The dead don't get reservations

As I'd have told you last year LA Crack chicken is to die for. 

I just never expected to actually die for it. 

 It all happened as I was waiting on my blue buffalo chicken burger, trying to ignore the blitzy headache that was pushing its way up to the forefront. The restaurant was rammed, the balcony overlooking the courtyard below was crammed. Twice I got sleeves in my sauce. 

I moved it away after the second time, I do have standards…

The server looked a little grey and his eyes were bulging slightly and they looked oily as if they'd been left for too long and had begun to stew. His movements were sluggish and the tray clattered to the fake plasticity wood table with a heavy thud. Now, I've seen zombie films, I have quite the imagination. I scooted towards the end of the bench as his mouth twitched and thick sludge dripped from chipped teeth. 

I just never expected him.. Well let's talk about the food first. That's what you're here for. I'd ordered the burger and a beer, it was nearly Christmas, I deserved it. The beer vanished much quicker than I expected. I felt the pain in my wallet as I looked at the three-quarters full glass

I’d grabbed the beer as he suddenly collapsed and his slimy hand crumpled into the burger and the tray was sent skittering off onto the balcony. 

I don't know why, but I remember sipping, then gulping at my beer and then the fluid that I was hoping would do something, was spraying out. Spraying out across, his blood stained teeth as my shoulder began to burn.

The golden elixir had cleared his shoulder and I'd watched it drench an elderly lady who was huddled close to a small bundled coat. She’d turned and snarled.

That’s when I panicked and tried to free myself, my free hand flailing around the table before settling on the glass and launching it into the side of his face. 

I still had the scars and the shards in me. I assume he did too. That ended our little intimate moment as he had reared and charged and I'd been flung against and then over the railing. He'd kept a few souvenirs. Some of my fingers as I'd desperately clung to the railing. 

I looked at the stumps as I trudged along the sea bed. They were gangrenous and pustules and dried pus and blood covered them like gloves. 

They didn't hurt anymore. Nothing did. I didn't even need to breathe. How cool is that? The one minor setback was my new diet. It wasn't the 5:2, it wasn't paleo, it was more annoying than keto. I could only eat meat and mostly flesh.

But I remembered tastes and I'd be damned if I'd let death stop me enjoying that.

My hike neighbour had bailed a few ridges back, just ambled off, scooting up dirt and scattering crabs and other sea life. They weren't interested in taste as much as I'd tried to explain. Last I'd seen they'd been stumbling and tripping, drunken like in the sea weed trying to catch a clown fish.

I'm not sure if I'm nearly there. I just feel it, like a hum, a tingle. On my flakey, stoney exterior. 

The only thing left to feel. I'd describe it like when you can almost taste something. Just comes up randomly and you can't stop thinking about it. You get through the day, through the meeting for it. 

LA, it's gonna change my life. I just know it.

I surfaced some point later. Time doesn't matter anymore really.

The beach was warm and there were so many flies, it was like a fog, hanging there, weaving and buzzing angrily. They nibbled at me, they nibbled at everything.

Uncultured freaks, so greedy. Just following the masses, no sense of identity. 

I'd gone through Canada. I had Poutine. 

Don't get me wrong, I'd dunked the military chef in the gravy first before pouring it onto the fries and snacking. It was sweaty and desperate and I'd shambled after everyone I could find in the chaos of the perimeter coming down. Everyone I'd followed had had their flavour added to by that gravy.

Poutine was lovely. 

I'd had runs in with survivors and the wildlife. I wasn't afraid, just didn't occur and taste. God, taste was everything.

I couldn't ignore it, that itch, the pleasure of another flake falling off, of meat collected, gathered, flavoured, consumed. Taste consumed me and I shambled after it, never able to hold it for long enough. I needed more. I'm sure I was grunting that mantra but my vocal chords were slashed and rotting and stale, flavourless water filled me like a ballast. 

The shop was surprisingly full as I slithered over the counter and slipped on bodies and fluids. Someone petted my hair and I snarled and they retreated. I saw scraps on the floor and I crawled my mouth hanging against the floor. Debris, mold and meat gathered in my slack jaw and I paused to use an arm to shove in more.

There, there. THERE! 

The sense illuminated a corner like it was the best thing in the world and it was. A rusty grey vat, the metal was corroding. And a thick mist of black midges hung over it but the taste. 

I had to try. God I should be able to document this. I thought back to my neighbour at sea. Would they appreciate this experience? Would they need it? Crave it? I remembered someone, somewhere. Intuitive… something. 

Something slopped onto the floor behind me and I turned to see a black shrivelled lung and dried clumps of blood and moss. A neighbour went for it and I watched impassively.

How simple minded, there's flavouring here. 

The memory I'd been searching for struck me and I knew what I had to do.

Crowds have gathered. They're begging, pleading. Some are trying to force their way in. Some offer themselves, offering meagre offerings through the bars, through the vents. Some slash themselves to bits on the glass.

It's flattering really. But I have my crowd already in here and I'm sharing the experience. Dragging those who are willing or who even give me a sign of wanting to know, to the vats. I help them to experience. The black fog envelops me and them and if they offer a worthy review they get to help.

 Sadly, no one has yet. No one shares my vision, my inspiration. I've made inspiration boards on the floor. Spread fellow meat eaters out into the ingredients and inspiration I need. The unwilling ones, well, In a way they still help. I force them into or on top of the vats and it adds. They're running dry, despite what I try to do. How I try to refill with blood and other fluids, though my resources aren't in good supply of that.

But there's more out there, I can feel it, that itch. There's so much more to it, it's sunk so much deeper, it slithers and wriggles in me and I can't let it go. It really is to die for.