Working Lunch with the Space Vultures by Joel Bryant

The décor of the Hollywood Space Diner was a neon and chrome nightmare. Adding to the charmless ambience was an unavoidable aroma of hot garbage. It would not have been Dave’s choice of eating place, that was for sure. He could just about stomach the interior design; it was the vile food that was the real concern. He found himself battling the urge to run screaming from the establishment, clutching a super-sized sick bag.

Located on the fringe of regulated space, the diner served dishes illegal anywhere else. It specialised in heritage human, grown from the DNA of obscure Earth celebrities. Mankind may have come to dominate space, but some aliens still illicitly enjoyed devouring their flesh. This was the diner’s mission, to boldly cook man in ways no species had ever done before.

Feeling more like an ingredient than a customer, Dave squeezed uncomfortably into a sticky booth, perching opposite two Convocation smugglers. The Convocation were an avian species, with dark plumage, savage beaks and black, dead scavenger eyes. They reminded Dave of elongated, gothic vultures, and like vultures, their diet was varied, opportunistic and fleshy. They were also total ball-breakers. Ruthless and pitiless, with an uncanny ability of sensing weakness in their opponents. The diner had been their choice. Perhaps they thought it was funny. Dave found it hard to tell with these feathered arseholes. They certainly seemed to be enjoying Dave’s deep unease with their choice of cuisine.

“Lighten up Dave, no-one died to make this stuff, it’s practically vegetarian,” snarled the larger of the bird aliens. Dave wasn’t convinced.

“This is nothing, you know we eat our dead relatives as a sign of respect,” observed it’s companion, vastly increasing Dave’s queasiness.

A robot waiter lurked near the table waiting for their order. The waiters at the diner consisted of rogue androids who had slipped their programming and were now looking for casual work. They had mastered their role effortlessly. Superficially appearing polite and attentive, they still managed to exude a fervent desire that their patrons crawled away and died, rather than ordering.

“We ready folks?” the waiter asked.

“What’s the Fight Club Burger?” rasped one of the Convocation.

“Excellent choice. We use prime cuts of actor Brad Pitt, minced and formed into patties, smashed flat and then fried to form a delicious crust. Served in a hamburger roll, with melted cheese,” the waiter replied.

“I’ll have that with French fries and added bacon bits,” the smuggler hissed.

“Certainly sir, most things taste better with added Kevin Bacon,” the waiter noted. “And for you?” he asked the other Convocation.

“The meatloaf good?” it growled.

“A customer favourite. Crafted from Bat Out of Hell singer Meatloaf, ground into mince, with added onions, then formed into a succulent loaf. Served with mashed potatoes and gravy,” the waiter answered.

“I’ll have that, and another Black Russian to drink.”

“You bet, and for you?” said the waiter, addressing Dave.

“Have you got anything without people?” Dave asked.

“Well, I could talk to the chef, he might be able to do you a pizza,” the waiter suggested.

“Fantastic, what do you have?”

“Our best seller is the Goodfellas. Thin crust, homemade tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, all adorned with generous slices of Italian American actors, Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci.”

This waiter really was starting to piss Dave off, he suspected deliberately.

“I don’t suppose you have anchovies, or ham and pineapple instead?” Dave said hopefully.

His enquiry was met with revolted squawking sounds from the Convocation.

“Anchovies, so gross!”

“Pineapple on a pizza, what’s wrong with you?”

The waiter shook his head. Dave sighed, it looked like he was going to go hungry. Trust the Convocation not to appreciate a classic pizza topping, and the diner not to serve them. He hated dumps like this; it reminded him of a youthful stint working in hospitality. That had been his last attempt at honest work.

“Just a mineral water,” Dave said. He did not trust the drink options. The other Convocation was glugging something called a Porn Star Martini, and he shuddered to think what that was made of.

Dave watched the Convocation wetly swallow their meal whole, noisily gulping it down their bulging necks. He waited for the dishes to be cleared, before discussing business. They all altered the translation applications on their smart tech to an encrypted speech mode.

“What’s the assignment Dave? Weapons, drugs, unauthorised clones?”

“Standard smuggling job.”

“Go on.”

“My clients have acquired a small planet with breathable atmosphere, and plan to create a VIP golf retreat and wellness spa. Unfortunately, it seems the seller neglected to mention that the planet was already slightly populated.”

“How remiss of them,” squawked one of the Convocation.

“Especially after such an expensive outlay,” agreed Dave.

“Planets don’t come cheap.”

“Right, and no-one legit will sell them terraforming missiles, not without the standard sentient lifeform safeguards. Luckily, we’ve procured certain items that will solve this minor issue. Just need them delivered, no questions asked.”

“You want us to help you commit genocide, so rich humans can play a dumb game!” croaked one of the aliens.

“Just sick,” declared its colleague.

This was unexpected. Dave was surprised to discover that a species that once existed on carrion had such delicate scruples. The Convocation appeared hostile and agitated, which did not bode well for their recruitment. There appeared no point in any further discussion. Dave paid the bill without tipping, which further outraged the fractious Convocation. Seemed fair enough to Dave, he’d only had a water, the food was unspeakable and the waiter was a dick.

Back on the refuge of his ship, Dave pondered how best to proceed. He felt tired and sick with anxiety. Time was short. His employer would be extremely displeased with any delays and usually showed his displeasure with acts of excessive and flamboyant violence.

Still, there were other options. A rogue branch of the Spinney, a flora-based species may be interested. Basically, walking shrubbery. They liked to stand on their meals and absorb composted nutrients via their mobile roots. No awkward lunch date required for those suckers. Although it would probably be wise not to mention the job lot of herbicides included in the shipment.

He would message the Spinney outcasts, pronto. Dave supposed it would also be prudent to arrange the disposal of the Convocation smugglers. That may ruffle a few feathers, so it would need to be discrete, which also meant expensive. At some point he also needed to reprogram the meal options on the ship’s food replicator. There were a few dishes that he wanted removed.

He should have been ravenous, but the visit to the diner had dragged Dave’s appetite into the dirt and given it a vicious kicking. Human meat was just wrong, maybe with one exception. He’d heard of crash survivors, forced to cannibalise the dead to avoid starvation. Whatever it took to stay alive. Most of the people Dave dealt with wouldn’t even have waited until the dying had stopped twitching. Better to be the consumer, rather than the consumed, he supposed.

Despite his occupational cynicism, there was a small morsel of Dave’s conscience that still winced at the decisions his work required. It was a shame about the Convocation and the destruction of the unspecified creatures on the Golf World, but he also knew you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking any eggs.

“Hey computer, make me a ham omelette,” Dave said to the ship’s food replicator, his appetite finally returning.

Dave never got to sample his omelette. Before the food was ready, a series of targeted assault missiles smashed into his ship, turning him into charred barbeque. Unfortunate, but not totally unexpected. That’s the way the cookie crumbles if you consort with monsters, psychopaths, and paranoid space vultures.

The debris from Dave’s ship drifted in space for decades, until finally crashing on the surface of an undiscovered planet, just in the system’s Goldilocks zone. The shreds of Dave baked into the ship introduced new exciting components to the primordial soup that existed in the planet’s swamp surface. A pinch of Dave completed a complex and lengthy recipe that would eventually lead to the evolution of the planet’s dominant species, a small translucent frog. There are worse legacies.

Sometimes a new flavour or ingredient like Dave can be a revelation, but not always. The Convocation who had ordered the Fight Club Burger was suffering from suspected food poisoning, and the other Convocation had found the meatloaf disappointing. Too dry and under seasoned. They should have tried the mixed bean salad. Made with tasty, marinated slivers of Lord of the Ring’s actor Sean Bean, and Mr Bean comedy actor, Rowan Atkinson. The thespians are served in a nest of chickpeas, sweet onion, cucumber, capers and aromatic herbs, all kissed with an olive oil dressing. It’s to die for.

Joel Bryant

Image: Burger and chips served on a wooden platter on a table with a stone wall in the background. From Pixabay.com