And for me, you can donate my body to science.”

***

That night they were short staffed. One of the fry cooks had called in sick, and the staff was hustling to try to keep up. Chichay and Sweaty put their usual managerial duties on hold and filled in whenever and however they were needed in order to keep the service running smoothly and the kitchen out of the weeds.
Chichay was racing back through the kitchen to refill the ice bucket and bring it to the bar when one of the prep cooks flagged her town.
“Hey Chich, we’re out of liver back here. I literally just got more, but for some reason it’s flying out the door tonight. Can you grab me the rest from the fridge? Last I checked, we had a couple pounds left.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll grab it after I refill the ice.” As she walked back to the bar carrying the heavy ice buckets, she thought back to their last meat order. They hadn’t ordered much liver. It wasn’t a super popular menu item. She was really surprised that it was selling so well tonight.
As she reached the walk-in, she realized she was also surprised that, if it was selling so well, they had any liver left at all. Something didn’t add up, and she felt the cold fingers of disgust and fear begin to creep up the back of her neck. She opened one of the compartments in the large wall unit, bracing herself for what she knew she’d find, but wished she wouldn’t.
“Shit.”
There in the fridge were heaps of crudely cut meats, wrapped in newspaper, not the usual plastic or butcher paper. Steeling herself, Chichay unwrapped one. It was liver, all right, but it wasn’t like any food-grade liver she’d ever seen. She checked a few more, to be sure, and to her horror discovered that while not all of the parcels appeared to be liver, they all appeared to be… human. Chichay ran back to the kitchen.
“AJ,” she asked the prep cook, “Are you talking about that meat that’s in newspaper?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I thought it was weird that the distro had it wrapped like that, but it looked ok and it smelled fine once we cooked it. So far, no one’s complained. Been using it for a few days now. Is there none left?” But Chichay was already out of the room.
When she got to the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room, she skidded to a stop and looked around. The sight that had always filled her with pride - a full dining room of happy patrons - now threatened to upset her dinner. Chichay scanned each table, eyeing the plates, piled high with glistening, deep fried goodness. Greasy hands reached for meats and breads and even the occasional vegetable. She forced herself to concentrate.
There. Liver. An older man happily attacked it with his knife and fork, shoving a huge piece into his mouth before he’d finished swallowing the first. At another table, a couple, obviously German, took turns feeding each other chunks of liver and sausage. Nearby, a small child crammed a handful of deep fried liver into his mouth and chewed, eyes wide with delight.
Table after table, patrons were, unfathomably, really enjoying the liver. And who even knew what else they were eating that would have had them shut down and thrown in jail in minutes had they known.
Chichay suddenly clasped her hands to her mouth and frantically dashed to the staff bathroom, hoping she’d make it in time. She passed Sweaty on the way, and he gave her a concerned and confused look, but she didn’t have time to explain. He waited patiently outside the bathroom, listening to the sounds of Chichay vomiting, until finally she exited.
“Hon?” he asked. “You ok? What’s wrong?” He reached out for her, but she brushed him away, and stomped, angrily to her office. As she passed the kitchen, she called in to AJ.
“AJ!” The man looked over. “Eighty-six the liver! And anything that looks like tongue or ribs. Tell the waiters to comp anyone who ordered ‘em.” AJ responded with a shrug as Chichay moved off down the hallway. Sweaty followed.
“Chichay?” he called, eyeing the gun in her hand nervously. But as she made her way to Dixie and Johnny’s walk-in fridge, he suddenly understood.
When she reached the fridge, Chichay threw open the door, her tiny frame somehow filling the entire space. Dixie and Johnny, covered in gore, looked up and were about to speak, but Chichay cut them off.
“Both of you,” she ordered. “Out.”
“Yeah, but-” Johnny started.
“Now.” Chichay said, before calmly firing a shot into the wall, directly between their heads.

***

Later that night, after having reluctantly left the restaurant and all of their corpses and supplies, Dixie and Johnny drove around in a stolen Bronco. They’d run out of the restaurant without the keys to the hearse, and decided that if they weren’t going to be in the organ farming business anymore, they didn’t need it. It was a shit car anyway, they reasoned.
“Chichay’s pretty scary when she’s mad,” Dixie commented. She sat cross-legged on the passenger seat, three cases of beer on the floor in front of her.
“Yeah. Glad she’s on our side.”
They were quiet for a long time, drinking and driving. When Johnny rounded a bend on a lonely rural road, they both gasped. Up ahead was an Army surplus store. He slowed the Bronco to a stop in front of the little shop, which was closed for the night but had a number of sale items set up on the lawn, trusting the honor and decency of their neighbors.
Dixie and Johnny stared at a gigantic military tent, all drab green and heavy canvas, and smiled. Johnny turned to Dixie.
“Are you thinking that I’m thinking?”