I approached cautiously, nervous from the amount of dead flesh that littered the cases. The woman on the other side of the divider wore strange gloves and a stained apron. Her teeth were scattered and rotted -- at least, the few teeth she still had. She was old enough to be somebody's grandmother, unless her grandkids were also stuffed in the cases, alongside the other refrigerated meats.

I perused over the exotic choices: the herrings, lion rump, small babies, leg of lamb. I knew what I wanted, and I wanted to get out of there. Fast. Being surrounded by death always made me nervous. Too many corpses. So many choices.

I cleared my throat, and she looked at me with her beady pupils. I thought I saw her tongue peek out of her mouth for a moment and feel its way around her lips before slithering back inside. I wanted to vomit.

"Um. I'd like a turkey on wheat, please."

She looked at her watch, impatient-like. It was late, and she obviously wanted to go home.

"Are you closed?"

"No, we're not closed. But what you doing eating this late?" Her thick Spanish accent made the comment seem even more sinister. "Don't you got a girlfriend?"

"Yeah," I said. I hoped her body wasn't strewn with the rest of them. I prayed she was still alive, not in the clutches of the evil sandwich lady.

She spoke again. "Don't she cook for you?"

"Not tonight, she didn't."

She snickered haughtily. "Then you better get yourself a new one. One that cooks for you." She started towards me.

"But I'm happy with the one I have!" I pleaded, backing away slowly. I felt very glad that there was a counter between the two of us, but I wondered how fast her granny legs could propel her over the top. I didn't like how she was holding the butcher knife, either.

"But she no cook for you!" I swore I saw a flash of yellow in her eyes. She couldn't be human... no way.

"But... but..." think fast! "We were...out!"

The faux-human... the doppleganger... paused, unsure how to continue. "Oh. That's ok, then. You want mayo on that? Lettuce? Tomato?"

"Nah. You got any snot?"

© 2001, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com