“H-hungry…” the man said, then bit into the woman’s leg. He pulled away a chunk of stringy meat and chewed it with closed eyes. Blood pumped from the woman’s leg…but she barely noticed. She winced when he bit her, looked toward the pain, then went right back to her plate. Blood rained on the man’s head and he let his tongue hang out to catch as much as he could.

“Chingao…” Again, Juan looked for his cousin, but he was nowhere in sight. The double doors to the kitchen swung ever so gently, and Juan could just barely see violent movement back there.

Mr. Chan spat more Chinese gibberish at nobody in particular as he watched the bloody scene.

Red and blue lights flashed through the glass-front of the restaurant and illuminated the interior, turning the blood purple, then a brighter red.

The eaters didn’t even flinch.

DADDIES EVERYWHERE

When they pulled up to the restaurant, Lola thought she’d sped into a nightmare. What she was seeing couldn’t be real. As vivid as her dreams had been since the death of her father, it didn’t seem too farfetched that she was really at home, passed out on the couch…or the floor.

A restaurant filled to bulging with…Daddies.

She saw her father’s face on every fat body in the Paradise Buffet. And there were plenty of them. Sauce and grease glistened from their pudgy faces, dribbled down their layered chins. Shirts and pants stretched tight over blubbered bodies.

And they ate like they’d been starved for weeks. Lola could see the sloppy movement from her seat in the cruiser, the way their faces contorted and bloated as they chewed, some squeezing their eyes shut as if there wasn’t enough room for eyes on their faces with all the food in their mouths. The hands worked fast though. Always moving, like lard-wrapped hummingbird wings.

I can’t go in there.

“Let’s get goin’, girl. We got us a priority one here.”

Jennings’s voice was static in the distance as Lola shrunk into herself. Every one of the fat bastards in the restaurant, and the one right next to her, melted into a version of her father. She saw one Daddy in a flowery Mumu, plump feet stuffed into yellow flip-flops. Another Daddy tilted a bowl of soup and gulped it up, spilling it over his golf shirt, staining it brown. There were smaller versions of Daddy too, happily mashing food into their faces, using their chubby fingers as utensils.

She could hear them. Come on inside, honey. We’re waiting for you. Come give Daddy a kiss. Daddy’s just so hungry.

“No…no…no,” she muttered as she brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, rocked to and fro in her seat, her gun pressing into her hip. She thought she had herself under control, that she could keep the razor-sharp memories away for a while, but this was too much.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Lola turned to face Jennings, but of course, Daddy stared back, dressed in a cop uniform. His tongue ran over his face, drinking in the sweat. His cheeks jiggled and glowed red.