It's a Monday afternoon in Shoulderbrook and the sun is broadcasting its radiance, making the weather fair and inviting. Yogurt and Scratch are sitting in a booth at a retro-styled diner called Russell's. This establishment of classic American eatery looks like it was pulled right out of the Fifties with its checkerboard linoleum floor, chrome-trimmed marble tables plus the big and bright neon blue sign in the window bearing the word OPEN in curvy, retro lettering. And-OH!-can't forget the jukebox placed conveniently in the middle of the diner.
The front counter has those round bar stools you'd probably see in a film like Grease or the show Happy Days, while the counter itself is made to resemble the front grill and hood of a milky white Chevy Bel-air coupe, however very elongated. The diner's paint scheme looks like The Beach Boys showed up just to vomit almost all the popular colors of the Fifties with its mix of candy red, bubblegum pink, glossy black, mint green and aqua blue.
(I would really like to know who that interior designer was...)
Anyway, the designs aren't really that important, so let me move along...
***
In the midst of this nostalgic ambience sits Yogurt, looking downcast as he fiddles with the striped straw in his strawberry malt shake, twirling it round and round. The malted mixture steadily melts as he sighs repeatedly. Actually, he's been sighing since he sat down to order, only now he has the straw as a distraction of sorts.
"Yo-Yog! What gives, my friend? You've been looking downtrodden since we sat down to order. And look-you've barely touched your food! Care to tell me what's the deal?" Scratch inquires, nibbling weirdly on three french fries.
Yogurt sighs, "I've been depressed since we left the house, Scratch. Maybe you didn't notice since you were so giddy about coming here."
"Hey, hey, hey-don't blame me for not noticing, mon frere. I can never truly tell with you. But dig this-like excavation-has anybody ever told you that you have a face geologists would love? Just packed with stone. Could never take you for granite."
"Fuck you."
"What? You always look like you're constipated. I've seen lead pipes with more emotion, usually up against some poor schmoe's skull, but they still count."
"Scratch..."
"Yo, bro-I'm just saying. Anyway, I thought you'd be happy coming here. It's our favorite hangout spot."
"Yeah, but we ALWAYS come here. Every fuckin' Monday. Don't you ever wanna go somewhere else?" Yogurt retaliates, grunting.
"No, not really," Scratch pouts. "I mean, what better place to hangout with my best friend than where we first met?"
Yogurt lets out another huge sigh, turning from depressed to disgruntled.
"This is NOT where we first met. You know EXACTLY WHERE and WHEN that occurred."
Scratch is flustered and taken aback, as he was certain this was where they first met. However, his memory hasn't been the best lately, which Yogurt hasn't hesitated to make known.
"Okay, maybe this isn't where we first met, but still, I thought you'd enjoy being here. I mean, geez Louise, I don't know who put a bee in your bonnet, but don't take it out on me. I'm just your friend."
"I'm not taking anything out on you, Scratch. You just made a stupid statement, like you always do. It's gotten really old and frustrating."
"......... I see. Well, I'm sorry, buddy. Very sorry," Scratch replies, feeling totally dejected by Yogurt's revelation.
"Yeah, whatever." -Yogurt tilts his head back and raises his hands high in front of his face then imitates the act of typing- "Can you change the subject, please?"
"Ummmm, yeah. Sure. What do you want to talk about?"
Yogurt shrugs. "Man, I don't know. Anything but what's wrong with me."
Scratch taps on his chin, pondering a subject to jump to. After a few seconds of deliberating, he's suddenly struck with what he feels is the best topic.
"Say, you heard about those wildfires in California?"
"Yeah, I have. What about them?"
"Well, isn't it sad? Those people lost everything. Destroyed like Sodom and Gomorrah."
"It wasn't that bad, but I don't care to be honest. It's just White people problems."
Scratch squints and raises his eyebrows, "Eh, come again?"
Returning his head to an upright position, Yogurt folds his arms then answers, "It's just White people problems. Nothing that concerns a minimum wage-earning, Black male like me, dude."
"Okay, I get THAT- buuuuuut, Oprah lost her home in that disaster too, doesn't that bother you?"
"Like I said: White people problems."
"But she's Black, Yog."
"Bruh- that bitch ain't Black. She's Whiter than a 1955 Sears' catalog."
Scratch chuckles, "Okay, I'll accept that. But uh... I don't know if you noticed that I'm... um... White also. Do you not care about me?"
"Eh, I mean, of course I care about you, and I know you're White, but you're not WHITE White."
"What do you mean I'm not 'WHITE White'?"
"I'm saying that you're not 'Bye bye, Miss American Pie' White or 'Leave It to Beaver' White."
"Oooh, I see. Well, if I'm not 'WHITE White' to you, then what am I?"
"Eggshell."
"Eggshell?"
"Yeah. Or beige. Yeah, definitely beige."
This talk about race continued for a good minute. Eventually, the two brought it to an end and sat there in silence. Scratch nibbles strangely again on a few fries, pulling the skin off of them and dropping the insides back on his plate. He chases those skins down with a big gulp of root beer, which has two tiny, canoe-shaped ice cubes floating in it, making it pretty much watered-down.
Yogurt covers his face and drops his head, shaking it in disgust.
"What's wrong with you now?"
"The way you eat is embarrassing, dude," Yogurt grunts. "I mean, Jesus Christ, do you really have to do all of that weird shit?"
Scratch pouts, "Sorry, Yog. Didn't mean to embarrass you. You've known for years how I eat though. I hate potatoes, even in the appetizing form of fries."
"Yeah, but it has people gawking at us all the time. One of the reasons I hate coming here. I mean, just look at the other patrons, they can't take their eyes off of you."
"Eh, they'll live. I'm sure there's something weird about them that I'd find appalling if I had the chance to discover it. It's whatever though."
"No, it's not whatever, but fuck it."
Scratch giggles then takes another sip of drink, "You know, I knew him."
"Knew who?"
"That guy you mentioned not too long ago."
"What guy?" Yogurt asks, growing irritated.
"Jesus."
"Don't 'Jesus' me, I'm the one mad here."
Scratch snickers, "No, I'm saying that I knew Jesus."
"What the-Are you losing it? Am I gonna have to start calling you 'Old Scratch'?"
"No, I'm not losing it. I knew Jesus Christ. No bullshit."
For the first time since they stepped into Russell's today, Yogurt smiled then burst into a fit of laughter that alarmed all the patrons. One of the waitresses who was skating by-a busty, blonde bombshell with vivid red lipstick named Annabelle-became so startled by his laughing that she lost control and skated right into another waitress who was carrying a tray of drinks and shakes. Their collision revealed that neither lady was wearing a bra, as their areolas were visible through the thin and heavily soaked white uniform shirts they had on. However, the sight of boobs wasn't enough to stop Yogurt's laughing.
"Yo, lay off whatever it is you're on, Scratch. That's THE CRAZIEST shit I've ever heard."
"I'm not on anything, Yog. I knew Jesus. And to be quite honest, I still feel bad for being the reason he was crucified."
Yogurt finally stops laughing and takes a deep breath.
"Wait a minute, are you trying to tell me you're Judas or some shit? Pontius Pilate?"
"No, but you're getting warm," Scratch smirks. "Some may say you're 'burning up'."
"I can't be 'burning up' if I'm 'getting warm'. Pick a heat setting and stick with it, bruh."
"Okay, you're getting warm. Forget all of that though. It'd probably be better if I just told you who I am. I don't think you'd ever guess anyway."
Yogurt chuckles, "Eh, I'll take one more stab at it." -he folds his hands outward, cracks his knuckles then clears his throat- "Okay, if I'm 'getting warm', then this could only mean that you're God, right?"
"You insolent and foolish maggot! How DARE YOU mix me up with that narcissistic despot!" Scratch roars in a coarse, demonic voice which shakes the entire diner. The reverberation makes the lights flicker and puts cracks in the windows.
"Yo, yo, yo, yo! Chill, Scratch!" Yogurt pleads, his amusement has segueing into fear and bewilderment.
However, it's become too late for Scratch to chill, as he's beyond pissed off. His eyes begin to glow and burn a bright red-orange, similar to the molten iron in the crucible of a forge. He slowly stands up at the booth and starts to transform, growing taller-approximately nine feet in height-and becomes monstrous in appearance. His transformation destroys his entire side of the booth and completely shatters the window next to it. Yogurt is now whimpering in distress, sinking under the table in retreat.
Scratch, beyond reasoning at this point, goes on a rampage, tearing the patrons and staff apart, wrecking the establishment. As Yogurt cowers surrounded by shards of glass under the table, he listens to the havoc being wreaked upon the innocent and unsuspecting people.
He doesn't have to look at the chaos to know it's become a literal Hell on Earth, as he can hear full and well everybody's agonizing screams. The unrelenting and gut-wrenching sounds of bones being broken and grinded combined with flesh being torn and masticated repeatedly as folks are consumed like a ten-piece chicken nuggets.
"FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!" Yogurt screams, shivering and hyperventilating.
Scratch continues devouring all in attendance, saving a family of four for last as Yogurt musters all of his courage and crawls from underneath the table, injuring his hands on the fine pieces of glass littering the floor. To his dismay though, he comes out only to witness Scratch gorging himself on the mother and father simultaneously, crushing and pulverizing their heads with the sharp and large teeth inside his oversized gullet.
Fuck... I gotta get out of here, Yogurt thinks to himself. However, he panics and freezes while watching Scratch finish off the rest of the family.
Scratch reaches for the couple's daughter—who looks to be about five or six—scooping her up with his giant clawed hand. The girl screams, but only briefly, as it's cut-of by her being balled up inside of his palm.
The sounds of tiny bones breaking along with flesh and innards squishing together makes Yogurt's skin crawl and his stomach turn. Scratch holds his hand above his gaping mouth and tightly squeezes the crumpled body, invoking more bloodletting to use the fluid as a sort of refreshment. Yogurt lies curled up in a ball, shuddering at the sight of it all.
The last member of the family left is a baby boy, sitting in a high chair and crying in distress. Yogurt once again musters up courage and attempts to prevent Scratch from harming the infant.
"Hey! Don't do this! He's only a baby! You're better than this!"
Scratch bellows, smoke expelling from his nose as he turns to Yogurt.
"SILENCE, HUMAN! YOUR PITHY STAGES OF LIFE MEAN NOTHING TO ME! A BABE IS JUST ANOTHER DELECTABLE MORSEL TO MY TASTE BUDS!"
Yogurt places himself between Scratch and the baby.
"I won't let you do it, Scratch! I won't let you claim another innocent life! Think about Jesus!"
Scratch smacks Yogurt and he flies into the destroyed counter, becoming lodged against a sharp piece of chrome.
"AWAY WITH YOU, FOOL!"
Scratch raises his massive cloven hoof above the infant, then points at Yogurt.
"THIS………IS ALL YOUR FAULT! WATCH………AND SUFFER!"
He stomps on the infant like a cockroach, grinding it into the destroyed floor, mixing its remains into the rubble until it is nothing but red and pink paste.
"NO!" Yogurt wails, his mouth full of saliva and eyes overflowing with tears as he futilely struggles to free himself.
With no one left to ravenously feed upon, Scratch opens a portal in the ground, calling forth a legion of demons and other hellish creatures. They immediately beeline outside to cause more panic and chaos. Making his way towards Yogurt, Scratch reverts into his human appearance.
"You are at fault for all of this. And look at you now? Stuck. Stricken. Pierced in your side, just like Jehovah."
Yogurt coughs up blood, struggling continuously to free himself from the large piece of metal.
"This… isn't right. Why'd you… do it?" he wheezes, blood fully filling up his lungs. The injury he sustained is quite grievous, but there's a faint glimmer in his eyes, like he knows it's not over for him. Of course, it could just be the rising flames in the diner reflecting in his tears.
(That's probably it…)
Feeling heartbroken about the state of his friend, Scratch crouches down and plants a kiss on his cheek then says, "I'm sorry, mon frere. Sorry that it had to happen like this, but maybe you'll be happier where you're headed."
He assumes a sitting position on the floor amongst the debris, bone fragments, motley strips of flesh and a pool of blood just so he can watch Yogurt slowly close his eyes, exiting this mortal coil. In the background, the faint sound of police sirens blaring can be heard, along with the terrified screams of civilians falling victim to the infernal turmoil Scratch has wrought upon the once quaint little town of Shoulderbrook.
|FIN|
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