Come inside and sit with Daddy, honey.

Lola cringed, trying to force the thoughts out. Trying to keep herself from puking on the sidewalk as her mind played back the sight of jiggling fat, the smell of unwashed flesh, the sound of petroleum jelly squashing between hand and skin.

Give Daddy your hand, sweetheart.

Lola’s hand could barely catch hold of the door handle. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, but she forced herself to get in the car, told herself that she would have her own squad car one day, that she wouldn’t have to deal with this pudgy motherfucker for long, or any other pig-headed man. She just had to pay her dues first. Take it easy. Be strong, you can take it.

Jennings didn’t mention a thing. He was too concentrated on the voice squawking from their radio.

“We’ve got an assault in progress at 5110 Humphrey Lane. The Paradise Buffet.”

Jennings smiled as he struggled to face Lola. “There you go, darling. We get to eat and do our fucking jobs.”

INSATIABLE

Juan moved past the other employees, who all seemed content with staying put in the kitchen, and out into the dining area. He looked over his shoulder, searching for Manuel, hoping his cousin would assist him. Still chewing, Manuel had moved his attention back to the food.

Mr. Chan shouted again, growled at someone.

“Manuel. Get the fuck over here,” Juan said.

Manuel finally pried himself away from the food and trudged over.

Once Juan had taken in the scene, he needed the comfort of his cousin by his side before taking another step. He’d never seen anything like it.

A man, or what resembled a man, stood at the buffet line. His body was so wide, Juan couldn’t see how he’d fit through the front door. What looked like blood covered his shirt, dark and dry, and was caked in the folds of his neck. His face was buried in a tray of food—what looked like beef covered in thick brown sauce—and his head jerked back and forth as he consumed it like a high-powered vacuum. He moaned as he ate, his hands in the neighboring trays, squashing noodles and pork into a pasty mush.

Mr. Chan held a bloodied hand to his chest, a cordless phone in the other. Blood dripped from a half-moon wound. He scowled at the beastly man gorging himself, then saw Juan and Manuel watching. “Do something! Do your job or you fired!” He winced and bared his teeth.

Juan looked around at the other customers and not one of them seemed interested in the chaos. They sat at their tables, the food on their plates the only concern, seeing or hearing nothing beyond their own little gluttonous worlds. Others walked around the man and scooped helpings of food onto their plates.

This has to be a joke. Manuel set this up to mess with me, some kind of initiation or something.

But Juan knew the little Chinaman was not acting. And Juan looked at his cousin beside him, who licked his lips and watched with earnestness.