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Welcome to Johnston, among the cleanest cities in the United States. Here, you will drink only the cleanest water from reservoirs that are completely free of harmful microbes and other contamination, and breathe only the cleanest air, completely free of smog and other pollutants. The residents here take pride in their cleanliness, thus govern strict standards of sanitation, carrying heavy fines for littering and otherwise destroying our precious environment. The windows of each of the buildings and houses sparkle, oftentimes without a single grain of dirt, and if you look through the panes, you’ll see a clear reflection of your face gazing back at you. In residential neighborhoods, lawns are kept neatly mowed week after week, while the streets and sidewalks remain free from cigarette butts, wrappers, and cans and bottles. If you have a disposition for keeping things perfectly neat and tidy, then the city of Johnston would seem like heaven to you, for not an ounce of filth is tolerated by the citizens here.
All remained tidy and shiny within the dining area of Brock’s Breakfast Parlor as well, keeping up with the strict standards of sanitation, or so the owner would have you believe. But if you were to see what the kitchen looked liked, you would vomit profusely and make it a point never to eat there again unless you were dying of starvation and were desperate. The stench of raw sewage alone that permeated the air would be enough to drive out even the hungriest of patrons and even if you were able to bear the vile reek of this dank atmosphere, then the sight of rats scurrying freely and unhindered across the floor through the cracked walls whose plaster was moldy with decay, along with the swarms of cockroaches, maggots, and droning flies would still act as a suitable repellent.
Joseph Brock was what a Freudian might call “anal expulsive”, in that he absolutely cannot stand neatness and thrives instead in his own filth and pestilence. While the dining area of his restaurant had to remain spotless to attract customers and hopefully to shoo away health inspectors, his kitchen was his domain, and he could not work unless his environment is as messy and smelly as a landfill. The rats, flies, and maggots were his friends and he relished the rotting food sticking to the floor, attracting even more bugs and vermin. To him, the cobwebs dangling from every corner of the ceiling added stunning decoration to an otherwise bland environment, as did the stains of rust all over his pans, other cooking utensils, and refrigerator. Knives, forks, spoons, plates, and cups had to be cleaned and sparkly fresh after every use in the dishwasher, of course, because those were the utensils that the customers saw when eating here, but nothing else had to be cleaned properly, for they were for his eyes and those of his waitresses. It mattered not that many of his employees (current and past alike) warned their friends and families never to eat here, that they would gag if they had seen what the employees saw on a daily basis, for he still attracted a fair number of patrons, enough to keep him in business all these years, at least.
It was not the filthiness of the kitchen alone that would scare customers away if they learned the awful truth, but Brock’s habits as well, for he was the chef of Brock’s Breakfast Parlor, and being the owner as well left him free to tamper with the food he prepared without fear of being caught on tape and later fired for his unsanitary actions. While it was official restaurant policy that all employees must wash their hands thoroughly after using the bathroom, Brock never bothered with it himself, for the EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK sign was left there simply because it made the restaurant look better, more sanitary, and he surely wouldn’t actually enforce such a fascist policy on anybody. Sometimes if the restaurant was very busy and he was overwhelmed with orders, there was no time for a bathroom break, ergo he would simply urinate in some unsuspecting victim’s orange juice and hope they would never be able to tell the difference. When coughing or sneezing, he would not cover his mouth by doing so in the crook of his arm, but instead do it right on the food as he was preparing it; the food was being cooked thoroughly, thus killing whatever germs might have gotten on it. Last January he had gotten the flu (Brock never took sick days, as he was strongly devoted to his restaurant) and vomited into the pancake batter. He loved when someone asked for blueberry pancakes because then it was easy to hide dead flies into the pancakes, camouflaged amid clusters of blueberries; this treatment was for the customers who really pissed him off, and if they ordered eggs, such vapid customers were also liable to get eggs waterlogged in spit and mucous, and perhaps semen as well if he got horny and felt like masturbating that morning.
Brock stood now in his kitchen with a cigarette jutting from his lips, while mixing pancake batter with a rusty wire whisk as some of the ashes from his cigarette sprinkled into the batter. A grin creased his wrinkled face, faltering, for while he loved his job, he feared now that Brock’s Breakfast Parlor might be shut down if his kitchen hadn’t been cleaned properly. He looked at the scraps of paper and puddles of congealing food that littered the floor and cursed himself for his procrastination; there was no way his janitor would be able to clean up this mess on time, for the health inspector would surely arrive any minute now. A cold sweat formed over Brock’s brow as his stomach curled in on itself, for he knew that the health inspector would have this place condemned, the way things were now, yet still found himself unable to change his habits, and wondered if he would have nearly enough money to bribe this one into giving him a passing grade.
This is bullshit, Brock thought sullenly. I mean, so what if a couple people got food poisoning? You can recover from that easily. Not like it’s anything serious like that mad cow disease shit, which no one has ever gotten from this place. What’s the big fucking deal?
Brock’s seventeen-year-old daughter Crystal entered the kitchen with a grimace as her nose wrinkled from the noxious odors this place emanated. She was nothing like her father in terms of messiness, and would instead be deemed as anal retentive, for she took after her mother with her compulsive neatness. Still, while she hated working here and was the first person to warn all her friends not to eat in this fetid dump, she remained a waitress nevertheless, for she would rather take the job she already had coming than go out and look for one and go through the whole sordid process. “The health inspector guy’s here,” she said in a tone devoid of inflection, seemingly indifferent to the results of what happened, yet feeling contempt for her father and his sloppy ways and wished he wasn’t such an unsanitary slob.
Brock sighed as he extinguished his cigarette and threw it in the trash, an action he loathed deeply, turned off his griddle--which he had cleaned last night for the first time in the ten years he had been in business--and let the bowl of pancake batter sit by the griddle. “I just wish there were some way of getting rid of him. I hate these parasites, you know. Can’t stand them. I don’t go around telling them how to do their job. What gives him the right to dictate how I do mine?”
“Making sure restaurants are clean and sanitary is his job, dad.”
“Maybe, but I still feel like I’m being raped.” Brock sighed with deep resignation, and then said grimly: “Bring him in.”
With dark sunglasses and a bureaucratic face that was all business and devoid of emotion, the health inspector seemed more like a CIA or FBI agent, or even a top secret black ops government agent. He was a slender man with an olive complexion; appearing neatly groomed and manicured, with his trimly dark hair combed to the back, and was dressed in a black tie and charcoal suit. His polished dress shoes shone in the dim lights from the kitchen ceiling. His cold, dour demeanor was creepy and made him seem inhuman as he shot Brock a stern glance before lifting his briefcase and removing neat stack of papers pinned to a clipboard and a pen. He appeared to begin to take notes even before the investigation commenced. “I’m Jesus Ramirez, the health inspector,” he introduced himself as he flashed his badge and then put out his hand. Brock gripped it loosely, trembling, and they shook. “I take it you’re Joseph Brock, the owner of this place.”
“That’s right,” he said, trying not to stutter.
“I have to say that so far I’m not impressed,” Ramirez told him, seemingly indifferent to the results of his investigation. “For one thing, this place reeks like a sewer. I don’t know how you can possibly stand it.” Ramirez removed his sunglasses, and revealed the first trace of humanity and perhaps vulnerability, for his bloodshot eyes watered profusely as he wrinkled his nose and grimaced at the foul odor.
“You get used to it after a while,” Brock told him nervously. “I don’t even smell it anymore.”
“Well, it’s not a good first impression.”
Brock shivered, not knowing what to say. He thought perhaps he might bring up the axiom about how you never wanted to see what the kitchen of your favorite restaurant looked like, for they were all messy in some way or another, or at least that’s what everyone said. Yet as he opened his mouth to say this, he closed it once more, knowing that jokes were out of the question. Jesus Ramirez wasn’t impressed; his face remained stern and scrutinizing and a cheap joke would surely make things worse. His mind reminded him of another axiom—First impressions are lasting ones—and knew that his days in the restaurant management business were numbered. More accurately put, his minutes were numbered.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said softly, as his voice trailed off. “I have to take a leak first.”
“But I just got here.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” Brock went on; he really did have to urinate, but also seized this opportunity to get away from the health inspector, if only for a few minutes, and to at least delay the inevitability of his fall, if he could not prevent it altogether. “Crystal, could you please stay with him until I get back.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
The bathroom was a unisex restroom with one toilet and a sink. The walls were covered in wooden paneling while one light bulb remained enough to keep these close quarters of approximately fifty square feet brightly illuminated. Like the general dining area, the bathroom was clean and sanitary as well. Above the spotless white toilet was a black and white sign alerting customers:
BROCK’S BREAKFAST PARLOR
STRIVES TO KEEP RESTROOMS CLEAN AT ALL TIMES
IF AT ANY TIME YOU FIND THESE FACILITIES LESS THAN SATISFYING,
PLEASE PRESS THE BUTTON BELOW.
A JANITOR WILL CLEAN THEM UP ASAP.
And below that sign was a button that customers were to press. The button actually did send a notice to the janitor’s closet, with a bright red light blinking on and off until the Janitor turned it off and attended the matter in the bathroom. It was very important, of course, to at least give the illusion that Brock cared about keeping things neat and sanitary, no matter how badly he loathed such concepts in actuality. He frowned and felt the sting of defeat gnawing at his heart after having urinated and flushed the toilet, for now he looked at the white sign that proclaimed in bright red text: EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK. He was actually washing his hands himself. His business was equipped with no surveillance equipment, yet he felt somehow that Ramirez would know if he did not, perhaps through clairvoyant means or simple intuition. Every little bit helps, he told himself, feeling desperate. Even if he was able to bribe this health inspector as he had with the other ones from the past, it would still take a large chunk out of his revenue, with no means to record the expense on his financial accounting records for the year, leaving him behind on paying off all of his legitimate expenses and with no means even to even make a tax deduction from this illegal expense. Another expense such as this would surely leave his business bankrupt.
Brock shook, startled, as the water in the toilet began to ripple, bubbling slowly at first, then boiling furiously as the water rose and seemed as though it were about to spill over. Brimming over the rim of the toilet, some of the cold water splattered against Brock’s cheeks and brow as a dark olive green tentacle shot out from the bowl. Brock opened his mouth to scream in terror, yet his cries for help were silenced as the tendril wrapped tightly around his throat, cutting off his oxygen. His legs seemed to run backward of their own accord as whatever creature that resided inside the toilet pushed, until his back collided against the door with a loud bang, hard enough to shake the hinges. He gasped huskily; throwing his hands to his throat in an attempt to tear away this choking tendril before it completely asphyxiated him. Already he started feeling lightheaded, as the world grayed before his eyes and he fell to the floor, his back still pressed tightly against the door behind him. Brock was filled with mounting horror and panic, his fingers digging and clawing frantically at the tendril tightly wound around his neck, which has a waxy texture, slippery with grime and sludge, yet still able to retain a firm, solid hold upon him.
The tendril forked in two, with one half still clinging to his throat while the other moved upward to his face. Brock pressed his teeth down so hard that they ached in his gums, firmly struggling to keep his lips closed as the green tentacle danced before his face, tickling his chin lightly with the touch of an oily finger. It elongated and thickened, before sweeping Brock’s face and engulfing his head completely like a tidal wave not of ocean water, but of filth and garbage from a landfill. Brock’s lips were forced open as this vile creature forced its way into his mouth, washing down his throat and completely filling his esophagus, drowning him completely in the sewage he would have otherwise thrived on.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Jesus Ramirez said after Brock had returned from the bathroom.
Brock approached him, staggering and disoriented, and the stench of garbage clung to his clothes and breathe, as though he had swum in a landfill and eaten most of the garbage there as well. His eyes swiveled drunkenly as he blinked and scratched his head, his dark hair matted to his scalp with the thick, greasy residue of motor oil that dripped in a thin runner along the bridge of his nose. He looked once more with glassy eyes at Crystal, then at Ramirez and bit his lip as he began to come out of his daze. He yawned, stretching out his arms as though he were awakening from a restful slumber, and the daunting dread of this health investigator returned to him once more; Jesus Ramirez with his sickening health codes.
“Look, I know we got off to a bad start,” he said, his voice distorted, as though he were coming out of a peaceful dream and thrust back into the cold reality of his nightmares. Once more disbelief at what was happening came over him and he wanted only for this nightmare to be over so he could go back to business as usual. “Maybe we could work something out.”
“The dining area is clean and would pass inspection,” Ramirez explained noncommittally, “as would your bathroom. I took a peak before your daughter showed me into your kitchen. You see, it’s your kitchen that’s the problem.” He shook his head and sighed as if with contempt for the putrescence of this establishment.
“How much money do you need?”
Ramirez shook his head once more. “I’m sorry, but I don’t take bribes.”
Brock’s stomach rumbled not with hunger but from sickening nausea as the urge to vomit overcame him. He gagged and retched as his upper torso quickly swayed back and forth, and then finally doubled over. Coughing up a thick wad of black phlegm, Brock fell to his hands and knees as the putrid garbage swept up his throat and regurgitated from his lips onto the floor. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as tar seeped through the eyelids and slid down his cheeks like blackened tears. Ash-colored mucous dripped thickly from both nostrils as dark green waterfalls of slime blasted in a torrent of putrid vomit from his lips. He heaved and gasped and vomited some more as the green puddle, first taking on the curded texture of cottage cheese, now expanded, thinning and liquefying into a greasy, toxic juice that dampened the palms of his hands as they pressed firmly against the ground. Brock groaned as his stomach folded sharply inward and the last of the slush from inside him flowed through his lips to the expanding pool of filth upon the ground.
The thin slush that Brock had vomited solidified into a brownish green sludge that swept quickly from beneath his body and began to approach the health inspector. It was now an oblong mass of garbage, rising, taking shape, molding into the body of a human, towering over the previously well composed Jesus Ramirez, whose face now whitened as his eyes rose in horror and disbelief at what he now saw. His briefcase and clipboard slipped from his quivering fingers and disappeared in waves of liquid filth that swept by his feet and rose all the way to his ankles, pinning his feet to the ground. Ramirez let off a shrill cry of terror as he flailed his arms, struggling to be free. He kicked his left foot out of the slime, only to topple forward, throwing his hands out to break his fall as his left leg kicked backward, and he fell face-first into the putridity of the dark green mass, and then sank and vanished within the torrential sea of scum and putrescence.
Crystal screamed shrilly, with one hand over her mouth, while another thrown outward in a warding off gesture. “Oh God, no, please!” she cried in disbelief as she pressed her body against the wall behind her, as though if she pressed hard enough she might thrust herself through the wall and away from danger. She sat in this position, unable to stop herself from screaming, with her knees pressed tightly against her breasts. This can’t be happening! she thought madly as she shed terrified tears and convulsed in a fetal position against the wall. I must be dreaming, this can’t be real, goddamn it this can’t be happening!
Only Brock remained unafraid. In fact he felt comforted by what he witnessed, for he knew instinctively that he was in the presence of greatness. He didn’t know what the creature was, nor its true motivation, yet it was a benevolent force, here to better the lives of mankind. For now, he could only watch in awe and childlike wonder as the creature completely devoured the health inspector.
The creature rose, taking the shape of a bulky, broad-shouldered man, the perfect candidate for a professional football player. It had no neck, but instead its head protruded like a cankerous lump between its shoulders with no nose or mouth, just two golden orbs for eyes that gave off a feral bestial glow. Upon the vertex of its head lay a banana peal, which could either represent hair or a hat that it might have worn. Its overall skin tone (if indeed its exterior could be referred to as epidermis) was the same shade of dark olive green it had been when it had forced its way inside Brock’s body in the bathroom just a few minutes ago. It secreted motor oil, which was like perspiration flowing in thick runnels along its body. As this walking mass of garbage slowly approached Brock, it left behind a trail of this same black oil, which emitted what reeked of noxious toxic fumes to Crystal, but was a blissful flowery fragrance to Brock’s nose. Cigarette butts, used band aids, used condoms, wads of chewing gum, shredded wires, and other litter honeycombed its entire body like tattoos or perhaps tribal war paint. Lips formed below its golden eyes, parting as it spoke, its voice a cryptic whisper that only Brock could understand: “I’ve come for you, Joseph Brock.”
“Who are you?” Brock asked with pure amazement as his grin widened.
A lump now protruded upon the creature’s chest before fingertips poked out, ten in all, followed by the hands. Jesus Ramirez burst from the sludge, now completely naked except for tatters of his suit which clung to his wrists and ankles and covered his crotch. His hair was now completely white and the whites of his bloodshot eyes were a feral yellow. He remained seemingly in a haze, his mind cloudy as though he were stuck in an opium-induced stupor. He lay there on his back, shivering, as sores and skin boils broke out along his entire body, spurting green pus along his pasty flesh. Ribbons of blood flowed from both nostrils as well as the corners of his mouth. He turned away from the creature, looking now at Brock, and his red and yellow eyes met Brock’s as he spoke. His voice was now a husky, choked whispered, yet firm with conviction: “All hail Zogantous, the God of Filth!”
August 01, 2004
8:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Welcome to Johnston, the absolute filthiest city in the country. Once clean and elegant, Johnston has somehow fallen over the years to the status of now being considered almost a third-world country within the United States. Raw sewage and toxic waste fill the streets, and the windows of every building are now grimy, blocking light from going through, unless the window is broken, as many of them are. No longer are landfills needed, for people simply throw their trash on the ground and let it pile up, and in some areas, the filth is now ankle deep or higher. Smog and noxious fumes fill the skies; you can even see the thickening vapors of harmful chemical pluming the air in a putrid fog, yet the residents now are use to the vile stench this brings. The water remains unsafe to drink, due to high bacteria count, harmful chemicals, and various other contaminates. The CDC is once more dispatched to try to investigate and contain yet another outbreak of cholera, which happens all too frequently here, yet the residents have long ago gotten used to the pestilence. If hell truly exists, then Johnston would surely be it for you if you were a compulsive neat freak, for everywhere you turn, more garbage, filth, and rot permeates the atmosphere and sanitation has long ago become a myth to the denizens who live and thrive in this decaying populous.
Within forlorn and decrepit churches, synagogues, and mosques now corroding and falling apart, where people once worshipped Jesus, Jehovah, or Allah, they now come to pay homage to Zogantous. Idols and relics of their former religion have now been burned and replaced by artifacts and documents spreading the Gospel of Zogantous, the new god whom the people bow down and pray to.
All hail Zogantous, the God of Filth!
The End
July 10, 2004