Saul's

For every renowned food place one visits, a new flavor is discovered. Something never before encountered. Perhaps a foreign ingredient, or condiment, or a never before attempted amalgamation. The key to building a successful food business is to create a yearning in the patrons, an urge to recollect the memory of whatever peculiar and unusual mixture fondled their tongue villi. Delectable, savory, but most importantly: Curious. Often times, a family will keep a recipe secret for generations, ensuring the continuous prosperity of their progeny and the persistence of their legacy. As long as the patrons’ welfare isn’t directly compromised, the dish creation process and whatever compounds are thrown into the crucible, don’t matter, however grotesque they may be.

I, Joe Mustard, proud creator and CEO of Saul’s fast food chain, find myself in quite the pickle. Seated on my cell toilet, cross-legged and furtively drawing on the last of a well-worn cigarette, I entertained myself and my fellow inmate, prostrated on the top bunk, his left limbs oscillating from the edge.

“You never told me, Joey.” He stopped, patiently waiting for me to contribute to the triggering of whatever discussion he aimed for.

I drew again from the scorching malice.

 “Shoot,” I said, in compliance.

“What are you here for?” He sang, flicking his index with every word.

I discarded the cigarette butt to the free world beyond the barred window, plodded towards my bunk and lay still. It was a full moon. A waft of cool, pleasant wind gushed in. I braced until the night’s incandescence nestled in my eyes and carefully cooked my response.

“Well, Frankie. To put it simply, yours truly overindulged in serving people semen-enriched dishes. And by the time folks caught wind of my mischief, I was toast.”

Frankie’s limbs’ oscillation came to a halt, and what sounded next was the loud tantrum of a man welled up with disgust and intrigue. I lay unfazed until Frankie recollected himself. He returned to the top bunk and resumed his endearing habit.

“So how’d you do it?” He asked, finally accepting the truth.

As such, I began telling the tale.

I had been young man of twenty-two when I dropped out of college in pursuit of quick money. I used to be a medical student, and I fared well too. I was a fourth year, chest deep in the mire of the hospital life. My mother was a humble seamstress, nearing her wits’ end with each arthritis onset. The old man was a prematurely retired military officer. His pension provided minimally, and he had no intention of adding to it, due to some monomania of his I won’t speak of. All in all, I deemed it best to enter a hiatus and seek employment. This, I came to know, was a grave mistake. For all the knowledge I gained, I was met with a lack of skill in everything besides medicine, making me a poor candidate for any job.

Thankfully, and I bear no ill will, my grandfather happened to meet his end around that time. He used to be a chicken shop owner in Kallis city’s most infamous area, where the tallest building of its expanse had been erected.

To my surprise, the rights to an apartment in that very place and the ownership to the shop were bestowed to me, rather than his children. Which, understandably, the latter didn’t appreciate. Throughout his days, he had no qualms with openly admitting my taking precedence over my uncles and aunts, whom he saw as failures.

His death would serve as the scaffolding of a success I never envisioned.

Upon completing the ownership paperwork, I started for my newly owned property. 

I took a cab and reluctantly asked the driver to take me to the tallest building in the city. He nodded with tacit acquiescence. We stopped next to a street labeled “Imp street”. Above the sign loomed the upper half of the famed building, the edges of its roof thrusting towards the sun, almost stabbing it.

It was an adobe-colored apartment complex, gargantuan in size. The shade cast from its overwhelming façade slowly engulfed me as I trod towards it. I was in awe of the sheer amount of people walking in and out of the doors, seemingly fazing through one another in my two dimensional view. Clothes were hung in a convoluted web of metal thread, violently swaying with the wind. The scenery made me think of a dredged out ant colony.

In my awestruck gait, I happened upon a man in a fluorescent vest, sitting idly by a garage door, sifting his fingers through his salt and paper stubble while pondering over god knows what. He paid me no heed despite taking notice of my approaching him, and only lent me his ear when I asked him about the whereabouts of the chicken shop.

“You Saul’s boy?” He asked, rising with interest.

“His grandson, actually,” I responded.

“Wait now, Is that you? little Joe? Blimey! You’ve had a growth spurt! You wouldn’t remember, would you? I’m Jeffrey, I used to fly you all around the shop on my arms like a tiny plane. Come here you!” He garishly declared, before gripping my arms and hugging my skin off.

“So, you planning on opening the old codger’s shop?” He asked, staring me in the eye with a wistful gaze.

I nodded in agreement.

“Oi! You lot! It’s Saul’s kid! He’s reopening the chicken place! Get your asses down!” he screamed, out of the blue.

“Johnny boy, you’re about to rekindle a long extinguished flame.” He joyfully whispered.

One head popped out from a balcony’s edge. I couldn’t tell which story. “Is that you, little Joe? My, look at you! You’ve grown fine and handsome!”

I smiled and waved. I had no idea who that was. Then popped two other heads, recognizing me all the same. A couple of minutes later, I could hear a cacophony of whispers from every corner. Down the stairs came a dozen stout men, sinewy with muscle and tatted like graffiti. They didn’t need to draw very close before I could understand the infamy of this place. Their unseemly scars and teardrop tattoos told all, and I was on the verge of being the most prolific I’ve ever been with fecal matter.

They towered over me and studied me for a good second.

“Little Joe? For real? Holy shit!” The biggest of them yelled, then proceeded to embrace me as violently as one could imagine, slapping my back repeatedly, making me ricochet between his palms and chest like some weightless pleasure doll. I almost relieved myself.

When the uncalled for greetings were over with, I was made to understand that my grandfather’s food place was more than what it seemed. It was a yearned for haven for the denizens of this area. They showered his memory with wholehearted compliments. I kept blushing from the secondhand pride.

Jeff dredged me out, then sat me next to the garage.

“Since you’re planning on reopening the shop, you should go and talk to Lady Maria. She worked with the old codger back in the day, she’ll help you settle in and open up. She lives on the third floor. If you find yourself teetering about, just follow the fetor. Don’t tell her I said that.”

So I did. I climbed up the heavily monitored stairs and kept pondering over what I’ve gotten myself into, until it hit me: The fetor Jeff spoke of. It was an intense odor of some lavender and bleach mix. Not foul, just nauseatingly intense. I knocked on her door, a crooked “coming!” stabbed my unfortified eardrums.

The door needed only to be ajar before I understood Jeff’s had been rude statement.

“Ah! That’s it! That’s the fetor!” I yelled, my nose closed shut with my shirt.

“Saul?” She interrupted, flabbergasted.

“His grandson, actually,” I replied, recalling this sequence.

“Little Joe? Oh! Little Joe! My, you’ve grown!” She added, still flabbergasted.

“Yes. So I’ve been told,” I said, adorning the fakest of smiles.

Her apartment was a thing unearthly, filled with all kinds of arcane artifacts. The place was decorated in such a way that it could welcome anyone from the last two centuries.

Maria (She insisted I call her that) got us two mugs of coffee and had me sit by her on the kitchen table. The coffee smelled intense, which augured well. But I could almost make out a furtive mustiness. She served our beverages in uncanny-looking mugs: Green with the bas-relief of an ominous tentacle-sprouting face. I felt a surge of ghastly unease well up in me as I stared into it and fearfully averted my gaze.

I took my first sip, just a slurp, hardly ten milliliters. The coffee tasted fairly bitter, as it should, but also a tad salty and acidic, sticking to my pharyngeal walls, like honey.

“You like it?” She asked, enthusiastically smiling, blinding me with her teeth’s artificial incandescence.

“It tastes…interesting. Wherever did you come about it?”

“Saul left me a big jar of his secret mixture before he passed. Keep it between us, will you? Folks will cut my head off if they find out I’ve been hiding it. Not to worry, though, with your return, I’m sure Saul left you the heirloom somewhere,” She said, laughing hysterically in-between sentences, I could tell she hasn’t been visited for a long time. I would also later connect the dots and realize I’ve drunk some of my grandfather’s venereal produce.

Our conversation lasted a couple hours and kept tarrying between how to set up shop and Maria’s adventures with “well-endowed Saul” (One of his many monikers), and my marital status and why it’s not “Married with five kids”. By the end, Maria helped me acquire most of the shop’s roster and got me in contact with a poultry supplier my grandfather used to do business with.

About a month later, the preparations were over, and my continuation of Saul’s legacy was about to start.

We set up the shop following the origin template: A simple garage kitchen, made of a dish preparation area, a fridge with the King’s august and mandatory figure taped to one of its sides, slightly tilted, a beverage refrigerator for the homemade yogurts and mojitos, and of course, a counter over which transactions would take place. For our customers, we crafted some little tables made of steel legs and marble tops, cushioned chairs and a couple couches for the groups. The kitchen was run by three girls I hired at Maria’s behest, they were in charge of the cooking, the plating and the discharge. The transactional part of the business was my share of the labor.

All was accounted for. All was calculated. And yet, on opening day, I found myself dipping my toes in the air, looking for land as the same man who previously embraced me out of love and anticipation now held me aloft against a wall, with the strength of a forklift.

“What the fuck is this, Joe? You taking the fucking piss?” He screeched, reminding me why this place is called “Imp street”.

“What do you mean?” I managed to ask, almost asphyxiated.

“This ain’t it, Joe! This ain’t Saul’s shit! You better fix this, Joe! What? Did You really think you could just do business on Imp street if it weren’t for our fucking blessing? Listen here, Joe. Saul was a proper bloke, alright? We had some good times, so you get some leverage, capisce? You have one week. Get your shit straight or kiss your little shop and your little flat goodbye, you hear?” He threatened, then put me down and gave me a slap to the back of the head, the type that takes you back to the womb.

Indeed, Maria offered me the basic ingredients from the recipe: Chicken nuggets, mushrooms, carefully fried eggs and onion rings. However, even she didn’t know the dressing’s contents. So I settled for a regular garlic sauce, which I thought tasted just fine, until then. I enquired with Jeff and he, too, didn’t know. I even called my father for good measure, to no avail. I was at a loss before this sudden impass.

Confused and aghast by this unforeseen turn of events, I sought comfort and warmth in the arms of a woman of the night. When all the “to and fro” action was over, I compensated her labor and offered her some chicken and an ice-cold mojito. I was in the middle of wracking my brain over the secret dressing when she began spouting nonsense.

“Joe! This tastes so good! You’re a genius! It tastes exactly like Saul’s! God, How I missed this!” She yelled.

“Huh?” I had a bite. Nothing. It was the same. “What is she on about?” I thought aloud, then suddenly, my landline rang. I reluctantly pushed the handset against my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr. Joe Mustard?” A male voice asked.

“Yes. Joe Mustard speaking, however can I help?” I shudderingly responded, wary of what was in store for me in this call.

“My name is Arthur Mollusk. I’m an agent from Kallis city bank. I used to be your late grandfather’s agent. I’ve been instructed to reach out to you, had you reopened Mr. Saul’s shop. He left something for you in the bank’s safe,” He announced.

The next morning, I found myself opening my grandfather’s safe deposit locker. In it, I saw Saul’s most prized possessions: Glass anal beads, wooden prayer beads, a rare edition of Lovecraft’s weirdest tales, and a letter. I thanked god there was no reflective surface about, because I didn’t want to see whatever expression I had on my mug. I opened the Letter.

“Hey, Joey boy. Don’t mind the beads, just drop them at Maria’s she’ll know what to do with them, the naughty lass,” It read.

“What the fuck?” I sighed, then continued.

“If you’re reading this, it means I’ve hit the bucket and that you decided to reopen the shop. Fucking Jolly, isn’t it? I’d assume you’ve already encountered the imps, then? Don’t mind them meat heads. They’re a good for nothing lot, just scurrying about causing trouble in their little fascist fantasy.

Read, Joe. Read carefully.

Feed them Jism. The dressing’s missing component is Jism. Cum. Semen. Whatever you want to call it.

Feed them it. The brutes will love it. Watch their wretchedly satisfied faces as they ingest the stuff like it’s paradise’s promised whale liver. And make sure they never know.

Feed them the stuff of Mules, Joe. You’ll find, attached to this letter, the contact information of a business partner of mine, he collects the venereal discharge in bulk and contributes to the dressing’s making, all in his farm.

I love you, Joe. Always have.

You may do as you please with this information. Just ask yourself, everyone loves it, so why the fuck not?

Love, Saul Mustard.”

It took me three days to stop vomiting. I holed myself in the apartment, incarcerating this information and my thoughts of it. I had forgotten about the Imps until they stormed my place, looking to assert their dominance, ridiculing me as they would a quarry.

“Fuck it. Let there be Jism,” I determinably told my reflection. The reflection acquiesced.

I got in touch with the supplier and took a look at the semen farm. They had mules in the thousands, positioned in lines where the collection took place. The protocol was simple: The female stands before the line, tied up. The males are positioned behind the female, and the collector waits for the climax to use an artificial vagina to suck out the discharge. The produce would then be emptied in containers where condiments would be added and mixed.

And true enough, the next day I stood august by the counter, looking down at the brutes as they enjoyed my chicken, licking the sauce off their lips like it was salt in roman times. It felt exhilarating.

Every one indulged in its consumption. Lady Maria, Jeffrey, the imps and everyone else from the building. Word spread of Saul’s return to business, and folks from all around Kallis city began congregating to my little place.

“This gets bigger, much bigger,” I thought to myself.

In no time, I could afford to open a shop in front of the university hospital, which became the go-to lunch place for physicians and non-physicians alike, I figured standards were already low for the Kallis health workers. Then I opened a Saul’s in every corner, making the dish the signature indulgence of the city. In a span of three years, I was already king of the fast food business.

My mother was provided the medical attention she needed, and my father’s monomania was tended to. I thought of resuming my medical studies, but I was money-crazed and unable to leave this business in someone else’s hands.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. At some point, folks began to fall ill, suffering from digestive discomfort and seldom, symptoms severe enough to warrant emergency care.

The authorities began their inquisitive investigations. They transferred the dish to a laboratory. An accordance between the pathogen isolated in my patrons’ fecal samples and microscopical study of the dish was found. It was EIV: Equidae immunodeficiency virus, a sexually transmitted disease between mules and horses, that isn’t supposed to find its way into a human’s digestive tract.

 This eventually led them to the semen farm. The owner ratted me out, even gave them the address to my vacation house. And the rest is history.

“Does that quell your wild curiosity, Frank?” I asked with a smirk. Readying another third of a cigarette.

“Holy shit!” He said, then went into a long trance. And so did I, a man sentenced to forty years for mass poisoning.

“Wait, I ate at Saul’s, so…did I…?” He wondered, confused.

I dozed off.