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--
_Story and text salvaged by Shi, Oni, GK and Csodas. Originally manifested on [[Improbable Island. ->https://www.improbableisland.com]]_
__Content Warnings:__ *This place is pretty dark in tone, and contains eldritch horror, body horror, and imagery of nuclear apocalypse, capitalist brutality and lots and lots of food crimes.*
***
The bright colours of a painted mascot loom through the scrub. It stands on the roof of this squat little building, red and yellow ketchup and mustard colours peeling and showing rusted metal and concrete underneath. A colossus on the roof. It does not resemble human or animal in any recognisable way, it is simply an effigy of malevolent sentience where sentience should not occur.
The sign is still bright, though. It says ~~Welcome.~~ Dry grasses grow through cracks in the car park, and seem to wave you onwards. The peeling, pupilless eyes of the mascot watch sightlessly as you approach.
>[[Welcome->Under the gaze of the Yumbo Man]]
>[[Ingredients]]
The car park is an empty expanse of cracked tarmac, not a soul in sight. Strangely, the jungle and scrub seem thinner around this place, though, only grasses (all dry and dead-looking) having encroached on the car park. A road leads around one side of the building, marked ~~Drive-Thru~~ on a peeling sign. The closer you come, the more heavily you feel the presence of that huge figure on the roof. The building seems to sag gently under it. The silhouette in your periphery has you constantly on edge, unable to shake the sensation it is moving, but whenever you look up, the blank stare and deranged grin on its concrete face send a deep terror through you, and you must look away. The windows are dim, but the sign on the door declares **We're Open!** and you remember how **Welcome** that first sign made you. Past the dimness, you can make out a dull orangey light inside. There is a smell you can't place, it makes your mouth water, and your stomach clench.
*Consider:*
+ {reveal link: 'The tune you are humming', passage: 'y u m b o'}
+ {reveal link: 'Posters', passage: 'posters'}
+ {reveal link: 'A newspaper blows past', passage: 'newspaper'}
>[[Bus Stop]]
>[[Order at the window]]
>[[Welcome->Inside]]
This project began as an in-joke between friends and, like most in-jokes do, evolved into an ongoing collaborative horror art piece based on the many intersections of capitalist hellscapes, food crimes, and eldritch consumerism.
I hope you enjoy exploring it!
It was originally written in a text-based rpg called [[Improbable Island ->https://www.improbableisland.com]] Island, which I recommend you investigate, if only to check out the many cool dwellings and experiences other players of the game have put together within the world of the game.
I've also listed here wherever I can identify what food crimes or other memes we were inspired by. As many of these memes were from social media, where possible I have taken screenshots to preserve them in the face of boy-king-related media loss.
If you'd like to see more about me and my work, you can find links to all my stuff on my website, [[toadlett.com ->https://www.toadlett.com/]]
+ [[Original video review of the Yumbo by Greg's Kitchen ->https://youtu.be/_Sr5Um56wuU?si=REZWhPnuqjEwWt2C]]
+ [[Sandia national Laboratories long term nuclear waste warning messages -> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long-term_nuclear_waste_warning_messages]]
+ [[DO NOT APPROACH THE BOAT tweets by Myrtle beach Police -> https://x.com/MBPDSC/status/1575936977894924288?s=20]]
+ [[Bowl Food tweet by @PESTBR1GADE ->https://x.com/PESTBR1GADE/status/1701801773915115598?s=20]]
+ [[The King's hand tweet thread by @thatfrood ->https://x.com/thatfrood/status/1335689951640494080?s=20]]
+ [[This AI advert which inspired the Yumbo legal team episode ->https://youtu.be/Geja6NCjgWY?si=iEkcBgxrFDqN82L2]]
{embed image: 'images/do not go near the boat.png', alt: 'screenshot of tweet by Myrtle beach police, reading: A boat has washed on shore near Williams St. DO NOT GO NEAR THE BOAT. it is EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. The information we have is that no one is on board. DO NOT GO NEAR THE BOAT. @MyrtleBeachFire @MyrtleBeachEM @MyrtleBeachGov followed by a photo of a windswept beach with a boat washed up on shore.'}
{embed image: 'images/bowl.jpg', alt: 'quote tweet by @PESTBR1GADE of an article by "The Takeout" which says "Bowl Food" is the hot new trend where you eat food out of a bowl. the article has a picture of some food in a bowl. @PESTBR1GADE has added "16,000 BCE post.'}
{embed image: 'images/kingshand.jpg', alt: 'The kings hand, a recipe that involves making a large hollow m&m cookie in the shape of a human hand, and filling it with greek salad.'}Yumbo,
there's no need to feel down
I said, yumbo,
pick yourself off the ground
I said, yumbo,
'cause you're in a new town
There's no need
to
be
unhappy
Yumbo,
there's a place you can go
I said, yumbo,
when you're short on your dough
You can stay there,
and I'm sure you will find
Many ways
to have
a good time
It's fun to eat the
YUMBO
It's fun to eat the
YUMBOWater has seeped under the plastic covers of the posters advertising various offers and new products. You can see ~~WHY NOT TRY~~ in dark blocky letters, the ink bled out into feathery patterns across the rest of the page. The maniacally grinning likeness of The Yumbo Man laughs through a mask of bubbled paper and brownish algal growth.
He is holding something in his hands, blotted out completely by rusty orange mould. He holds it up like a sacred relic, like an answer. The closer you peer, the darker and thicker the mould seems, its texture reminding you of the cheese on a fresh yumbo, it obscures everything, until you blink and it seems, for a moment, to cover every surface of the world, every surface of you-
You blink again, and you are standing back from the posters, in the shadow of the rooftop figure. Your face feels hot. You keep your gaze away from the posters.*THE IMPROBABLE ISLAND ENQUIRER "Ban this sick filth" - est. 2009
**GLAZIERS' GUILD ON STRIKE, DEMANDS INCLUDE HAZARD PAY**
The recent mysterious explosions at the embassy and pub complex in Improbable Central have left the Island Glaziers' Guild on strike until they receive hazard pay for their role in sourcing raw materials for the repair work. A spokesman for the guild, who wishes to remain anonymous, informs the Enquirer that glaziers are expected to source their own material before cutting it to shape and size at the worksite. "With Titan numbers significantly reduced as a result of, we presume, Network negotiations, and the new speedy Green Titans, it's a real race to reach the peak," they explain, "and our grappling and safety equipment is our own responsibility. When it's just the occasional pizza accident here or there, or the aftermath of a Yumbo-drunk yob deciding now's the time to test the future of human-powered flight, it's manageable. But damage on this scale requires a real effort, and until the Network sees fit to recognize how much manual labor goes into each window the Island will just have to learn to live with drafts. Why, I hear some kind of magical ritual in the north blew out windows all across the mountain! We feel for the residents, really we do, but they can best ensure we get back to normal business by adding their voices to ours when it comes to the Network." (con't, p. 9)
PRIEST SOUGHT IN MYSTERY EXPLOSION Witnesses to the spectactular eruption of the Prancing SpiderKitty claim that they saw a giggling figure in a cassock legging it in the direction of the swamp, and swear that they were not Wanker-addled at the time. Network staff are reviewing footage but would appreciate any leads (con't, p. 5)*The sign does not display when the next bus will come. You have been here for some time now, waiting on the bus. It is raining, very gently. The warm air, thick with humidity and a soft drumming rain on your raincoat makes it difficult to focus. You look up from the article you were reading on your phone and scan the streets. You see cars, you see a bus going the other way, you see people trudging along. No bus. You see a billboard, not too far, but not too close either.
A comfortable billboard distance.
It glistens in the rain, the greyish pink ham seems to bead liquid on it. The bun somehow looks soggy even though it is just a picture. The cheese is a perfect square with precise 90 degree angle corners, even though it's also melted. It is wearing a crown. A crown made of limpid cheddar yellow gold, with pickles for jewels and a mind-bending pattern of intricate, lettuce-shaped filigree. Your stomach turns, and after a long moment of uncertainty, you think it may be hunger. The sandwich seems to be the same temperature as the air, warm and moist.
The bus hasn't come.
You rip your eyes away from the billboard, blinking for the first time in...how long were you staring at the sign?
You're late for work now.
A bus should have come. In fact, several buses should have come.
You look at the next arriving sign, but it is blank, dead. Behind it you catch sight of a billboard, closer, too close. The sandwich looms, it's limpid crown seeming to ooze out of the image. You think this is a video screen billboard. You desperately hope it is. The sandwich droops as you stare, unblinking, unmoving. Is there a face in the ham?
The police are here. They are asking if you're ok. A paramedic is trying to get your attention. They say you've been here for days, screaming. You laugh and explain that you're just waiting for the bus. One of them offers you something to eat. One of them has offered you a Yumbo. You smile, and take it. It'll be a nice snack while you wait for the bus.
>[[Are you feeling alright?]]
>[[The bus will take you home->Remember home?]]You have always succumbed to the gap-toothed grin, the cheese-beard, the slightly soggy thing that might have been potato bread before a frustrated line cook stuck olive slices in the top and made it a face.
You have never wanted to, but the siren song of the ham calls you. five slices of ham, one singlet of processed cheese product, kept under the heat lamp until it droops into surrender, a dead-eyed olive stare with a swipe of our proprietary sauce on a toasted potato bun.
Bow, liege. swear fealty to your yumbo sire.
"I am my yumbo's..."
"...and my yumbo is mine,"whispers the counter jockey.
There is a machine that would be making frozen lime rickeys, rattling away. It is churning nothing, empty air. A lime rickey would distract from the purity of the yumbo. There can be no pretenders to his princely throne.
*Consider:*
+ {reveal link: 'Coming Soon...', passage: 'COMING SOON'}
+ {reveal link: 'The tune that still plays', passage: 'why em bee oh'}
+ {reveal link: 'a peeling poster by the broken lime ricky machine', passage: 'yumbo no. 5'}
+ {reveal link: 'a dog-eared copy of *Journey to the North*', passage: 'abandoned book'}
+ {reveal link: 'fliers spilled in a drift across the floor', passage: 'yumbo cantina'}
+ {reveal link: 'a yellow crust on the bathroom door handle', passage: 'curry yumbo'}
> [[Bathroom->The bathroom]]
> [[Sit down to eat-> enjoy your meal]]
> [[Enjoy your meal]] There {reveal link: 'are no cars in the drive-thru area', text: 'is only a burned-out [[truck chassis->trucker]] in the drive-thru area'}, but you skirt around towards the order window, hoping to escape the glare of The Yumbo Man, yet too nervous to enter the restaurant itself. A spit and pop from the speaker. You can't understand the words through the static, but you know their meaning.\
The grasses wave their golden seedheads at you. Nobody else is here. you could order anything. Or nothing. You could order a single black coffee and leave, and nobody would be sad. There are no taunting posters, no promises of Meal Deals and Free toys, here on the shaded side of the building.\
The speaker crackles and pops again, then starts to hiss steadily, louder and louder. Was the shadow always so deep? you look up, and realise almost before you see it, that the statue is turned now to look down upon you, and its face is no longer **Welcoming...**
Suddenly, the hiss cuts out into a fogged voice, intoning *"That'll be kkschrsckllssssect your order at the window."*
{reveal link: 'Collect your order at the window', passage: 'Collect your order'}
Consider:
+ {reveal link: 'The sign out in front', passage: 'The sign out in front'}
+ {reveal link: 'SEASONAL OFFERS', passage: 'SEASONAL OFFERS'}
+ {reveal link: 'the circular stain on the window', passage: 'BOWL'}
>[[But you only wanted a coffee]]We would not have a name for the condition until far too late. A slew of symptoms, which even now I must hesitate to call anything but psychosomatic, would manifest: a stare fixed at some point in the middle distance, a high-pitched keening of which the patient themselves did not seem to be aware, an intermittent licking of the lips, almost tic-like. The slight fever was undeniable, as was the racing pulse, the widened pupils: something was not quite right.
We lost our first patient, a nondescript brown-haired former runner turned management consultant, on the way to the emergency room. His grieving relatives had no objection to an autopsy: how could they? both we and they simply wanted answers. What could have cut down someone on the cusp of career triumphs, with so little warning? A new disease?
From the moment we opened the chest cavity, it was clear that something had gone awry. But I swear to you, upon all my training, that as we cut the heart muscle *TURNED INTO* a spongy mass of bread, soggy with heme; that the blood, sluggish with no animating force to pump it, eddied like melting processed cheese laid over a collapsing mass of tendons, draped over themselves like thin-sliced ham...
I still struggle to explain the sight. And while the hospital administration says, with a false solicitude, that long hours, the overwork that our missing contract should have protected us from, had taken their toll, I and the other survivors of that room would all swear that we saw this mass of unholy tissue, {reveal link: 'we saw it', text: '-- struggle to beat --'}
>[[perhaps a holiday would do you good]]
> [[You'll hear from our lawyers]]You think fondly back on your childhood in suburban America. Over-watered green lawns between large swaths of cracked pavement. Bright boxy SUVs parked in various states of being washed, as all SUVs in the summer in the 90s in the suburban landscape in the United States were. You remember playing with your one and a half siblings, as well as your neighbors, the Johnsons, who had twins, one of whom was never allowed to join you or even wander outside at all, and the twins' younger cousin, who never seemed to go home.\
You were playing a game with some kind of ball, sometimes with bats, sometimes without. Score was kept unfairly, rules loosely known, and the screaming vascillitated between joy and feral rage. It was hot. In that 'bright sun with no clouds and too little supervision to ensure your hydration' sort of way. You knew, deep down, it was coming.\
The melody lilts hauntingly from several streets away, near the Miller house where you were never to go, then by the Scott residence where the police came and left several times a month. It turned the corner around the Williams' place, where their son William used to ride his bike recklessly. You sprint to your home and scream in to your parents, one overworked, the other overwrought. You were promised enough pocket change to get something today. *They promised you.* And yet, no change is delivered. You feel the mounting shock and disappointment. The fear that you will be the only one without.\
The twin allowed out already is waiting by the curb. The evergreen cousin queues behind them. You see it, rounding your corner into the cul de sac in which you reign. The Yumbo truck, driven by the Yumbo man. The battered beaten speakers play its Piper tunes, the children scuttle and skitter forth from pools, yards, homes, and tree houses. They follow in neat lines, steps in synch. {reveal link: 'The yumbo man is smiling.', passage: 'smiling'} The yumbo man is smiling. The yumbo man is staring down at you, hand extended, expecting his pound of flesh.
>[[What is in your hand?->The King's Hand]]
>[[Your hand is empty->Inside]]
The warm breeze, the crashing waves, the boisterous keening of seagulls above. It is a lovely day at the beach.
You are sitting on an oversized towel that was supposed to keep the sand off, but they never really do. Above you is the Coors Lite umbrella that your friend won in that radio contest a few years back, something about singing an old theme song on air. It has been a long morning of volleyball, swimming, building sandcastles, and of course enjoying a few cold ones. You feel a bit peckish.\
There's a soft, but persistent, buzzing sound. You look around until you see it, out over the ocean. A prop plane dragging a banner is crawling past the ocean, this is the third one you've seen today. You smile and wave to one of your friends, returning from a battle with the waves. The banner catches your eye. A crown made of pineapple fronds sits jauntily cocked on top of a sandwich. The bun is probably some kind of hawaiian roll, but it's been smashed and soaked and let to dry again. Aggressively orange cheese clings to a thick slab of battery acid yellow pineapple, all on top of a small pile of limpid ham.\
*Your stomach gurgles in delight and terror.*
Your friend is saying something to you, no... *singing* something to you. It's that old theme song, or maybe some kind of hymnal.\
You feel someone press something into your hands. You do not want to look. You do anyways.
~~NEW HAWAIIAN YUMBO~~
~~ALOHA KING~~
The pineapple is warm, and bursts in a visceral spray when you bite into it. The cheese is viscous, tendon like. The ham...sweet *yumbo* the ham...
You are in a group of people now, all staring at the banner. You are doing a rythmic dance. You are wearing a grass skirt. You are enjoying, well..., you are eating a ~~NEW HAWAIIAN YUMBO ALOHA KING~~
>[[look out at the pretty boats->DO NOT GO NEAR THE BOAT]]do not go near the boat.png
*Do not board the boat. Do not go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo. Do not go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo with the intention of taking it on the boat. Do not go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo with the intention of taking it on the boat by order of the MBPDSC. The boat is not safe. It is not safe to go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo. It is not safe to go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo with the intention of taking it on the boat. It is not safe to go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo with the intention of taking it on the boat by order of the MBPDSC. And yet, you will board the boat. You will go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo. You will go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo with the intention of taking it on the boat. You will go to Yumbo King and purchase a BeachBoyYumbo with the intention of taking it on the boat by order of the MBPDSC. Limited time at participating locations only. Purchase is not necessary, you will board the boat.*
"Please, what is a Beachboy Yumbo?"
*Go to the boat to find out*
>[[Find out]]The third stall is the only one with a working lock. It has unfortunately not got a toilet - it has been removed, and the floor is covered in glistening yellow-orange candles, little scraps of wrapper, little figurines carved from crushed bread and ancient, verdigris-coloured ham. Here, the little idol to Doug, Patron Saint of Assistant Managers at Yumbo King. Here, a smaller, but still terrible imitation of the hulking monster you saw on the roof, his grown picked out in gilded sesame seeds.
Where the toilet presumably used to sit, there is a ragged hole in the floor, rough-hewn cement giving way to cold earth - you can look down, into the cavern below, and see the light cut golden and pink through stained glass, hear the faint and solemn chanting, the song you already know... see movement.
A priest, draped in robes of ham with a bun hat and a bowl of melted cheese set before him, the congregants lining up for their yellow baptism...
That sulfuric chapel under the parking lot, gleaming in its antiseptic tile surfaces, carefully inlaid stainless-and-tile mosaic work with the stations of the yumbo...
The seats drop like the amphitheaters of old to focus the expectant attention on the altar, the font of melted cheese swirling with the memory of convection, the oversized aspergillum bobbing against the sides...
See the eight foot paintings of the saint, depicted cutting his flayed skin into five equal slices...
The vergers pace the aisles, trying to meet the eyes of worshippers who must ask themselves: am I worthy for the communion of the yumbo
*Am I worthy to dedicate my offspring to the yumbo
Am I worthy, and do I dare, for fear of being found wanting...
Are you worthy, beloved, for prices and participation do vary...*
The priest looks up. His eyes weep cheese. he sees you, and he weeps to see you, and you see him, and he weeps to be seen...
> [[Ah. Our new king has arrived->The King's Hand]]
> [[Flee ->Inside]] They are draped in fineries, and have an empty Yumbo wrapper crumpled into the form of a crown suspended above where their head *should* be.
There are sects in formal scholarship of the occult that war with one another. Those of the *Pure Entrée* school dip their heads in wax, stuff their ear with grease soaked paper satchels, and recite the words of the *Original menu.* But then there are those of the *Combo Apostolic* path, they who are labeled apostate and non-traditionalists. They go unadorned by the carefully collected wax, leaving their eyes, ears, and mouths open to take in the fullness of the *Menu.* They often go mad, wandering the lofty seemingly endless halls of the Yumbo Kings while screaming the full *Menu* in a shrill manic glee. And yet circles form endlessly within circles, as within the Combo Apostolic there are yet further schisms on the one true side. The *French Friers* carry vessels of spent oil, anointing all who pass with limpid fries and professing the straight and narrow path. The *Ringanites* create pyramids of onion rings, dripping with oil, to mark their passage. They speak of recursive and looping truths, proving themselves right with their own theories. And the third path, hated by all, wanders the deep halls, depraved and twisted in their machinations. They chitter and snarl, holding that true longevity of life can only be had with a *side salad.* Few come away unscathed.
***
But they are all arrayed now, surrounding you, their wrapper-robes, their crowns of grease and wax and meat glistening. You feel their eyes on you like spatters from the deep fryer, scalding.
Some of them chant, some are silent, some whimper and keen in response to voices you are not yet able to hear. {reveal link: 'You kneel,', text: 'You are made to kneel'} and bow your trembling head. A heavy hand is on the back of your skull, keeping it bowed. heavy hands are on your shoulders, the small of your back. Your throat. nobody is standing near you.
You cannot see them bring it in, your head bowed as it is. you smell it, peppery and greasy, sweet and doughy. You shudder, as the assembled murmur now in unison, and the ceremonial meal is placed before you.
*The King's Hand, The King's Hand,TheKing's HaNd,ThEKing'sHand,ThEKIng'sHANd,THEKING'SHAND-*
The hands gripping your arms move you like a marionette, puppeting your shaking arm forward, to the cookie-dough in the shape of a human hand, greek salad spilling from its hollow centre. you break off a piece, and bring it to your lips, as the chant around you reaches crescendo-
You taste it
It tastes
[after 5 second]
Forbidden
[continued]
> [[Long live the king ->Guided audio tour, cassette 1]] It's not the most glamorous job in the world, but it suits you just fine. It's long hours and feels tedious but the pay is good and you get to set your own schedule. In a good year you only have to work 7 or 8 months. In fact, this job should set you up through the end of the year. You've got a longhaul route down the east coast, luckily you don't need to pass through the Appalachians. The mountains always add a few days. You've got the manifest clipped up on the wall of the truck. 40 pallets of unmarked boxes, all stamped with a little yellow crown sitting on a bun. Tonight is the halfway mark, delivery should be done tomorrow. You hit your time limit out on open road, so you're sleeping in a truck lot tonight. Not much traffic. You don't see anyone else here. Strange, but not unheard of...
***
You spent the first few hours of your required break period catching up on shows, playing games, winding down. You ate earlier when you stopped for gas, so you decide to call it early and get a nice meal in the morning. Also it's starting to rain, just a small storm rolling in off the ocean. You shrug on your raincoat, grab your flashlight and clipboard, slip into your slippers and drop from the cab of your truck. The inspection moves quickly. Tires, good. Lights, good. Mudflaps, still there. No unexpected surprises, and in an 18-wheeler that's not just ideal, it's mandatory. The roads were a bit rough today, so you undo the padlock and throw open the latching lever to the back of the truck. The rain is steadier now in the darkness. You can see the far off bubble of light pollution for the next "big" town. Just a miasmic haze of orange that hangs on the horizon, hills cutting a shape in the bottom of the malignant fuzz. You flick your cigarette into the rain, the cherry quickly snuffed out as you yank on the door to get it open. It's colder than you expect in the back of the truck, but then again it is raining, and you aren't wearing your big coat. That's hanging in the sleeper cab. You hear laughter coming from the direction of the cab, probably a show you forgot to turn off.
Still, you wait. Stranger is a four letter word in a sleeper lot somewhere just north of North Carolina on dark, storm filled night. The laughter dies, and in its place you hear a commercial jingle playing. It's reassuring in a way. "Almost done," you say out loud. It's the first time you've heard your own voice today. The radio was quiet today, which is unusual, but not unheard of. You didn't feel the need to chip in, content to listen when sparse conversation was made, or warnings of congestion in the transportation arteries ahead. Sometimes you like to imagine you're a blood cell, dutifully delivering your cargo and then returning to pick up more.
The first few pallets are fine. Ties still firm and steady, boxes still in position. Near the back of the cargo container you find the problem you were expecting. A strap has slipped its hold. You inspect the cargo. White boxes, maybe refrigerators, with no product specification or labels. Only that stamp, a yellow crown perched on a smiling bun. The problem is easy to fix.
The next jingle comes on, the rain drums on the metal above. The far off fuzz of life hanging in the air fades as the storm thickens. Fog curls into the narrow opening of the container. You move through your inspection smoothly, and soon enough you've checked all 41 pallets. You reach for a cigarette, but the box is empty. You hear laughter, faded and far off. You flick your hood up, slip from the container, and latch and relock the doors. You spend a moment watching a small pack of cars go by in the darkness. Where are they going? Why did they choose this night, this storm, this road? There's a far off fork of lightning, a quick flash of light across a deserted sleeper lot. You eye the little concrete bunker that holds the restrooms. You're fine now, but it's good to know.
>[[Sleep]]You move towards the window with dread hot in your stomach and the eyes of The Yumbo Man cold on the top of your skull. Behind the perspex, a shadowy shape moves.
All is indistinct. It takes all your bravery to push a few sweaty coins up onto the counter, and in response sound pours out through the little speaker set in the perspex, static in a hissing roar like being buried in cicadas, a scream so loud it doubles you over in pain. It fades, after an agonising, breathless moment, and you straighten enough to see what is set on the counter for you, wrapped in trademark yellow and red paper, sweating through it already. You take the Yumbo you have ordered, and say thank you, to nobody.
>[[Enjoy your meal]]
You are next. You are nervous. You've known your order for some time now. You've known your order always. But what if you forget? What if, in the course of uttering those divine and sacrosanct words, you make a mistake. The ritual must be completed flawlessly, lest you be judged by those behind you. Those who passed before you will not judge you, for none among them are clean enough to cast judgment upon you. Their shirts stained with grease and sauce and wet with water. Their sleeves are red, marking them as former followers of the one line, but they slake their greed and gluttony with frozen dairy drinks, oil cooked tubers, and blasphemous sandwiches made of identifiable meat ground finely and griddle cooked. Heathens.
Finally, your turn to take the final trial is arrived. You make the final sticking steps, you intone the hymn with the crash of the chimes, you wipe away a final offering of blood and with it your lingering doubts.
"What can I get for you today?" The first question.
"A Yummy Yumbo Meal." You say, humbled and raw.
"Would you like to Yum Size that today?" The second test of faith.
Yes please, with an extra side of Yummy Yumbo sauce."It is going well, you think.
"Any thing else for you today?" The final barrier.
"And a chocolate milkshake." You crack, shatter, crumble. You shouldn't have looked away after the last question. You wouldn't have seen the small cardstock advertisement. You can feel them staring at you from behind. You know they've already cast you from their ranks. But they don't know, much like you didn't know.
For who truly knows the pressure of the Yumbo, save those who have eaten it?
>[[Enjoy your meal!]]Under the flickering yellow logo of The Yumbo King is a square white sign, the kind with re-arrangeable letters, for the latest offers and specials. It reads:
______~~WE FORGE~~
_________~~THE CHAINS~~
____________~~WE WEAR~~
_______________~~IN LIFE~~ The board covers too much of the window to ignore, the server shelters behind it, so you do not have to look at a human face whilst you commit your sins. It is plastered with posters and flyers in no rational order, seeming to be decades apart in age and design sense.
Yumbo King is proud to announce out newest holiday tradition that you have always partaken in. **The Yumbo on your Shelf.** Who put it there? Did you put it there? How long has it been there? When did you put it there? Why don't you remember putting it there? Was it there yesterday? Was it over there yesterday? Where has it gone? Where did you put it? Where is the Yumbo on the Shelf?
*Available for a limited time, including the entirety of your life and all of that what comes after. The Yumbo will follow you.*
*No purchase required for entry.*
This Easter! The KY Yumbizza! With injection moulded bunnies and marshmallow Yummy Yumbo dip!!!!
Celebrate springtime with a timeless classic.
*It is here.*
Every spring, the Sakura Yumbo comes out in Japan. Fans on these shores stare at their social media feeds, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Their hungry stares lap up the beaming faces, the artfully disheveled wrappers, the pristine embossing on the bun.
It is a perfection (like the Corn Yumbo, the Maple Yumbo, the Genmaicha Yumbo and the rumored Chocomint Yumbo) that we have never grasped on these shores, until now.
Yes. For the thirtieth anniversary of the entry into the Japanese market, the Water Yumbo is released here, replacing the buns with raindrop cake, a vision too perfect to behold and remain sane,
[after 3s]
for
[after 4s]
the
[after 5s]
ham
[after 6s]
*refracts*
Further down the flyers overlap, the paper curled and yellowed. some are burnt.
--fan favorite, The McYumbo. Made with what might be real rib--
-- new McYumbo Vanilla, with flavoured bun--
--Griddled Stuff'd Yumbo, for the devouring need--
--Shamrock Yumbo, limited time only--
--new to the Yumbo King this fall: the Yumbizza Wet. Experience the hydration--
--Yumbizza Wet All Day Energy Lemon Lime--
There are so many Yumbos, and yet, they are all one. bowl.jpeg
You stare at it, the answer to all your questions. The questions that you are not, did not, will not ask. The questions that those surrounding you in a circle, watching you watch them, chant in breathless whispers. The kind of whispers that only a lover would breathe across your exposed ear.
You did not mean to have this, it is not what you asked for, and yet it is here. Emotion, curdled and unfamiliar, writhes and coils somewhere deep inside you. Is this fear? No. Is this euphoria? No. Is this anger? No.
Your fingers, suddenly strangers to you, crawl and twitch towards the plastic fork in a plastic sleeve. The plastic feels unyeilding, stretching and stretching without tearing like some strange, translucent skin. It snaps, strands peeling and popping as your hands, free to do as they will, gleefully disgorge the plastic bone from within. You do not see any of this, affixed as you are on it. You see all the things you did ask for. They gather there in an unceremonious pile. {reveal link: 'You swallow, no.', text: 'Your throat spasms,'} tongue thrashing at dry, cracked lips. You have a beverage, filled with cloudy grey ice and a thick, carbonated liquid that smells of iron, sugar, and cinnamon.
Your hands do not serve you, you do not parch your growing thirst. Sweat beads on your forhead, running into your eyes, mouth, nose. Your traitorous fingers manipulate their tool towards it, the plastic dull and yellow with the crown of the KING emblazoned upon it. Is it arrogance that led you down this road? Was it the neon yellow sign that said "**NEW & HEALTHY OPTION!**"? What is the point in asking questions now.
You {reveal link: 'tremble, no', text: 'You convulse'}, but your traitorous hands remain steady. The watchers shift to participants. They hold you in your seat, they hold your head bowed in praise, they hold your jaw open and ready to accept the offering brought by your hands. Chopped Ham, stiff but melted cheese, a bun soggy and spongy. **The New Yumbo Bowl, Limited Time Only at Participating Locations**
B̵̀̐ ̶̆̀Ỏ̶͝W̷͌͆ ̴̽̈́L̶̽͒Sleep is elusive tonight. You get restless on these jobs sometimes, when it feels like you've forgotten something. You toss and turn in your sleeper cabin. You try to watch a show, but it's all reruns of a documentary on fast food joints. The radio is unsteady out here and you don't get a response when you put out an invitation to talk. Fair, no one should be up at this hour. The lightning has been closer, but the rain is lighter. Too bad, you sleep better in the rain. You reach for your book, only to remember you finished it last job. Back in the cabinet it goes.
And that's when you realize.
The manifest, hanging on the wall, illuminated in the small beam of light sneaking through your curtain. You scan it, neck slowly tensing, skin slowly goose bumping, eyes heavy and wide. Cargo - Crates wrapped on pallets. Quantity - 40.
Your hand slips, your remote falls, your TV clicks on. It buzzes at first, then laughter rolls from it. A clip of a gameshow where the host wears a pinstripe suit and a little crown. You reach for the remote to turn it off when the host speaks. "Now, contestant, the game is simple! You just have to guess how many-" A crash of thunder obscures what it is you're guessing. "But first! A word from our sponsor!" The jingle from earlier plays. You're already pulling on your raincoat. You leave the TV on as you go. Good to have the company.
>[[Go check]]You sweep the lot with your flashlight, still empty. You feel the sleep settling behind your eyes, but still you need to double check. The key sticks in the padlock, and when you turn it you struggle. Probably the cold and the rain. You yank on the door, and it reluctantly opens. This cold and rain must be making it harder. You make a mental note to oil the hinges when you get home. You slip, trying to get up. Luckily you catch yourself, but your flashlight takes a nasty fall. You hear the glass crunch, but the light doesn't go out. It flickers a bit, as the internal mechanisms lose their tight connection to the battery. It'll do for now. You retrieve it, then carefully climb up, avoiding the grease slick spot you slipped on at first.
As you cast your light around you regret not making dinner when the rain was light. The gameshow is heating up, you hear jubilant shouting and wild cheering. You find some straps are looser than you thought. {reveal link: 'You decide that's a problem for the morning. Tonight is about double checking.', text: 'You decide that's a bad idea. Tonight is about *properly* double checking.'} The straps are tightened, the logos are yellow crowns on bun faces that watch you as you work.
You are hungry now, the commercials are all about food, probably the corporate sponsor of the show. You hear something drip further in. It is raining. You have to squeeze between the pallets, though you're careful to count them. Were they always so close together?
41. There are 41.
You're staring at the pallet you fixed earlier. The straps have slipped their hold. The wrap on the pallet is loose. The logos are yellow crowns on bun faces that do not have emotions. Laughter again, more hysterical. Shouting from the host, yelling from the contestants, and a triumphant tone rings. They must have won. You move closer, casting the light around the pallet. You're not breathing, you haven't for a while. You move so slowly, listening for a sound.
The gameshow host, a deep voice that rumbles through the container, laughs a celebratory chuckle. "Well done, you guessed right. Tell them what they've won, King!" The box on the pallet peels open, your wet knuckles curling around the edges. Your stomach twists and gurgles.
A smaller box, thin cardboard stained dark, is pushed out. The arm is long, and thin, and wrapped in the white and blue uniform of a mascot's sailor outfit. The little box has a logo, yellow crown on a bun that does not have a face or emotions. "A lifetime" you hear before the roar of thunder. You feel your teeth sinking into the wet ham, the stiff and soft cheese, the limpid bun. You were *hungry.* There's a 42nd pallet now. Maybe, just for a night, you'll sleep back here.
> [[You must be hungry->Collect your order]]
> [[A lifetime->Guided audio tour, cassette 1]]You take a deep breath and click the button on the device in your hand. It is tactile, a small triangle depression in the worn and old plastic. The cheap headphones pressing down on your ears crack with static and seem to squeeze tighter as the wet voice slithers into your ears once more.
*-ope you enjoyed the hall of packaging. Next up on the tour is a look at our mascots. We start with the first mascot, Johnson “King” McCormick. McCormick, as you likely recognize, quickly became the face of the yumbo in*
The tape’s shrill squeal sounds like something between a cry of pain and a wild hog, and you miss the year.
*-if you can believe it’s been that long. McCormick donned the yellow robes and sesame crown, swearing to never remove them. He went on a world wide tour, only eating at Yumbo King, and spreading the word. McCormick retired when the police found him in a shipping container full of what he still insists was ham, though DNA and material testing has yet to yield concrete results as to what exactly he had. McCormick is also the main suspect in relation to hundreds of disappearances in 36 countries, all but one of which has operating Yumbo Kings.*
You stare at a picture of a man who is watching you back. He blinks, or maybe you do. He breathes, and you almost forget to. His crown is at a jaunty angle, his yellow robes luxurious and threaded with gold, his scepter sharp and dripping. The recording jolts you away from the photo like a warm breath on your very exposed neck. *The next mascot was beloved child acto-*
The tour is still going. You had forgotten about, or maybe you were blessed to never have had the knowledge, of so many of them. The voice in the recorder is numbing, the soft slithering **SssSSsss** like a gentle tongue flicking your ear, the breathy *Whuh* like a gasp from someone punched in the stomach. You watch a portion of the animated television series. Your stomach grumbles. You watch the live interview with the 17th, a stylized thief who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, after converting the money into YumboHood sandwiches. Your stomach knots. You listen to the title track of the Yumbo Street Band, *Baby Let Me Yum You.* Your stomach roars.
*-refuses to leave the room they've lined with wrappers. Yumbo Headquarters ensures they have a fresh one every day, as part of their contract. And here at the end of the tour, my favorite one.*
The end is sudden, unwelcome, marked by how hungry you are.
*Here we find the latest mascot. Go on, try it on. We think it'll fit just right.*
The costume is neatly presented before you. The baseball outfit is perfectly sized, socks sewn to pants, sewn to shirt, sewn to gloves. The zipper breaks when you get it up to your neck, but you'll just ask an attendant to help. They've already lifted the head above you, and slowly it is lowered. You feel it settle, shift, become comfortable. You are hungry. The voice slithers from the darkness in the head.
Your head.
*The dedication of the latest mascot is truly something to write home about. Never removing their costume, never taking off the YumboKing head. This latest one is a real home run.*
You hear your stomach yowl.
>[[You must be famished->Collect your order]] You are standing in the car park again. it is dusk, and The Yumbo Man's huge, blocky silhouette is cut into a sunset the colour of processed cheese. You notice a flyer drifting by your feet, pushed by a sluggish breeze. You stoop to pick it up and read the Text under the Yumbo King (tm) logo:
*This place is a message, and part of a system of messages.\
Pay attention to it! Sending this message was important to us. We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture.\
This place is not a place of honor.\
No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing valued is here.\
What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. This message is a warning about danger.\
The danger is in a particular location. It increases toward a center. The center of danger is here, of a particular size and shape, and below us.\
The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours.\
The danger is to the body, and it can kill.\
The form of the danger is an emanation of energy.\
The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.*
The door swings open, and some other soul drifts out, face bloody, eyes downcast. You let the flyer drop, and step forward, forgetting the text instantly. You don't remember it again until you note the wrapper on your Yumbo is printed with text. Is that new? Or have you just not noticed before, in your haste and single-minded adoration? You peel a lump of not-quite-melted cheese from the paper. {reveal link: 'Printed in bright, welcoming text, you read:', text: '*This place is not a place of honour*.'}
> [[EnjOy yOUr mEal]]The sun has set. It's a hot night, breathless and humid, and crickets whine like auditory static in the car park. Orange light leaks thick as honey from the windows and of the restaurant, and the smell of tepid ham rises into the blue night air. You can feel your pulse in your temples, a steady, accelerating flick.
moving towards the welcoming light. {reveal link: 'For a moment it all flickers.', text: 'The light is gone, all is dark, only burning after-images in your vision, shaped like the silhouette of the mascot perched on the roof. '} Then back, warm and ham-scented and drawing you to it, step by step. Your hand on the door- {reveal link: 'again', passage: 'yumbo song 2'}
The restaurant is warm, and welcoming. You blink many times, and the light is constant as the pulse hammering in your head, as the muffled scream of insects outside, as the music on the speakers overhead of which you can make out no single word.
"Can I take your order please?"
You try to meet the cashier's eye. They have no face, they aren't there, the restaurant is dark and empty and you plant your hands on the counter and can feel the grit and dust of years, the plastic veneer splintering and flaking, sticking to your sweaty palms.
"*Yumbo, pick yourself off the ground...*"
You barely recognise it as your own voice, but the cashier smiles, and places it in front of you on the counter, neatly wrapped, ready the moment you spoke. You know they smiled though you haven't looked. you can feel the pulse in your temple like a pick, chipping away.
"Will there be anything else today?"
You try to unpeel your clammy hands from the counter. You can still feel the paint chips and grit, though the counter is shiny ketchup-red plastic under your hands.
>[[ENJoY YoUR MEAl]]A grey morning, dew on every surface like a damp bun, your breath mists the air, the sky looks scoured raw, scraped and painful. There is no welcoming light from the windows or the neon signs. The Yumbo Man towers, black against the milk-coloured sky. You approach, your steps in time to the tune that won't leave you.
*Yumbo, pick yourself off the ground*
*You don't need*
[after 1 second]
*To*
[after 2 seconds]
*Be*
[after 3 seconds]
*Un*
[after 4 seconds]
*Happ*
[after 5 seconds]
*Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...*
***
The door swings open in a bare breeze. The glass is smashed, the Welcome sign in the door dim and hanging at an angle.
The restaurant is dark, dust blown in drifts against the counter and the seating, the windows dim with strata of cobwebs and grime. The light is murky, as if underwater. You touch the countertop and feel grit, paint flaking, sticking to you. Despite the cold you are drenched in sweat. You blink it out of your eyes, taste it on your lips. It tastes of processed cheese.
You look up at the menu boards, and realise that though they are covered by a thick layer of grime, they are still illuminated. But they don't list the usual items you would never deign to consider. They read, line by line:
*This is not a place of honour $3.49
No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here $2.98
Nothing valued is here $6.59
What is here was dangerous and repulsive to us. $9.69
message is a warning about danger. $4.50*
More spots of moisture land by your hands on the counter. Blood, seeping through the dust. You touch your ears, your fingers come away wet, and you hear the music louder.
*YUMBO, if you're in a new town...*
You look up again and there is the cashier, smiling at you. You can't see their face. They say something to you but you only hear a crackling, wet sound, like chewing. They laugh, and it hurts behind your eyes, terribly, so terribly that you laugh too, until you double over with pain.
You come round with your cheek stuck to the filthy floor by blood and tears. It tastes, thick in your mouth, like special Yummy Yumbo sauce. You stand, dizzy, leaning heavily on the counter, and find the cashier is gone again, you are all alone again. Except.
Except for the Yumbo in its cheerful paper wrapping on the counter.
**Unwrap it.**
There it is, sweating bread and moist ham and clammy cheese, You can feel it perspiring into the paper, like it is a living thing, like it suffers as much as you do.
Lift the sandwich, breathe in the salt-wet-pink scent of damp ham and cheese, it will occur to you that you can't remember what a Yumbo tastes like. You know it is an experience so transcendent there is no turning back after the first bite, but the actual physical bite? You don't have a single memory of eating a Yumbo. In all this time, in all these pilgrimages, have you eaten? You must have, the Yumbos have vanished and you have been changed by them. But what did they taste like?
What did the sandwich taste like?
**Tell me, now what the sandwich tastes like.**
>[[ENJOYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY]]~~DID YOU ENJOY YOUR MEAL?~~
You are standing on the roof of the Yumbo King. You are standing in a high place from which there is no way down. You are standing at a point of no return. You are standing in the combination Yumbo King/ Precipice. You cannot see the horizon for mist, you cannot see the sun for the figure in front of you, blocking out all light.
~~DID YOU ENJOY YOUR MEAL?~~
You find a yellow paper wrapper in your hand. It is printed with grainy photographs of your own face, mouth open wide, too wide. More wrappers drift, blow at your feet. A breeze picks up and flings them all off the roof.
~~DID YOU ENJOY YOUR MEAL?~~
Your mouth is full of blood. It tastes of ham. The words shake through you, deafening, incomprehensible, the meaning only arriving afterward in your shocked and reeling mind, like the echo of an explosion, like the blast after a sonic boom, like fallout. You open your mouth to say you enjoyed your meal very much. The blood runs down your chin and drenches your shirt.
You hear metal creak, groan, and the towering figure before you turns slowly. You can see the pain involved in movement, the impossible way concrete and plaster and steel are torn out of shape and forced to bend like limbs, and you feel it in your own bones, you feel yourself pushed by a force inside your own skeleton to bow, to kneel, to prostrate yourself before The Yumbo Man. Your forehead is pressed to the grit and tar surface of the roof. Sweat stings your eyes. You hear him move like an avalanche held in abeyance, tower directly over you.
~~THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING YUMBO KING~~
The sound blasts you clean, pulps every soft part of you, you are meat and bone, you can taste yourself.
~~THIS WAS YOUR CHOICE~~
The truth of it hurts, it salts you like a wound bathed in brine, you are pink wet flesh cured in your own terrible choices.
*Look up.*
It hurts, but you can make your limbs move still, it is a crawling agony but you can bend your spine, lift your weeping eyes to gaze upon your god. It is blasphemy, but you will always choose blasphemy. You always chose the Yumbo. It tastes sweeter.
The Yumbo Man meets your gaze, his blank cartoon eyes and his cheese slice smile, the geometries of his face a map of the apocalypse, his pink ham flesh is weeping blood.
*Salivate.*
He reaches a huge hand down towards you. It is as big as a car, as big as the end of the work week, as big as work weeks that stretch through a whole life, as heavy. Reach up to take the hand.
The roof cracks under you. The groaning of metal gains voice, becomes a scream, a roar of concrete, the cracks spread under you, the solid roof becomes liquid, bowing under The Yumbo Man, you are pulled into the pit opening beneath him, and as you fall you are enfolded in his arms, this is your punishment and your release, this is what your crimes bought you and this is what you won with your blood and sweat, this is the taste of the Yumbo, and the world becomes dust and noise, everything is only dust and noise, and the noise screams
~~PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO FILL OUT THIS SURVEY ABOUT YOUR YUMBO EXPERIENCE~~
>[[It is over->Ingredients]] **COMING SOON**
**YUMBIZZA**
Squares of that waxy yellow cheese, patchworked over a 10 inch pizza base, and then, of course, the ham. 5 single slices, as tradition decrees: pink, clammy islands in a sauceless ocean.
**COMING SOON**, it says, and your chest tightens at the inevitability.
**YOU WILL ENJOY YUMBIZZA** it says, and you feel tears scald your eyes as you know, you will, there is no way out.
**AND WHY NOT TRY
YUMBIZZA ROLLS
NOW WITH JUICY FILLING!**
Another poster reads, ominously, **SEASONAL OFFERINGS**
Celebrate the **FESTIVE SEASON** with **NEW** Yumbo Eternal
You will love the Great new Taste
with crispy resin shell to seal in the Freshness
**CELEBRATE
HE IS COMING
THE KING IN YELLOW APPROACHES
NOTHING WILL LAST
BUT THE ETERNAL YUMBO
YOU WILL BE AS DUST AS THE YUMBO REMAINS
ALWAYS
HE IS COMING
HE IS COMING***YUMBO
There's no need to feel down,
I said YUMBO
There's a bun that is round,
I said YUMBO
It's got 5 serves of ham,
There's NO NEED
TO
FEEL
UNHA-PPY*
On and on, thumping through your head. You tap your foot to the beat as a nosebleed starts up again.**Yumbo(tm) No. 5!!!**
An interactive augmented reality event sponsored by YUMBO KING(tm)
Download the Yumbo Beatz App and share your Yumbo dance videos to win **FUN PRIZES**
There is a picture of a frightened-looking woman dancing with a person dressed as The Yumbo Man. The QR code at the bottom looks like a pixelated image of an open mouth. Your teeth itch.Someone has left it on a seat. Rain-soaked and weathered, bleached by the sun for untold years, text barely visible. You open it. You should not be able to read it. You begin to read.
*They have gone north. They do not return. Why would they, when they have found what they have sought? Who returns from the harrowing, hallowed embrace of their King? Their King in Yumbo?*
The illustrations are- Oh G--**Opening Soon!**
Yum! brands Yumbo Cantina
A sit-down experience with a jazz band that is always playing jittery improv two tables away. a sit-down experience you'll want to dress up for, even as you know that to do so is to flirt with fire, the fire in this case being melted cheese and grease dripping onto your embroidered white vest. a sit-down experience with a scented candle (processed cheese flavor! we're sure the cheeseheads in your life will love it if you light this at their next birthday\*) souvenir pack to remind you of the ambient aroma pumped into the building. our white tableclothed booths surround our open kitchen concept so that you can watch the yumbo artisans hard at work to prepare your meal.
\*Yum! brand Yumbo scented candles should not be used within 100 feet of food intended for human consumption.You smell rich spices that tingle the nose. They transport you to another place, another time. Around you are stalls and bins full of vibrant powders, roots, and herbs. You see spicemongers grinding spices by hand in stone bowls. You see butchers mixing meats with spices. You see a vast stainless steel flat top, covered in bits of ham that will not crisp.
The television menu above you flickers back to the special once again and you are ripped back to that spice market. The people sweat and seem to melt slightly. The stall barkers are not yelling, they are screaming.
The cashier finishes ringing out the person in front of you. You see them making one. You cannot understand what you have seen. What should be a rich, flavorful sauce is somehow a jaundice yellow, translucent and viscous.
The menu rips you to that other place again. The spices all wet and running from their bins, the roots growing sickly pink ham veins, the herbs rotting to black sludge. The butchers slice thin slices from themselves. The stainless steel pops and sizzles under defiantly soft ham. You feel the words squirm and convulse up your windpipe. They claw their way from your unwilling mouth, sliding over your spasming tongue. "I'll take a Yumbo Curry." You say in desperation.This is a cursed place. You will find no releif here.
Consider:
+ {reveal link: 'Something broken', text: 'A shattered plastic vial of perfume, once Yumbo-shaped. It was given out as a limited promotion. It smells faintly of baked cheese and despair.'}
+ {reveal link: 'Muffled voices over the restaurant speakers', passage: 'breakup'}
> [[A shrine in the third stall ->Find out]] You slide into the hard plastic seat and look at your meal, hidden in its papers, a tepid promise on the shiny orange tabletop. Your hands shake as you unwrap it, the music buzzing in your ears with the thump of your pulse-
*YUMBO, there's no need to feel down...*
You can feel eyes on you, hot with jealousy and judgement. Dare you do this in public? But to wait, to carry it in your faltering hands all the way to privacy- you aren't strong enough.
The crackle of the paper is an incantation. The scent of warm, greasy ham, subtle before, now billows up as you unveil it to the world. It is warm, and wet, like eating a living part of yourself. Your vision blurs and fuzzes to pins and needles, you hear only the music, feel only the tears running down your cheeks. Your tears smell of ham.
When it is done, you gather yourself quickly and flee. You aren't sure, as you go, if anyone was actually in the restaurant this whole time.
> [[Enjoy your meal]]You walk into the coffee shop. It's new in town, and the word on the street is the latte machine is to die for. The music is there. No, it is insistent, threading tendrils through the edges of your consciousness even your brain slides away from the smooth tunes, refusing to process the melody.\
***
You wake up. Were you asleep? The music is an easy listening jazz rendition of My Heart Will Go On. The track is skipping. You swear you have heard the "near, far, wherev—" lick at least five times now. Six. It goes on, it was never stuck. You catch sight of a free spot on a couch with burgundy upholstery and one medium tear in the cushion, from which a dark green foam is wisping forth. You are in the line, and the barista is sneering at you before you have a chance to collect your thoughts and order.\
Wait. You don't know your order? When you walked in the line was twenty deep, and the menu is huge, written above the head in those press-on pinboard letters you see everywhere these days. It feels like they're pressing into your eyes, BUY YUMBO they say. No, that's not what they say, there is a Maldon Sea Flake Durian Caramel Yumbo special. Do they do normal drinks? You can also get a scoop of vanilla soft serve blended into your drink if their RimeTime machine is up and the aftermarket integrator (TM) is running. It runs on 232V mains power, the sign says. An employee pulls the handle and the place goes dar—
***
You open your eyes. You are at the front of the line and there is a faint scent of ozone. You peer at the menu. There is single origin coffee, shade grown in Inniscargill, and there is a Maldon Sea Flake Laver Caramel Yumbo special. Do they do normal drinks? You can also get a scoop of chocolate soft serve blended into your drink if their RimeTime machine is up and the premarket integrator (TM) is running. It runs on 343V mains power, the sign says. The counter person's smile is a little frayed around the edges as they ask, "Will you please make your order"
> [[Enjoy your meal]] Furtively they gather in the conference room. Their suits, made of fine wools and cut to immaculate standards, whisper softly to mark their movement. In what they refer to as hands they clutch thick dossiers bound in leather so lush and rich it defies logic. They quietly greet one another, though not by name. When they came to this place, accepted their contract, put on their suits, they forwent their names. Their tongues forked and quick, wrought from pure silver. Their eyes narrow and darting, reading the minute shifts in oil on skin. Their ears swivel and twitch, sensitive to the lies and unable to hear the truths.
They are surrounded by others not as far along this path. The others do the heavy lifting, like buzzing bees in a sickly hive. Creamy paper, thick and smooth, shuffles back and forth, condemning and binding those named upon it. But lo, the conference room fills.
A different creature descends, emerging from the elevator with haughty gaze. This one is different, their eyes wide and sparkling. Their smile golden and rotten, words dripping with ichor and poison. Their suit is complex, fine, and somehow worth more than any of these lesser creatures entire wardrobe. This one sweeps into the conference room, naming the creatures it passes in greeting, showing power and strength. It takes its place at the podium, clicks the slide to reveal a tumblr post, and oozes the words "Good morning Legal, seems we have an infringement to deal with."
> [[Find out]] The counterperson's friendface has come to the drivethru. they have a list of reasons they've been dissatisfied in the relationship, each of them human, understandable, and so, so deeply petty. They have accidentally been patched into the muzak loudspeaker in addition to the drive-thru headset. It is clear from the tone they take that the drive-thru person is trying to bargain with them. You can hear them faltering. Is it really that bad. Is it really that bad. Was any of this real.
Would you like a soda with that.\, for a moment all is dark, through the stark after-images you think you see the restaurant deserted, drifts of dust around the counter, slumped, empty figures in the plastic seats, and that soft and constant tune, *Yumbo, there's no need to feel down...*The fiberglass yumbo, mouth open in a frozen smile. It is mounted on the exhaust pipe so it looks like it puffs exhaust in a series of sooty gasps, or screams, or **hey kid, the yumbo man's in town, the yumbo man's in town, the yumbo man's in town?**