Men on the Balcony (Food for Thought)
The night was slowly coming to an end. The small apartment dinner party playing out with episodic tales of work, where its party members’ lives were heading, newest purchases, and inert discussions of current politics.
The apartment was covered wall to wall in oyster grey shag rug – the latest trend coming back into vogue. Fashioned primarily with the newest arrivals courtesy of Design Within Reach, and the occasional premium second-hand apparel from the thrift shop just a few blocks down the street. The place looked like a model room from the front page of a design magazine. Various Edison style lamps softly illuminating abstract expressionist pieces of art along the walls – all purchased from local art-cafes. A small stack of pristine, uncreased copies of The New Yorker sitting neatly on a coffee table in the corner. This cozy little brownstone nestled comfortably in Park Slope, Brooklyn, belonging to Maxwell, who along with his fiancée Jenelle, were playing host to another couple: Jon and Sally.
All four had grown close the last few months as Jon and Sally had just moved from Kanas – when Maxwell met him at their pharmaceutical firm, they cozied up quickly to one another. Maxwell like Jon was a Midwest transplant – having now lived in New York close to two years. He was higher up on the corporate ladder in the sales division, working a few rungs above Jon.
Adjusting to life in the city had been something of a shock for Jon and Sally, and they were grateful to have Maxwell and Jenelle’s guidance. This was the first night Jon and Sally had toured Maxwell’s place, and he gave them the full guided expedition through all 3 rooms of the rented out top floor– including the 3x3 balcony that gave an unobstructed view of Prospect Park.
Maxwell invited Jon out onto it with him where both men stood packed shoulder-to-shoulder against one another. Maxwell declaring, “This is how I start every morning. I need to get my daily story as close to the action as possible.” As he waved his hands and showed Jon the remarkable view of the littered streets, tagged walls, and occasional homeless body puttering down in the park all lit up beneath the high moon and iridescent streetlamps. Maxwell furthered proclaimed, “This paints the perfect indescribable picture that you could only “get” by looking at it – we have a life that people back out west could never appreciate”.
Jon could only nod in awe. Thinking of his own place – a much smaller studio. It panged him to admit but it was nothing compared to this lavish, modern kingdom. As Jon was lead the around the 700-foot square apartment he couldn’t comprehend how Maxwell was only paying 9000$ a month for his space. This was an absolute steal!
For dinner the hosts homecooked a fresh all-vegan feast procured from the Sunday farmer’s market held inside their Whole Foods. Maxwell and Jenelle presented the dishes on their matching Fendi Casa Redwood dinning table and matching chair set. Jon and Sally were amazed by this – both transitioning vegans – their pallets decked and floored by the wonders of soylent and seitan. As dinner was coming to a close, and the buzz of the conversation was coming to a slow final hum Jenelle’s eyes fluttered as she looked towards Maxwell, pulling out a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape from the silver-plated standing champagne bucket next to the dinner table.
As her eyes moved and locked on towards Maxwell across the table, she sought to put the final cherry on top for dessert. “Darling, this meal was almost as great as She la Vie last weekend.” Max’s eyes lit up with a little grin. “Babe, I don’t think anything could compare to She la Vie.” His voice fluttered.
Jon and Sally blinked as there was a lull in the conversation, as if they were supposed to ask what this experience was.
Jon started in gently, “Oh? She la Vie? Wha –“
“Oh, yes! She La Vie!” Jenelle snapped like a puppy waiting for its order to bark. “Oh, you two would LOVE it. “
Licking her lips, she darted in once more. “It’s just phenomenal – AH-MAZING – undescribable, really.” She gleaned “This is why we live in New York for places like She Le Vie.” She began, picking up her glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape foisting it towards the air, the red liquor overflowing from the cup – a few dollars dripping down the edges sinking into the redwood dining table. “It’s just, it’s just something that people where we used to live just could never understand. I don’t want to sound so… so.”, her mind searched for important words “...banal but its avant-grand.”
“Avant-garde, Dear.” Maxwell interjected.
“Avant-garde.” She spoke with a pause, correcting herself, perking her shoulders up – pleased as the new word rolled off her tongue – assuring herself of her intelligence as she started once more. “It redefines what it means to eat. She La Vie is a once in a life-time culinary experience. You just have to go, if you can, of course.” She sighed turning towards her glass and chugging it like a Budweiser.
“Oh, Darling.” Maxwell, commented “Stop.” He drifted. “You know you can’t say that.” The little grin tightening around the corner of his lips, as a neatly trimmed and waxed moustache coiled like a patient snake above his mouth, perhaps laying in wait all night for this moment.
At this point, the slightly inebriated Jon and Sally began to chomp at the bit eagerly taking the bait their guests were laying fourth on the table. “Oh?” Sally spoke sharply, “Why can’t you?” She inquired in a kind yet desperately curious tone, her hands wringing in her lap.
Max’s eyes beamed, so pleased his guests were green with curiosity. He could no longer contain his smugness; it all began to ooze fourth out of him into his little kingdom. His wife poured herself more wine, chugging down another glass, waiting for Maxwell to tell them why: “Well, as part of the experience we had to sign an NDA.”
“A non…DEE-closure… agreement.” Jenelle barked in return
“Yes, an NDA, honey, and a covenant not to sue form.” Maxwell continued, fluttering his eyes at his trained wife-pup. “You’re so forgetful, babe.” He sighed, “It’s this little experimental culinary installation where they do just prodigious things with food. Like have you heard how the French cook things in vacuumed seal bags submerged in temperature-controlled water.”
“Sous Vide!” Jenelle yelped.
Maxwell kept going too enthralled with his own story to acknowledge his puppy. “They experiment with all types of new secret ways to prepare food. They have a 68-star Michelin chef in their studio.” His grin now fully eating shit. “There’s an 8 month wait to book a table, and they’re only open on Saturdays and Sundays between 10pm to 12am once every 2 months.” Reiterating the info like a human ad. “Its such provocative and innovating stuff, the type of experience that makes you think about the human condition and the state of our world. And all that shit. Everyone who is anyone tries to get on the waiting list… I think we even saw Pierce Brosnan there….”
“Its was super good.” Jenelle said meekly.
“Super good.” Maxwell confirmed firmly.
“Oh, we were just SO thrilled to go last weekend.” He let out a soft little sigh, a few strands of spit landing on his shirt. “This was our little treat for ourselves for the year. We were thinking of doing a green, zero-emission, non-cruelty, free trade vacation in Jamaica where we’d throw money around for their economy but this – OH MY GOD – this was even better. We can never look at food the same way again – it was a transformative life event.” Jon and Sallly looked on, their hearts dropping as jealousy seized their souls.
“Oh.” Jon could only comment. “Maybe we could try to book a reservation when we get home?” He questioned as if Maxwell were God.
“Yasss.” Maxwell declared, adding an “a” and few extra “s”s on the word. “I’m sure you both could try! I’ll show you the website.” He whipped out his I-phone 14, his browser already populated with the webpage. “Here this is their site – they only take applications online.” Shoving his smartphone in Jon’s face.
“Here. I’ll text it you the link and all the info.” Maxwell the ever-magnanimous God-host spurred, “We had to fill out a little blurb about why we were worthy enough to book a table here. They increase the charge depending on how good your essay is.” He licked his lips, Jenelle looked on, her eyes glued to every word Max spoke – she was so proud of her man. “We hired an editor – a “script doctor” – to look ours over and jazz it up for us.” He leaned back into his Fendi Casa throne. “Everything all together came out to be a bit much, but it was worth every penny. Every dime.”
“Oh…” Jon spoke shyly, “A bit expensive then?” He gave a wheezed, weak laugh; wanting to know but too afraid to seem gauche to ask the price outright.
“Eight thousand dollars!” Jenelle chirped immediately.
Maxwell cranked his neck, shooting a quick nasty look towards her, upset she blurted it out instead of allowing her master the pleasure of slowly making his guest pry the exact price out of him. “Yeah.” He spoke in false modest contrition, “Well, it was our “lil vacay” for the year. But you know how it is, and with our salaries at the firm we were able to make room for it.” He blushed, now reaching for Jenelle’s other cold paw, taking it, and tucking it into his hand. Pretending to be, or perhaps actually in love with his midwestern purebred poodle.
“Oh, of course!” Sally interjected, “That’s seems so reasonable.” She pepped up, finally saying something having been in awe this entire conversation. “I think we should try that, Jon!”
“Well.” Jon started, his mind thinking of the five-thousand-dollar trip to South Africa that he and Sally had been talking about. The couple had originally planned to see the countryside and buy cheap textiles from the locals. He was planning on decorating his apartment in a full South African post-apartheid look and then have Maxwell and Jenelle over for dinner. But this. This could be even better – he could bring over Frank from the office and his girlfriend instead for dinner. He could tell them all about this restaurant in his own little palace.
“…YASSS.” He cleared his throat for a moment, regaining his midwestern accent. “Yes, yes, I think we should.” He convinced himself, pleased with this new idea. It would stretch their budget but surely this would all be worth it. Oh, he could almost see the look on Frank’s face – he was burning to know what would be more delicious – the dinner at She La Vie or the dessert of bragging to all his closest acquaintances afterwards.
Six months had passed, and Jon and Sally had successfully booked their reservation. They had to resubmit their initial essay; however luckily, Jon was able to hire Max’s script doctor. It was a huge relief and at only 5,500$ for the dinner plus the 200$ for the editor they felt it was great value. The pair had a reservation for 9PM tonight and they were thrilled. They received a special code to type in at the door to enter the restaurant. Already excited by the air of exclusivity, and how they were explicitly told not to share this information with anyone having already signed their NDA during the screening process and waiving away various unimportant personal rights.
Jon – now having spent over half year in New York – preferred to go by his new persona Jonwell, and Sally – having connected with the local Brooklyn art scene by gluing popsicle sticks to construction paper – went by Sallen.
The couple preened themselves in front of the mirror sharing the only bathroom in their tiny little studio.
Jonwell slipped into his three-piece refurbished 1980’s Washington blue suit that he purchased at the eco-friendly designer thrift shop in the heart of Park Slope. The inside lined with repurposed 90’s cartoon boxer briefs – images of the Rugrats, Angry Beavers, and Johnny Bravo lacing the chest of his vegan-tweed clothing. He looked himself over in the mirror – proud, confident, and excited for the night.
Sallen in the same room slide into her faux-cashmere dress – made out of red dyed sheer white reused garbage bags – she was a portrait of beauty. Her blonde hair was swept neatly into a long braid, and her face was framed by two original 1960’s hello kitty earrings. Those were Jonwell’s birthday gift to her two months prior. They were original mint out of box – only diamonds could match the price tag. She put her hand on the hip of her form fitting trash bag as she reached for faux-leather matching red pluck bag, sparkling in the light like a shined red recycled apple.
“Jonwell.” She spoke so easily as if on a cloud ready to be whisked away for the night. “Order the Uber for us.” She sauntered over the 12 inches across the room to her partner. “Of course, babe. I’ll get us an Uber black – we have to show up in style.” He beamed, looking down at her.
It would be a quick 40-minute drive to the restaurant. Traffic in the city was unusually light tonight as it seemed like the night itself was ebbing to the flow of this power couple. “Only 8 an minute wait, babe!”
By and by the car arrived, and the pair arrived at “She La Vie” – they were surprised at how nondescript the area – near industrial side of Brownsville. They stepped lightly out of their Uber Black – their driver speeding away without hesitation. The pair hoped to catch glimpses of celebrities entering the restaurant or perhaps be caught in the fanfare of the paparazzi snapping pictures. Instead, there were a few homeless crackheads staggering around in the background groaning and shuffling on with their existence around the dirty, rundown neighborhood. Jonwell peered out into the heart of Brownsville, a hand reaching up to his collar as he audibly gulped: this looked like what his parents told him New York city was supposed to be.
Quickly taking Sallen’s hand Jonwell worked the couple around and past the small sea of unbathed, drugged bodies. The two averting their eyes and making trained small talk as they arrived at a decrepit looking entrance to a warehouse. Jonwell looked down at his phone to confirm that this was the right spot. The couple both shot glances at each other and nodded, as Jonwell opened the thick black solid doors to the building.
They were greeted to a strong white light.
Dazed for a second, they were taken back by the sharp contrast of the pristine, clean white room. In front of them now was another set of doors. Large and heavy looking with a steel keypad on it – Jonwell felt relief as he stepped towards to it.
They had arrived at She la Vie.
Upon entering the code, the white doors automatically parted, and this time a searing white spotlight hitting their eyes directly. The walked through the doors, holding their hands to their faces trying to block out the white-hot light as the doors behind them began to close, locking firmly in place.
The light either dimmed or their eyes adjusted, as they began to be able to make out the surroundings of the restaurant. Everything here was white. The floor, celling, walls and even the paneling of the doors behind them. As they looked into the restaurant, they saw a winding maze of white curtains. Sally blinked, as they were no other visible guests, she nervously looked towards Jonwell squeezing the clutch under her arm tight. Jonwell could see the slight apprehension in her eyes, as he cleared his voice, introducing himself: “H-hello?”
And with that, a figure stepped out from one of the curtains. “Bonjour!” The host spoke, “Ah, Jonwell and Sallen for the 9pm seating, correct? One moment please.” Their host was a clean-cut young black man in what appeared to be in his early 20s with a languid saunter to his step. He wore an all-white outfit – a clean eggshell white button-down shirt tucked into white chino pants with a white belt and bowtie to complete the look.
“Yes!” Jon answered, a warm sense of relief in his stomach as his expectations had been begun to finally be met. He looked towards Sally, watching some color flush back into her cheeks. The non-descript building, the mechanical white doors, the blinding white-hot lights, the all-white entrance lobby and now waitstaff dressed in all white: “So, sheik. Amazing.” Sallen whispered under her breath. “What a breathtaking theme.”, she reached for Jonwell’s hand giving it an excited, approving squeeze this time.
“My name is Don Pierre.” The Maitre’d introduced himself politely with a warm smile. His voice sounding like a local kid from the area, and so far, the only thing in this building that was not white.
“It is our must sublime pleasure to have you as our guests this evening.” As he stepped forward with a white towel draped over his arm, beginning his introduction, “Congratulations for making it through the screening process. We are delighted to have you. As you know not everyone is able to attend this most esteemed installation: our proprietor is very particular about who he is willing to serve during each of our limited openings. You’ve no doubt learned this during our vetting process but the restaurant has limited availability due to our ever-changing seasonal inspirations, themes, and legal issues. Our owner’s latest passion has been understanding the food practices of the immured.” Jon and Sally beamed, hanging onto every word of the speech.
“You are truly in for a spectacle tonight – this is a new culinary boundary that has never been practiced in any other restaurant in the world. This technique is something that our master chefs have round tabled, and feel will stir a great amount of inevitable publicity. Our owner hopes our guests will be at the forefront of this new movement. I have here in my hand the menu that shall be prepared for you tonight.” He handed them a beautiful hand-etched piece of papyrus.
“It is complete with the fair-trade market price and sourced location of all our selected ingredients. I will personally describe each dish to you at the time of their serving.” There was a pause, as Don Pierre came to a slow, soft tilting stop in his speech. “And with that… I must also ask that you sign one more form of consent for tonight’s meal – it’s a covenant not to sue form.”
The couple was given a final series of papers which they instantly initialed and signed away, too swept up and excited to look the documents over formally.
Don Pierre thanked them and led them through the installation. It was an ethereal-like labyrinth of white curtains and white pastel walls; they were impressed with how well he was able to navigate it as he led a brisk pace through the installation the couple following in tow. They could just almost here the chatter and talk of other patrons behind the curtains but were saddened they couldn’t see the who’s who of who was here.
After the short walk through the labyrinth, he brought them to another set of white doors – this time with their names were carved in it. Sallen asked, “We’re not eating behind the curtains?”
Don Pierre shook his head no, “We had our bus boy wood burn your names into the furniture tonight. You will be having a more intimate dining experience. Oi, please step righ’ dis way.”
Sallen looked to Jonwell speaking softly, “Did he always have that accent?” Jonwell shrugged his shoulders unsure.
As Don Pierre lead them into the not surprising all white dining room there was a man with his back turned to them. He was wearing an all-red double-breasted jacket with knotted cloth buttons and red loose-fitting pants in a houndstooth pattern – the traditional garb of a chef. Atop his head there was the unmistakable cylindrical toque blanche; however, it was deep black and the couple could see numerous little foil stars spotting and wrapping around it. He seemed to be preparing ingredients, or perhaps organizing utensils on table in front of him.
Don Pierre held his fingers to lips, as he guided the couple to their simple white table. Dropping his voice low, “You must not disturb Mamatoto-San.” He nodded, “He is a legendary chef who requires a pristine, uninterrupted environment to access his culinary genius.”
Don Pierre flinched, as he looked towards Mamatoto-San seemingly afraid he had heard him talking. Lowering his hushed voice even lower. “You should feel honored that he will be preparing a meal for you tonight – he’s a 68-star Michelin chef – known the world over by no one except the most avid culinary enthusiasts.”
Jonwell and Sallen had to resist the urge to squeal, as they shifted in their seats with jubilance.
There were soft moans from the venerable Japanese chef as he began to lightly kiss each ingredient spread out in front of him. The table littered with saffron, wagyu beef, ayam cemani chicken, jamón ibérico, bluefin tuna, and rows of vibrant, fresh produce. He was in the middle of tongue fucking a tomato, when Sallen boldly decide to catch just a peek of what was happening.
“No! You mustn’t look directly at Mamatoto-San’s process!” Don Pierre, cried, catching Sallen tilting her head up.
Mamatoto-San must have heard this comment or witnessed this offense, as he yelled “あなたは乗った豚をフリスします”. Shocked and offended with rare indignation, hurling his chef knife at the foolish woman. It whizzed by Sallen’s face and landed in the white wall behind her. It shook flimsy in the wall, white specks dropping to the floor.
Sallen could only yell “WHAT THE FUCK!”
“SHE KNOWS NOT WHAT SHE DOES, MAMATOTO-SAN!” Don Pierre interjected, raising his hands over his head in a signal for peace begging for the guests’ forgiveness then dropping into a deep bow on the floor, motioning for Jon and Sally to join him as well. The couple quickly stood up and then dove to the ground in compliance.
Sallen yelled “I’M SO SORRY – FORGIVE MY INSOLENCE!”
Don Pierre looked her way and panicked, “Bow Deeper.” The couple crumbled further into a hunched pose.
“Deeper!” Don Pierre cried again. Sallen and Jonwell obeyed once again, pretzeling themselves.
“NOT DEEP ENOUGH!!” Don Pierre begged them both to listen to reason. Sallen and Jonwell were stunned, dipping into a full fetal pose on their knees in the direction of the chef not daring to look into his eyes, cradling their legs into their chest, rocking themselves on the floor.
There was a deep sigh, and no words followed. Mamatoto-san must have acknowledged their apology and went back to his craft – ignoring the filth that was Jon and Sally.
Don Pierre had sweat running down his brow, whipping it away with his white towel, whispering over to them. “You must never look directly at Sir Chef. Since we now know you cannot abide by this – I must ask for you to put these on.”
Don Pierre produced two brown bags from his back pocket with little eyeholes poked through them, “Here put these state-of-the-art privacy masks on.”
There was a sigh of relief as Jon and Sally put the brown bags over their heads. Sallen had what appeared to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex drawn with crayon on it for hers while Jonwell’s had what looked like a Stegosaurus doodled by a child in marker on his.
“These are so trendy.” Sallen thought to herself, near death casually slipping out of her mind. She desperately wanted to take a selfie with one, but she thought surely that would violate the NDA that she didn’t read, and very well knew it would offend Mamatoto-san. She thought once more that maybe they would get to keep them as souvenirs at the end of the night. She looked towards Jonwell, catching him in his Stegosaurs Bag thinking he looked pretty rad. As they returned to sitting at their table quietly, she pondered if these new privacy bags would become the new fedora in Brooklyn.
The bag headed couple now sat back down at the table, they laced hands and watched the exhibition that was Mamatoto-san preparing their food. For it was truly a work of art. He prepared their meal on a heated hibachi table in front of them. The couple averting their gaze to only watch the master chef’s hands work with such polished skill and raw passion – the fury of his knife coupled with the inferno like heat of the heated table filling the room and dazzling their senses. The decadent aroma of his master chef’s creations along with his flawless presentation of each dish teasing and taunting each guest. In between the rapid-fire preparation of each dish Mamatoto-san flipped and tossed his blade to himself as if it were an extension of his body and consciousness.
“…3”
As the spectacle came to a close, and Mamatoto-San looked deeply into the eyes of his brown-bagged patrons. He flung his knife once more, this time in Jonwell’s direction. It likewise whizzed by his baghead and landed firmly in the wall.
“….2”
He offered the slightest of bows, acknowledging the existence of the couple and then in a deep voice offered “よく死ぬ!君がこれを調えたなんて信じられない!” in a serious, stern tone. Calmly striding out of the room with pride in his chest for the once in a lifetime meal he had just brought forth into this world. The various dishes he had crafted sat there on the hibachi table, the aroma and freshly prepared heat rising from the air – the meal looked to die for.
“…1”
“BREACH!”
There was a yell followed by an explosion. Then Shock. Stun. Confusion. The couple’s ears rang. Bits of white ceiling tile fell on their heads. Jonwell and Sallen bolted up in instinctual raw fear, their heads rubbernecking as they screamed.
They had no idea what was happening.
Black ropes descended from the ceiling. There was a “hut, hut, hut” as Men dressed in all black military fatigues descended down with laser precision. Before either individual could react or resist, black bags were thrown over their brown-bagged heads. Their hands were then tied, and their bodies snatched up and propelled upwards along the ropes.
Before they could realize what had happened, they were rushed somewhere. The pair straining against the paramilitary raiding party as their muffled double-bagged shouts rang out in panic. They felt their bodies dragged and then strapped to an ice cold, steel table. It must have been 5, maybe 10 minutes? Neither could be sure – the sensory loss of the black bags over their heads coupled with the deafening shock of the explosion leaving them dazed and confused.
They could feel their hands and legs being strapped into some sort of angled gurney. Their legs oddly parted, and their hips were spread open.
Someone from behind them removed both their black and brown bags at the same time. They blinked, as their sight fully came into view. At first, they saw nothing. It was pure blackness, fear sinking deep into their hearts. They both screamed: there were questions of who, what, why and how. They called to each other. Gags were quickly placed in their mouths.
Then there was a sharp familiar white spotlight, a massive screen like one you would find in a movie theater came into view before them as they strained their necks to the strapped tables.
The light illuminated a figure standing before them in front of the screen.
“Bonnnjjjouuurr!” A jolly froggy fake-French accent sang out – it was Don Pierre. “Sacré bleu!” He cried, pulling a hand to his forehead in a mock swoon.
Their hearts racing, was this all part of the experience?
In front of the screen, they could now see a table being wheeled into view. It had a clean linen cloth spread over it; Don Pierre let sit in before the bound guests for a few seconds before ripping it off with gusto.
“Dinner is now served! For your pleasure tonight…” He went over each exotic, near priceless dish with the upmost care and description, but Jonwell and Sallen minds traced ignoring his explanations as they watched two more tables being wheeled in behind the dinner table.
On them they could make out what appeared to be two massive industrial blenders.
“And ah, yes, for your culinary enjoyment, tonight you will be fed via the process known as Anal Rehydration!” There was a pause, “It is a feeding technique used within Guantánamo Bay, and other high-profile prisons. We are delighted to be the first restaurant in Western Society to offer this to our cliental. Furthermore, you – Sallen and Jonwell – are the first guests to try out this bold, captivating, and exciting culinary technique!”
“For, fast track trendsetters like you there can be no greater privilege.” He lavished. There was a pause as if Don Pierre was waiting for a response.
“We apologize for le’ gags! This whole process is quite exhilarating, and we are not sure how our guests will react.”
The couple watched as each of their world-class meals were tossed unceremoniously into a blender. Their eyes watching the whirl of the blades as the once priceless pieces of culinary art were transformed into a homogenous, bland, unappetizing grey slurry. They could see Don Pierre strapping on white medical gloves as a tube was connected to each industrial vat.
The couple in shock, didn’t realize as other bodies were shuffling and moving around them. In an instant small almost surgical holes were cut in the rear of their clothing.
“Le’ feeding tube has been lubricated and pre-warmed for le’ pleasure!” He assured them, as one of the bodies swiftly inserted each separate tube into the beloved guests. There was a sharp, sudden pain, and stifled groans. Then there was a flick of a switch and then the blenders began to process the food in reverse – injecting the food into their bodies.
Jonwell’s eyes teared for a moment and he craned his neck from the initial uncomfortableness of having food pumped into his lower intestines via his asshole. For a second, through his misty teared eyes he thought he could see a balcony with people looking down on him. He thought he could make out figures putting at him. He winced once more, as tears glistened in his sight and the image was lost in the blinding spotlight. Now seeing nothing but a blinding light – averting his lights.
As the slurried gourmet food began to be pumped up the bowels of Jon and Sally the theater screen before them shifted and images started to play out. It was a slide show. Pictures of prisons, prisoners, and political dissidents flashing before their eyes. As the slideshow played, they slowly began to hear music being played in the background, soft at first and then louder – the unmistakable lyrics of the song “Don’t You Want Me” by the Human League being pumped into the installation. The lyrics sung out as the industrial blenders hummed in tune filling the guests’ intestines full of acceptable Geneva Conventions friendly and approved nutrition.
Don Pierre began to break into some sort of interpretive, rhythmic dance as the 80s pop music played, and images of prisoners receiving the same treatment that Jonwell and Sallen had the current privilege of undergoing flashed in his shadow.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
After the Anal Rehydration process had finished the couple was left strapped to their tables for about 10 minutes to allow the food to settle and be absorbed into their bodies. Their stomachs slightly distended, their bodies unsure how to process this trauma fully. Black bags were thrown back over their gagged-heads, and their steel gurney tables were wheeled to who the hell knows where.
Eventually, they were left strapped to the tables at the back of the restaurant in some sort of drop-off exit area. The room looked like a rundown dump, and there was a big-red sign that blinked “Exit”. Time-released clamps unlocked themselves allowing the pair to fully free themselves from their immurement.
Still processing what had happened the pair said could only groan. Sally was visibly weeping while Jon was clutched his stomach. The couple slowly got off their respective tables in the empty, clutched their aching rears, and waddled out of the exit of studio, the bright lights of New York city beaming down on them. They were greeted by the sea of homeless bodies they would have to navigate. “Let’s wait here by the back of the restaurant. I’ll order us the Uber, Sallen.” Jonwell sheepishly.
Sally chose to say nothing in response, shaking – holding herself. Turning away from him, looking down at her feet as the cold New York overtook her.
Off in the distance both heard a bang. Near one of the restaurant’s dumpsters, now turning to walk away, they could make out what looked to be an incredibly handsome man with steel blue eyes and a poorly kept beard wearing a long coat.
Sally easily recognized the person to be homeless, simply looking through a dumpster.
Jonwell paused turning towards his love: “Oh. My. God. Is that? It can’t be… that’s... that’s Pierce Brosnan! He’s at She La Vie too!” Jonwell exclaimed overjoyed, as his stomach wretched from his excitement, involuntary spasming.
He groaned but cleared the pain out of his head, as he dreamt a simply dream: oh, how he could not wait to tell Maxwell and all his friends about who he saw and his amazing time at She La Vie.