It was a dark and cliche night, with rain dripping down the windows of a small apartment like tears shed by angels strung out on their own dust. And Sophie was restless, contemplating life and all its sins and virtues. The pangs of hunger gnawed at her belly, and her brain chip was just a neuron away from sending out the message to somewhere, anywhere that served food. Sitting in front of her mirror, she removed one of her robotic legs and sat it beside her, carefully painting the toenails a stark blue as she thought long and hard.
The relentless rain echoed the very breaking of Sophie’s soul. She was at a crossroads. Should she order Chinese and finally break up with her abusive boyfriend? Or should she order pizza and stay with him? It takes her a long time to answer, but she inevitably chooses the pizza. Her boyfriend, the son of the president of the company she worked for, was rich and loaded. If she ordered Chinese, her career would be over. No more fancy suits. No more free replacements for her bionic limbs.
What better way to mend that painful realization than with hot cheese melting over sauce and dough? So she calls up Dave's pizzeria. The quick vibration of her brain chip sends shivers right down her spine as though a thousand poets were whispering their secrets into the universe. This was exactly what she wanted. What she needed. Carbs and cholesterol.
But Sophie is troubled. Her thoughts wander far past this late-night pizza delivery. She contemplates society: the idea that when places become too populated, too cultivated like rows upon rows of hungry mouths and faces—faces ready to gorge on pepperoni—values shift into nothingness. She thinks of her corporate job at the corporate building doing corporate shit, which never seemed to end and never accomplished much. She daydreams philosophers and poets, asking them what it’s all about.
She would leave it all behind if it weren’t for the fact she was a cyborg, who just so happened to have several of her life-sustaining parts on lease from the very company she worked for. A liver of steel and synthetic mesh, a pancreas of rubber, and borrowed time. She should have died in that car crash a few years ago. Instead, she now awaited saturated fat and artery-clogging junk food to eat away the feeling of pain, the loss of her dignity, and the fresh bruise festering on her back, courtesy of her lover.
The minutes drifted by as endless conversations with Socrates played in her head, debating and pondering. This was often Sophie’s escape. But today required something more—a bit of indulgence and a small foray into the materialistic. Socrates explained why she should cancel the pizza, but every inch of her remained frozen. She accessed the Ethernet twice, but each time she shamefully logged off, the screen faded to black in her mind. Before long, in walks the watery-eyed pizza delivery man, his ancient Bluetooth headset casting his face in a ghostly glow. Too late to turn back now, she hands him a wadded-up twenty and looks up at him pleadingly.
The imagined Socrates leaves, being sure to call Sophie an asshole on his way out, and the delivery man hands her that cardboard box containing molten cheese and reveals that every dollar handed over is driving the world deeper into a cycle where human beings are valued less than steamrollers flattening dog shit. He doesn’t say this outright, but the way his eyes hurt and gnarled hands tremble speaks in a secret language Sophie can hear. The salt and pepper beard demanded to be contemplated. I am older, but not too old. Not young enough to be naive but also not old enough to have everything figured out. And I’m out delivering pizzas to dirty apartments.
Her heart crumbles at this revelation, but the cravings in her rebuilt stomach propel her forward—another step towards devouring not just pizza pies but also the very essence of humanity. As she takes the first tear-infused bite, she can't help but think that perhaps this is not only the story of a lone wolf's descent into darkness but a metaphor for the sprawling city around them, swallowing humanity whole like the mouth of Cerberus snapping at unwitting souls that pass. Sophie, unable to escape the truth, chews on.
***
In the frenzied, trembling nights of concrete mazes, the proprietor of the pizzeria perseveres, skilfully serving pies; in his heart, he experiences the void that consumes, for he observes himself in an impassive, indifferent world, convulsing with pain. The city lights blinked mercilessly upon those streets that were a testament to a never-ending circle of cynicism and melancholy, where men were but shadows lost within themselves.
The pizzeria had no solace, no shelter, but rather an incarnation of his very own despair—employing none but the desperate who slipped through his fingers and robotic cooks that cost too much to upkeep. Moth powder in the wind and rusty parts in the tool shed. He, the owner and deliverer of saucy dough born out of sweet madness, had finally begun to grasp the very meaning: life tossed to and fro like toppings upon a whirlwind, their destination unknown and greasy.
Against steel beasts and honking machines screeching their discontents, he traversed—pilgrims with empty stomachs waiting for sustenance surrounding him. In those dark moments behind the steering wheel or on the doorstep threshold, he tasted the bitter ambrosia of thoughts swirling, marinara with a dash of debate; there is life before him yet—is it his to possess? To knead? He would drop his hands from the steering wheel and allow the car to drive itself, feeling the faint beginnings of arthritis throb in his fingertips. This was life now, and it was the beginning of the end.
The harsh voices echoed from every window where disappointment had settled. He yearned for meaning in paradoxical pathways; did one deliver life's flavour by journeying alone? Or perhaps it's fabric stretched thin upon the brittle bones of creation's myth—a tale spun strange and familiar.
In that city cruel as night without stars, he found solace in contemplation, knowing each twist and turn marked another step forward—toward hope or oblivion's veil. The silent sweeping winds stirred unseen, his soul swinging a lonesome pendulum between memories warm and artificial.
And thus he travelled onward—a journey forgotten among lustful cries of famished mouths; a forlorn traveller seeking warmth and wanting solace in his cosmic dance beneath banners of neon advertising and an endless feast yet to come.
***
Sophie and Dave met again the next night, this time at a bar. It hadn’t stopped raining, the city in a perpetual damp spell. Dave, his hands roughened by kneaded dough and back bent from hours hunched over blazing ovens, sat slumped on a creaky stool. His weary eyes met those of Sophie, the customer with a chiselled face that had tasted more than her fair share of bitterness. Whose dark hair and blue eyes showed the vitality of youth but also sadness. He could see one of her hands was robotic, the flawless fake skin barely hiding the cybernetic sounds when she twitched and grabbed things. And he felt an urge to grab that hand, the hand of a perfect stranger, and tell her everything was okay, even if it wasn’t.
Cold beer flowed like the rivers of their discontent, and they sipped in silence until Dave’s sigh delivered stories of lost dreams that echoed through the pub. A moment of hesitation, a moment hanging in time Sophie felt, but also an unyielding urge to spin the chamber and play Russian roulette.
"You're the one who crafts them heavenly pies?" she managed, with a half-smile overcoming her stern expression. Dave let out a rough laugh, decades of life's burdens echoing through each note.
"Yeah, that's me," he confessed, his exhausted smile embracing Sophie's gaze.
Sophie moved over a stool closer to Dave, a playful and mischievous glint in her eye.
“Aren’t you a little old to be delivering pies?” she asked. It was more of a demand than a question.
Dave looked at her, amused and not offended in the slightest. He had been dealt his fair share of insults in his lifetime.
“I own the pizzeria,” he chuckled, throwing a twenty on the bar.
“Give us two more.”
Swirling storms inside them burst like fireworks in the night sky as bitter words poured from weary lips to drown sorrows not meant for human hearts. They found camaraderie in shared pain—a secret rebellion against society and its twisted game. The awful meetings, the inflation of foodstuffs, the inflation of gasoline, the political agendas of dumbass college kids, buzzwords, 3D printing, corporate agendas, the president, pandemics, bitcoin, sex, life, drugs, and rock and roll.
Locked together in their newfound kinship, smoky delusions solidified into crystalline plans to escape. Fake their deaths—morbid yet poetic conclusions to stories both fraught with hardships and few blessings. One last great act in a cruel play.
The laughter grew as fear was steadily replaced by frenzied excitement, eyes gleaming with sly determination as ink-black conspiracies journeyed from timid ideas to living action replaying in their heads, glorious and beautiful.
In this world of booze-drenched nightmares and scheming, two tired souls found an escape route. Was it salvation or damnation that they sought? The night protested not, for it bore witness to the birth of their gruesome plan—shackles broken, surrendering to the dance at the crossroads of life and death.
“We can plan it all out. Come to my place,” Dave said, looking at Sophie with determination.
Sophie guzzled the last of her beer, both of them now cut off from the bar. “Let’s do it.”
***
Sophie came. And so did Dave. After a long night of drinking and planning one’s death, it was only natural for the excitement to get the better of them. Instead of lighting their cars on fire and going missing, or robbing the morgue of corpses that had the same dentistry, or whatever the hell else they had concocted at the bar, they held each other close and watched the rain wash the garbage into the gutters from the second-story window.
She decided it was an excellent day to quit her job. And to call a certain someone and let them know she was leaving him. Just then, Socrates barged in, as well as Plato and Shakespeare, demanding answers. But Sophie had nothing to give them. Just empty pizza boxes in the corner, a fading buzz from last night's beer, and the remnants of love dripping down her naked silicone legs.
Joseph Shaw aka Cat Mack lives in Buchanan County, MO and works in management. He is an emerging writer with a love and passion for the horror genre and experimental prose. He can be found on X under @JoeBloodsport.
