Macabre Moments

Everybody in the town of Marun loved Chef Benny’s sashimi.

It wasn’t difficult to please the residents of the small town. They would eat anything, even if it was cooked in a rust-filled pan; true admiration. Foreigners of the town would say this admiration was a mask of obsessive devotion, a side effect of his cooking.

That’s not to say that out-of-towners didn’t love his food. In fact, out-of-towners ended up at Chef Benny’s place by word of mouth.

“You just have to try Chef Benny’s; I hear the food is exquisite for being in a small, desolate little town.”

“The food is amazing. My brother-in-law’s cousin’s nephew’s neighbor heard from a customer in his shop about his friend’s experience there.”

“We heard through the grapevine of foodies that the place is a must-have. Ugh, we want to try it, but the drive there is so long.”

“Oh. My. God. It’s like literally to die for.”

Word of mouth is like wildfire. Words spoken into existence can be spread from person to person to person based on endless interactions. Chef Benny bet exposure on the hands of his clients.

His specialty? The Japanese delicacy known as sashimi. Fresh raw fish—or meat—served with a tiny puddle of soy sauce on the side. Most of his customers preferred raw salmon or tuna; they claimed it melted like a well-cooked medium rare ribeye steak. That’s because Chef Benny handled his knife as if it were an extension of his limb. His swift movements pierced flesh with gentle precision; his passion for food bled through his skin and onto platters of food, adding an enriching flavor that made his food exquisitely demanding.

The menu was consistent, and Chef Benny rotated weekly specials that brought people to his door. The weekly specials included:

Monday—50% OFF

Maguro sashimi

Sake sashimi

Tuesday—Free Drink (max. 2 refills)

Wednesday—BOGO

Tuna Tataki sashimi

Shiro Maguro sashimi

Thursday—BOGO

Unagi sashimi

Hamachi sashimi

Friday—Chef’s Special (availability limited)

Red Meat sashimi

Chef Benny loved his customers, and his customers loved him.

His limited menu was a staple in town. The majority of customers loved the Red Meat sashimi. It was rare for fresh, red meat to be on the weekly menu, so availability never lasted more than thirty minutes.

And nothing pleased Chef Benny more than to hear the loud, gooey chewing of his customers while they expressed appraising sentiments. Even the tiniest crumbs that accidentally hopped out of clients’ mouths wound up being eaten. Clink! Clink! Clink-clink! The subtle clash of chopsticks filled the dining space daily. It was music to the chef’s ears.

***

It was Wednesday, dawn. The town of Marun was shrouded in stillness. The heavy panting of a short, young boy drenched in sweat silently echoed through the desert plains behind the only shopping plaza in town.

As he approached the rear of Chef Benny’s restaurant, he stopped and caught his breath. The rapid knock on the steel screen door prompted the chef to rush to the commotion.

“Silence!” he sharply shushed at the shuttering boy.

“Uncle! Visitors are coming into town!” the boy panted.

Chef Benny’s eyes slowly lit up with curiosity.

“And.. What did you tell them?” his thick Japanese accent broke through his teeth.

“I sent them around the plains and through the dirt roads,” he said, half-expecting a pat on the back.

“Excellent. Proceed,” the chef said as he turned around, letting the door slam in the boy’s face.

As he walked to his prepping station, he grabbed his pride and joy, his vintage, stainless steel Sujihiki knife set with a dark magnolia grip. Its endured years and years of use without showing signs of dullness.

Chef Benny knew he had approximately 30 minutes before the visitors stepped into town–20 minutes if they knew how to navigate around dirt roads. Every minute counted.

With that, he grabbed his whetstone and submerged it in the sink. He rushed to the pantry to grab his complementing ingredients: the microgreens, soy sauce, lemons, wasabi, and pickled ginger. Five essential elements that make his dishes so desirable.

After a few minutes, Chef Benny placed the whetstone atop a cloth rag on the countertop. He steadied his dominant grip on the handle and set the blade’s tip to the end of the whetstone. He adjusted the edge to an angle of fourteen degrees to the stone, took a deep breath, and slowly started sliding the blade across the stone from the tip of the blade to the heel.

It was therapeutic. Each slide against the blade fueled him with fire, the desire to slice through meat without struggle.

His mouth watered.

He flipped over the blade, slowly repeating the process. The subtle sound of steel scraping against stone echoed through the kitchen. His excitement was palpable.

Chef Benny stopped, moved the blade close to his face, and focused on the edge. It glimmered under the bright white light of the kitchen as he flicked his thumb to test its sharpness. Pristine, he thought.

He grabbed the microgreens from their container and swiftly sliced at the roots, leaving dirt-ridden stems at the sink’s base. He washed the greens thoroughly, caressing their small, round leaves with water.

He carefully placed them on a long, dark-smoked oak wooden plate. Then, he grabbed the soy sauce bottle and rattled it in his hands. He poured the sauce into multiple dipping bowls and added the following equal amount of ingredients:

• 1 tablespoon of lemon juice
• ½ tablespoon of wasabi
• 1 tablespoon of sugar

The variation in his soy sauce complemented the savoriness of the red meat; it added an additional oomph!

With his preparations finished, he glanced at the clock. It was almost time.  

***

The front door chimed like clockwork, and Chef Benny scurried to the front of his restaurant, hiding his excitement.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Giddy with joy, his nephew turned and said to the strangers, “That’s him! That’s my uncle!”

The strangers smiled at the boy and looked at the Chef.

“I’m sorry, we don’t want to be a bother. The boy.. he was insisting we come grab a bite before we go,” the man’s intention of leaving seeped through his Australian accent.

Foreigners. The Chef smiled.

“No bother! No bother! Come, sit. Chef loves new customers!” Chef Benny directed them to a table in front of his sashimi station.

The couple looked at each other with unconvincing glances.

“Aye, okay,” said the woman.

The strangers made themselves comfortable, removed their glasses, and set their handheld bags on the table.

“Today’s special,” Chef Benny pointed at the oversized picture of a sashimi platter beside him with his knife.

“Sashimi,” he said as he gathered his cleaning cloth.

The strangers sat there silently, looked around the restaurant with studious faces. They stared at the peeling red-orange brick wallpaper, the dozens of tables with the chairs upholstered on top, an old Panasonic television playing reruns of CSI: Las Vegas, the sparkling-clean see-through glass on the chef’s countertop, the neon sign that read “USHI” in bright blue, the freshly cleaned floors that smelled of bleach and pine sol, the half-hanging “OUT OF ORDER” sign on the bathroom door, the small, dying bamboo plant by the cash register, and the loud air conditioning unit that struggled to cough up fresh air. The strangers had front row seats to an authentic sushi and sashimi restaurant in a ghost town.

“What brings you into town?” the chef asked.

The man hesitated, but muttered, “Our next stop’s the Grand Canyon.”

“Ah, the Grand Canyon. Very nice,” said Chef as he grabbed a large piece of salmon from the ice cupboard below him.

The slap of the salmon against his cutting board startled the woman.

“Ha-ha-haaaa,” the chef bellowed, “no worry!”

The woman hid her half-smile as she turned away from the chef.

“Let me bring water to you,” he said.

The chef turned and reached upward, opening the glass cover on the cupboard. His ice machine was a janky old thing; it often required one or two palm smacks before spewing ice.

As he poured water, he quietly grabbed a small vial of ipecac hidden behind the thick dispenser faucet. Over the years, he had experimented with different methods on creating vulnerabilities in unsuspecting victims. He favored ipecac because of its simplicity. He was a master at pouring. It took half a second to pour 45 milliliters of ipecac into a drink.

As he filled the cup, he asked the strangers, “Just you two, huh.”

“Just us two,” quipped the man.

“Nice, nice. Married? Here you go,” the cups of water dripped sweat on the table as the chef returned to his station.

“Uh, no. Siblings,” said the woman as she reached for a water bottle from her pack.

The chef smiled at them and looked down to begin slicing the salmon. Total focus. He was locked in. Nobody in his restaurant mattered at that moment. His whole attention was directed at the salmon.

He lifted it by its tail-end, examined it, and slowly laid it on his cutting board. He placed both hands on top of the pink-orange flesh and bowed. As he straightened, his eyes scanned for his blade.

Hira-zukuri. The primary method of slicing tuna and salmon sashimi. The chef inhaled and flicked his wrist up while his left hand gently held the salmon in place. He slightly angled the knife to the left, drew the blade towards the entire meat, and pulled the knife towards his body. His precision was impeccable. After thirty seconds, the chef created six rectangular pieces, each 2mm thick. The word perfection flashed across his mind like a strobe light.

Chef Benny looked up and noticed the man’s cup of water had been drunk almost entirely. The other remained as he brought it, full.

The plated microgreens had not been forgotten, oh no. He considered the plate his palette and the blade his paintbrush; one does not exist without the other.

As he carefully laid the sashimi in a stylish overlapping fashion, atop the microgreens, he shuffled to the table and set it down.

“Enjoy! Please,” he said as he bowed.

He scurried over to the kitchen, pushing the foggy door curtains out of his way. His eyes glanced at the bathroom door on his way out.

A small group of eager customers had begun waiting outside the restaurant. Chatter grew among them.

The man and woman were hesitant to try the platter of assorted sashimi.

“We can’t be rude now,” the man directed a whisper to the woman. His chopsticks took hold of a slice. The dipping sauce dripped on his shirt on its way to his mouth. He smiled.

“Hey, this is actually delicious,” his second and third slices melted in his mouth.

The woman’s hesitant nature broke as the man neared a slice of sashimi to her mouth.

“C’mon,” he said.

She opened her mouth, and the piece of sashimi melted on her tongue with a hallucinogenic similarity.

“Mmmm,” she exclaimed as she bit her lower lip.

The woman devoured the rest of the slices without a struggle.

“I think I want more,” she surprisingly chuckled.

The man burped as he agreed. Another burped followed immediately, and his expression turned worrisome.

“Oh, I think it’s comin’ back up,” he stood up and rushed for the bathroom door. He grew tense as he realized the door was locked.

Chef Benny emerged from the kitchen as if he heard his mating call.

The man pointed at his bloated mouth, full of vomit, and Chef jumped to his rescue.

“Follow, follow,” he said urgently, leading the man to the back.

The woman laughed in the background as she saw her brother disappear with the Chef.

***

The woman had asked for seconds, not waiting for the man. The plate was already prepared as Chef Benny already knew she’d want seconds. As if he didn’t know his customers.

This time, the woman enjoyed a tuna and salmon sashimi plate served on a wasabi-infused soy sauce. Her eyes remained fixated on the plate.

Her chopsticks clinked and clashed, dipped and dragged, as each slice of sashimi brought her to flavor town. She tried different combinations; a slice of tuna with a splash of lemon, a slice of salmon with a tiny dip of sriracha, and, her favorite, a slice of salmon with a small, smear of wasabi. She was so caught up with the food that she hadn’t realized her brother wasn’t back yet.

Chef Benny had been preparing another plate, even though she hadn’t asked for a third serving, nor was there room for any more. She glanced at her watch, then to the kitchen curtains.

She looked back a second time right as Chef reappeared behind her, like the reaper, and placed a third sashimi plate in front of her.

“Enjoy,” he said with a cold, dead stare.

The sashimi plate was different. Each slice of sashimi was bathed in a thick, maroon sauce and was complimented with sea salt and a small mountain of ginger.

The sashimi looked like thin slices of steak, but with streaks of fat running up and down the surface.

“Try,” said the chef, whose bulging eyes almost burst onto her face. 

Chef Benny walked behind the counter, and she looked toward the back and noticed the bathroom door remained in its unbothered state.

The woman turned back to the plate with slight hesitation. As she raised the slice of meat to her lips, the potent smell made her gag. She dropped everything on the table and continued to choke.

The doors began to shake as customers demanded to be let in.

She pushed the table and stumbled off the chair, wiping her mouth, choking and spitting as if she had bit into rotten flesh. 

The crowd began to bump against the door, trying to get in.

She looked at the bathroom, then the chef, and then back at the banging door.

The chef stared at her as she slowly moved toward the bathroom.

The woman locked eyes with Chef Benny, her heart pounding as his gaze pierced right through her. Every step toward the bathroom door felt like walking into a trap, her breath quickening as if she could sense the invisible strings guiding her every move. An icy dread crept up her spine—he was waiting for her, anticipating her next step, ready for her to fall into his plan. A gazelle in the eyes of a lion.

Her hand met the cold handle of the door with disappointment. It didn’t budge. But, from the corner of her eye, a horror caught her eye.

The soft breeze from the air conditioning shifted the door curtains, just enough to catch a glimpse. Her breath hitched as she turned and saw her brother dangling from the ceiling, a massive metal meat hook piercing through his left clavicle, suspending him like a grotesque trophy. A deep, jagged gash carved into his thigh exposed raw flesh, blood pooling beneath him in thick, dark puddles, as if hell itself had opened to devour him. His femur stood out from the torn muscle, straining against the skin as if trying to escape the horror. Her trembling fingers touched her lips, stifling a scream that clawed at her throat, but the sound escaped—a broken, strangled sob—as she realized his head rested on the silver counter near the curtains, severed, one eye half-open, the other staring blankly at the ceiling.

Her mind rushed, but her body refused to move.

Run, she thought. The only rational idea that crept through her panic. Her heart pounded in terror as she turned to flee. But before she could take more than a few steps, the chef’s razor-sharp knife flashed in the dim light, slicing through the air with deadly precision.

In one swift, brutal motion, her head was severed from her body. For a moment, she stood there, disbelieving, before her headless body crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud.

Her consciousness wavered, the world receding to black around her. In her last moments, she saw through fading vision the hungry faces of the other customers, their eyes gleaming with a ravenous hunger that chilled her to the core. And then, there was nothing but darkness.