“There’s a fly in my soup.” Consider yourself lucky if that’s all you find. Don’t complain to the staff unless you want your ear chewed off– and then served back to you with a side of fries.
From the roadside, Glutton’s resembles a typical greasy spoon diner. Once you enter that all changes. The smell that assaults you from the kitchen will make your eyes tear. It’s like summer roadkill set ablaze. Above the counter, what you first mistake as hanging fly strips, turn out to be disturbing folk art. It’s best not to ask what the pagan symbols mean.
You’ll find the staff perpetually moody, though in autumn you’ll be greeted with “Samhain blessings to you.” before their attitude curdles. They all suffer from peculiar skin conditions, grotesque blotches you’d expect on rotten bananas. There’s always a commotion, the barking of orders (and threats) to the kitchen, and the rush of trays to tables.
Are those two diners with beaded necklaces asleep? Why are they slumped over their food that way? They never move. The grisly sights through the kitchen window are brutal and violent. Unidentifiable meats are hacked apart then sizzled in their bloody bubbles on the filthy grill. Glutton, the proprietor, toils away in his gore splattered chef’s coat. What was that mess he just served? Was that a finger?
Behind the diner is the Slaughterhouse. Meat sourced from Crow Hollow hangs from rusty hooks. That rib cage didn’t come from a pig or cow. What animal has a head shaped like that? You wander into the processing area and your worst suspicions are realized. Human remains are being cheerily dismembered and deboned by a blood drenched lunatic. He stuffs the bones into bundles of straw and rags. He’s making scarecrows from human skeletons.
Head for the loading dock before you’re seen! Make your escape. Do not delay, or you may be tomorrow’s blue plate special. Your only chance at Gluttons is to dine and dash!
