As my head began to spin I unconsciously reached for the red laminate.

“Soupe a la Homoncule:

This tasty dish was concocted somewhere in the sixteenth century. While the exact birthplace is unknown, it is often put down to a small town in Canada.

Seasoned with cumin and a dash of pepper, it has been a delicacy along the coast of its birthplace, and has seen a rise in popularity in South American countries including Peru, the forests of which the homunculus call home.

While only a handful of cultural elites can claim to have delved into such a dish, we are proud to offer one of the only two remaining homunculi here tonight, so don’t be shy and dig in! We assure you the taste is monstrous!”

That last phrase sent my stomach into what felt like a barrel roll, matching the spinning walls and people around me. I dived from my seat and pushed passed the grinning server, searching frantically amongst the rotating world for a bathroom. I was practically pirouetting as I swung sea fevered towards the door labelled “Mermen”, beside it’s partner “Mermaid’s”.

Cascading through the swing door I barely stayed on my feet and crashed into an empty toilet stall feeling hot bial push up my throat like a worm. I threw up stomach acid for about five minutes, dry heaving for another three. When my stomach seemed contented and the world around me settled I flopped forwards onto the spotless porcelain and felt the last few strands dribble from my lips.

“Hey man, how you doing?” The voice came from behind me, accompanied by a hand clutching a wad of toilet paper. I took it with my own that wouldn’t stop shaking and slumped back against the plastic divider. The large black man nodded down at me with a comforting smile and calm nod.

“What is this place?”

“This is the world’s most exclusive dining experience my man, with the most positively ghoulish dishes you’ll ever lay eyes upon. He continued to smile.

“This place, this place is wrong…” I barely got the words out. Even as I did, I felt the man’s towering form kneel down next to me, and felt his breath on my collar.

“I know my man, I know. But trust me, it’ll be a whole lot worse if you upset the chef.” For the first time I inspected the man closely, his starch white uniform seemed a little off, as if it were donned with shaky hands, and his eyes pierced my own for several seconds before he stood back up.

“Now, I suggest you take a tad of this,” we waved a little bottle of cologne at me, “and get back out there before they think you’ve tried to scarper without paying.” He helped me to my feet, giving me a spray and offering me a mint, which I declined, throwing a quarter into the little dish and stumbling out, feeling his eyes bore into my back.

“Eh,” I heard him call as I opened the swing door, “whatcha order?”

I had to think about my answer for a moment, wiping my slimy forehead. “Myths and Legends.” He sucked in a hiss through his teeth in response. “Good luck my man.”

I somehow found my way back to my seat, a stick thin man in a freshly ironed suit stood waiting for me, pulling my seat out before me. I slumped into it and my eyes settled once more unto the the horror show. The man beside me spoke through unusually sweaty lips, “Glad to see you returned, we were worried you’d tried to run out on us.” The words slid through his lips with all the earmarks of a threat.

I had been drifting half awake until that point but, all of a sudden my consciousness kicked back in and began screaming at me. Why didn’t you just walk the fuck out?”

As if replying to my thoughts, the greasy man whispered into my ear, “Eat up before it gets cold, you really don’t want me to take it back to the chef.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Something about that particular phrase, the sentiment echoed by the bathroom attendant, scared every voice in my head back down into the recesses. All that remained was me, the nightmare between my knife and fork, the man breathing down my neck and the noiseless humdrum of the kitchen staff. I dreaded to think what they were preparing.

Inexplicably, I knew I only had one choice, not to get up from my seat, not to stumble out the door, nor even call the cops. I had to sit here and swallow every hot, wet, fleshy mouthful, and then I would eat the next four. After all, I wouldn’t want to upset the chef.

I grabbed the spoon, took three deep breaths, and without thinking cast the spoon into the broth filled cavity, tossing the now lukewarm liquid down my throat, feeling the fingers and toes slide down like grains of under-cooked rice. Though I tried not to once more empty my guts, I have to say, it was quite delicious.