Supersession69 and the case of the (CENSORED) Asian Fusion Restaurant

Hungry.

Supersession69 (that's me) is hungry.

I could eat several asses, regardless of gender. That's how hungry I am. I want to hop down to the nearest orphanage and devour parentless babies. I want to crunch on their soft bones, chew into their bodies like I'm biting into a block of rubber. I want to do all of that now.

Unfortunately, eating babies in the year 3018 is still illegal, so I settle for something just as vile: Chinese food.

It's not that I hate Chinese food. No, I wouldn't say that. I like the way the oil settles in my stomach, how greasy your fingers'll fucking get as you slorp through sour pork after sour pork. I like chomping on bulbs of garlic, because Chinese dishes like to do that; they like to drop entire sections of eye-watering, sinus-clearing garlic bulbs into their cooking, and it'll be like navigating a fucking minefield. I know that when I cook, I use at least a minimum of six garlic bulbs. I like that. It makes me feel like a fat, sloppy king.

But I hate it. It's like playing a bad game you're good at; you play, you say you hate it, but you can't stomach anything else.

The moment I step into the restaurant, I smell it: the smoke, the smell of burning oil, everything. I love it; I hate it. Of all of the things that carried over into the new age, why did it have to be Chinese food?

"One Wonton Mein, please," I say in perfect Chinese, and slap a fistful of coins onto the counter.

The man behind the counter is very clearly not Chinese, because not only does he have blond hair, but he also replies in full English. "Sorry, what was that?" he asks.

I repeat, "One Wonton Mein," in English this time. The cashier nods, and I take my seat at a nearby table.

…

…

An hour passes. Two hours.

…

…

Three hours. I'm the only fucking guy in this establishment, dammit! What's taking so lon—

"Here you go, sir." A woman places a clay bowl in front of me. My jaw drops.

The bowl is about the size of my fist if I had baby hands instead of adult hands. In the bowl is a single, tiny, glistening wonton. The soup is clear, and a sliver of green onion serves as the dish's garnish.

…What the fuck is this? What the fuck happened to good old Chinese takeaway while I was jerking off for ten years?

No. No. I know what this is. Fuming, I storm up to the cashier and slam my "dish" into the counter. Some of the soup spills over the side. I don't care.

"What the fuck is this?" I ask—no. I demand. "Three hours, and you come out here, serve me fucking atoms, then expect me to be okay with that?!"

Then come the dreaded words. "Sir, we're a fusion restaurant. And you're about three thousand coins off payment."

It's like the air is slipping from my lungs, and suddenly I'm fucking asphyxiating. Fusion. Asian Fusion. I clutch at the counter, bare my weight against the world, but I think I'm going to faint anyway.

No. Stay strong, I tell myself.

"You know what? Fuck Asian Fusion. Fuck this shit, this—what even is this? Why am I paying millions of coins just to eat glorified SCRAPS out of your bowls for babies? You know I could grab, like, at least ten bowls of the same shit for a fraction of the money I just gave you, right? And what is this? Fusion? What the fuck are you fusing wontons with, my fucking balls? This is just wonton soup, but you shat in it I guess, so now it's a billion, kajillion coins and oh, I'm paying for the experience of eating your shit too, so add another morbillion to my bill, why don't you? This is wrong, and you know why? It's not Asian food. This is westernised drivel, prettied up in culinary plating etiquette and all that other western stuff. This isn't Chinese food, this is what happens when you kill the owner of a Chinese restaurant and forcibly take over their establishment so you can sell your "Chinese food" to other fuckers who don't care about China anymore. But it's okay, isn't it? The food costs a lot, and it's fucking trendy to spend that much money on food, because being rich is way better eating good these days. Fuck your fucking food, and keep your fusion out of Asian cuisine."

At this point, the cashier has already called the cops ten times over; they have responded to none of his calls. For a moment, I'm happy with what I've just unloaded onto this poor guy.

And then I hear a bang, and the world turns black.

—

My gun smokes as the tranquilliser leaves the barrel. Supersession69's body slumps over.

The owner watches me as I step into the restaurant. I give him a nervous smile.

“He should’ve gone to that other Chinese place down the road, huh? Can’t believe he accidentally went to fusion instead. Name’s Derek, by the way.” I hand him my business card; the card is made from plastic and the name Derek Lee has been hastily scrawled into it with a dry erase whiteboard pen.

The owner doesn’t say anything. He probably just doesn’t get it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your establishment soon. Wouldn’t want you to lose even more customers, heh.” (The restaurant is empty).

I lean over and pick up Supersession69’s body by his greasy hair.

I look at his face.

And see my own.