Soul's Pizza

Apartment Building J has stood in New York for at least twenty years, tall, dark, and strong. A generation of bright eyed individuals have filtered into the place, with all the dreams of youth, and have filtered out again, luster gone from their gazes—which, at that point, were generally directly fixated on whatever happened to be on the ground in front of them. When one leaves the structure known only as Apartment Building J, one would find it very hard to lift their eyes any higher than thirty-five degrees above the horizontal. Smith John found himself in Apartment building J in 1935, in the heights of those most terrible economic years. Nevertheless, Smith John had hope in his eyes and heart, for his place of being was cheaply negotiated, and running water and electricity came for free. The only thing Smith John really had to spend his money on was food, for which he was very grateful, particularly to Mr. Nezarus Malfeasant, that most terrible of negotiators aforementioned. The weaselly looking fellow, no offense meant (that was simply his lot) even recommended Smith John to visit Soul’s Pizza on the first floor of the building. A true New Yorker at heart, Smith John fell in love with the place. He had been going there every night since he moved in. At this point his order was simply ready and waiting for him by the time he got there, since the cook, Mr. Ratticus Mephistopheles, who wore an extremely noisy chef’s hat at all times, knew his favorite by heart.

“Your pineapple pizza sir,” said the aforementioned chef. 

“Thank you,” Smith John replied, grabbing the plated pizza off the counter. 

“You’re welcome,” said he, except the words came from the hat, as it now twisted and squirmed about.

“Bless you.”

Once Smith John received the foodstuffs from the limp arms of the Chef Ratticus, he sat down on the ground, since there were no seats. As he took his first bite, he realized that the pizza tasted rather odd. Remembering that he was eating pineapple pizza, he continued. Upon his second bite, which filled his nostrils with the slightly rancid smell of plague rats nibbling on rotten flesh (with a subtle, fruity note, exquisitely divine--say sir, when did you say this was fermented? ah, marvelous, marvelous, truly marvelous), he died.

Apartment Building J has stood in New York for nearly a century, tall, dark, and strong. Against the glassy skyscrapers and electric lights of its surroundings, Apartment Building J was a bit of an anachronism. Folks with little time, that is, all New Yorkers, generally paid it no mind. Apartment Building J has not been paid any mind for four weeks, when the inspector came and declared it “fit for the living.” Occasionally, a bright-eyed individual would take a look at the place, deliberate moving in, and quickly discard the idea. An elderly man or woman might occasionally be seen moving out, their gazes anywhere but up, but for the most part, the building lay forgotten to time. John Smith, however, found himself living in Apartment Building J simply because he couldn’t afford anywhere else. The owner, Mr. Nezarus Malfeasant, was a terrible negotiator, and simply gave John Smith the lease (utilities included), for the price of $0. Mr. Nezarus even helped him move, and didn’t even charge shipping! The only thing John Smith had to worry about was food, which was hardly an issue. Mr. Nezarus pointed him to the pizza place on the first floor of the apartment building, and John Smith had been going there every night since he moved in. Soul’s Pizza, it was called, and it was the food of a true New Yorker. The chef, Mr. Ratticus Mephistopheles, wore a great big hat, and always made sure John Smith’s order was ready and waiting for him every night. It was always delicious. 

“Your pineapple pizza sir,” said the aforementioned chef. 

“Thank you,” John Smith replied, grabbing the pizza tray off the counter.

The chef looked like he was about to say something, but his hat moved grotesquely and spoke instead. “You’re welcome, kind sir.”

John Smith’s eyes bugged out. His brain had no ability to comprehend what he just saw. But even worse, he could feel his mouth moving to respond. “Bless you.” And then he turned right on his heels, sat down, and started eating his pineapple pizza. 

“Say, sir, when did you say this was fermented?” John Smith could taste something foul in his mouth, something akin to rotten flesh currently in the process of being nibbled upon by plague rats. “Ah, marvelous, marvelous, simply marvelous.” Suddenly, John Smith felt the ability to control himself return. He turned to run, but felt his foot impact through nothing. 

Smith John looked around and saw a veritable party of translucent people in the room. 

“Smith John looked around and saw a veritable party of translucent people in the room.” 

A man, no, a ghost in the room, perhaps only five feet from John Smith, holding a typewriter over the air, spoke-- 

“A man, no, a ghost in the room, perhaps only five feet from John Smith, holding a typewriter over the air, spoke--”

“Welcome to Soul’s Pizza’s kitchen, John Smith. What do you think you’ll be best at around here?” The man stopped talking, started typing, and started talking again.”

““Welcome to Soul’s Pizza’s kitchen, John Smith. What do you think you’ll be best at around here?” The man stopped talking, started typing, and started talking again.””” 

“““Welcome to Soul’s Pizza’s kitchen, John Smith. What do you think you’ll be best at around here?” The man stopped talking, started typing, and started talking again.”””

““““Welcome to Soul’s Pizza’s kitchen, John Smith. What do you think you’ll be best at around here?” The man stopped talking, started typing, and started talking again.””””

“““““Welcome to Soul’s Pizza’s kitchen, John Smith. What do you think you’ll be best at around here?” The man stopped talking, started typing, and started talking again.””””””