He called again,
“We must have been disconnected.”
“Wadda ya tawking bout!”
“We cooks soup for two days in a big pot hanging over a stove…one of our guys fell in it,” he calmly, and slowly articulated, “Hurry!”
After taking all the details, they all came, EMTs, cops, and firemen. Then after long moments that seemed an eternity, and a slow process they got him out. But poor Juanito was already dead. His arms and legs were almost raw to the bone; his clothes had melted into the soup; and his face was gone, no flesh, it was all in the soup. They were told to flush the soup, get rid of it. But it had been cooking for two days, it was the soup of the day, and it had a lot stock in it. It also had a lot of Juanito in it. If they flushed it, there would be no soup du jour. Nobody said anything, but as quietly as it was kept, my friend told me,
“Dude, dem maderforkers served da facking soup, man.”
“Oh yea, they felt they hadda, so they did. Honest man! I wouldn’t eat at dat freaking place, man. Not afta dat, dude.”
“Damn, they made a lot of involuntary cannibals, uh.”
“Ya na it, man.”
Patron was smoking his brains out after that, and every time he lit up he would murmur,
“No bunnies boss,” and a tear would roll down his cheek.
Not everybody is going to go through something like that, but things happen sometimes, and it just can’t be helped. Tobacco to the rescue! I’ve always wondered how the guest would’ve felt if they knew. But, it’s history we can only wonder about the what ifs.