That Damned Door

“I told each of them five, six, seven, some of them maybe even eight fucking times not to open that damned door. ‘It’s none of your business,’ I’d tell them. ‘But what’s in there?’ ‘What are you hiding from me?’ ‘Why all these secrets?’ ‘I just wanna know!’ ‘Tell me please!’ ‘Who am I spending all my days cooking for?’”

“They’d beg and they’d beg and they’d beg. And I kept telling them ‘Look here you fellow human! That in there is my business! That’s my basement and that’s my door and those are my locks and you don’t need to be putting your nose into what I got going on underneath your feet. Just keep cooking and stirring and chopping and baking and take your money and go home and I’ll see you again in the morning.”’

“But what happens?!? Every freaking time?!? Even with this tale of caution?!? I’ll tell you what. I turn my back for one minute; one freaking minute; and all I hear is the chain on the lock drop, I hear the dead bolt unlatch, I hear those stupid un-oiled hinges as they creak open and I feel the electricity as it starts to sizzle in the air.”

“At this point, as soon as they touch that damned door, it’s pointless for me to yell. They’re marked. They’re done for. I’m serious. Touch that door and you are done for.’

“First thing, and it’s for just a split second, they probably don’t even feel it it’s so quick, I hear them get the jitters. It starts by getting their teeth a-clacking and moves to their fat, jiggly cheeks and moves to their round, sloshy, beer chugging guts and then on to their tiny toothpick legs and before you know it they’re shaking and shimmying all along that floor like a current runs through them.’

“Then, the smell hits you. Hits me. It won’t hit you. Sorry. You’ll be dead. You’ll be the next one to open that damned door. Guarantee it. Because you got curious and didn’t listen. But since you won’t be here, I’ll tell you, it’s like bacon. Heavenly. When this place fills with that world-unifying smell of greasy, crispy oink-oink meat, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to salivating. Every single time. Surrounded by death or not.’

“All that’s left after that is for that damned basement door to slam back shut and for me to wade through all the human ash, breathing in all the freshly burnt up, smelling like so much good bacon innards just to throw the locks back on.’

“That night I’ll eat a BLT I’ve cooked myself. In remembrance of the scent my last chef gave off.’

“And then do you know what happens? I hire the replacement chef. I tell them this whole story. Verbatim. And you know what they tell me? Each and every one? They tell me they’re not the curious type. That they’re cautious. They tell me they won’t open that damned door. They’re to smart for that. They’ll take this job. That they’re excited about the possibilities having this on their resume could bring them. And then you know what happens? They open that damned door. This place smells like bacon. I eat a BLT. And then I hire their replacement.”