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La Troff: The Famous Revolving Restaurant

Wes Heine

    The La Troff is always open. All well-established species are feasting there on the windy tower of night. Anything that is anything, makes an appearance before it becomes something else. Friends may come and go, but the party never ends. It is a never-ending parade of consumption streaming out of UN-blinking faces eating each other as they wait in line. Swallowing tails and birthing mouths, vast beings too large to see excrete new variations of mutated children who are eaten by lower life forms lurking under the silk tablecloths.
    The fountain in the center of this famous bistro spurts branches of frozen ectoplasm, jets of veins and nerves, which bloom ever so slowly. Here family trees are food chains that sway in slow motion like florescent seaweed against the galaxies.
    Golden pools of greasy birth-broth shimmer under dripping wax chandeliers, as hyper-shifting amphibians mutate before your eyes in bisques of cess. Tables are flat petrified mushrooms covered by the silk spun from the webs of sea spiders. Drinks are dispensed from specially bred mollusk/cows called Semelians with long wrinkled nipples streaming across tables like hoses of a hookah.
    The La Troff goes round and round as the florescent lights fade in and out: Patrons shifting through shadows, their eyes growing cold, blue, and blind as lampreys sucking on a host as they sleep. This lazy motionless circle of species eat each other’s excrement from the dilating shoots of fleshy wormholes and birth canals. Every lunar month the same piece of fecal fiber passes through this perfect ring of sustenance, which is nourished primarily on what little meat is rubbed off the intestines by the hard recycled fecal fibers passing through like strands of steel-wool processed into a fine golden gristle... always cutting, scrapping, feeding their insides to themselves, turning inside out and back again... This perpetual cannibalistic, described by a restaurant critic as, “One organism in an act of suicidal masturbation.”
    The Wurm is the proprietor of The La Troff, and many rumors about his background silently ricochet back and forth in the telepathic haze of the restaurant. Many believe that the Wurm was spawned by a space serpent, one of the Andromeda Galaxy’s blue spiral arms, who smoked anti-matter and exhaled neon nebula gasses where he and the rest of the Wurm’s larval brethren congealed in the distillery of their plasma-star mother.
    His mother was that hole in space, a burnt-out white draft, a ghost gasping out her last wisp of light with the gift of life. The Wurm was part of her final batch of children to be coughed out into the corners of all eternity like baby spiders riding the galactic tides... soaring on kite-string made from the web of their dried larval birth tissue.
    Though the origin of the Wurm himself was left to speculation, how the Wurm came to be the owner and Patron Saint of the La Troff was well known. The story is from the bygone days when information was still processed in linear time: Before the restaurant sat with its eyes in the back of its head, consuming endlessly in the dark pit of never. Here is the story distilled down into the dimension occupied by humanity:

    The Maitre’ De at the La Troff nervously twisted his handlebar mustache between his thumb and index finger as if to sharpen the ends for battle.
    The Wurm was back... He was supposed to be barred from the five-star restaurant for life. The La Troff sat on the top floor of the Mucron Building where it elegantly rotated in the sky above Liberty City... But now the Wurm was waddling in... He thought, “That two-bit doorman must have been bribed.”
    “Just how am I going to get the Wurm to leave without making a scene?” the Maitre’ De mumbled. He let go of his mustache, which by now was crooked and sizzled giving off the smell of burnt shoe-polish. “This will be a most delicate situation.”
    The Wurm could well afford the cuisine, but he always cost the restaurant triple when they lost customers. The appearance of the Wurm was incredibly foil. His rolls of fat hung from his chin and disappeared into his suit like a segmented worm, hence the name, which he proudly bore.
    The Wurm had very pale skin and pig freckles. His pasty complexion was contrasted sharply by his thick, greasy, jet-black hair, which was slicked back by his own gummy sweat. But by the time he was halfway across the dinning room the central-air of the La Troff was drying the Wurm’s hair creating cowlicks that popped up like raven feathers.
    The grease from his scalp had dripped down his brow and created purple acne and a custom made skin-disease that looked like sprinkled powered cheese. And this was just in the places that the Wurm was actually able to reach and wash.
    The Wurm jostled his massive frame between patrons and sat himself at the center table overlooking the fountain.
    Ms. Triver, a regular patron, was visibly upset. The Wurm had accidentally tipped her chair as he passed and her face was pushed into her oily plate of Goat Cheese Salad. Ms. Triver had what was jokingly referred to as Success Tremors, a condition common among work-aholics.
    She didn’t need the additional stress. Ms. Triver desperately averted her eyes from the Wurm as she buried her nose in her purse looking for a handkerchief and talking into her cell-phone with no one on the other end.
    The Wurm spotted a basket of bread rolls in the center of the table and instantly began to salivate, the drool dripping down his suit. His solid black cartoon eyes spun in wild anticipation. Then he reached out a chubby hand, which the rolls stuck to like flies to wax-paper.
    He flicked the rolls into his mouth one by one like popping so many tic-tacs. He loved such fine cuisine, even though he was known to place a Big Mac into a blender and chug it down for breakfast. He rarely slowed to actually taste the fine La Troff portions, but merely enjoyed how well they digested in his overworked gut and sifted into his bloodstream like fine gold dust.
    The Wurm always sweated when he ate. This created a web-like-shell around his body that protected him as he ingested. Watching the Wurm eat was like watching a giant larva spin a great greasy cocoon.
    The Wurm carried a cloud of many undifferentiated odors with him. This is due to the fact he was too large to wash most areas of his body. He could not reach his anus with any of the specially designed back-brushes that he had ordered. Thus, his entire backside had become an intricate crevasse of flaps and curves made of dirty, raw, and rotten flesh where stalagmites of petrified dung hung speckled with ripening zits on infected sores. All this hardened compost clung to him like cement between his thighs weathering down his genitals leaving them to bleed as he walked.
    The Wurm labored and moaned over his consumption of the rolls. His innards churned with the wharfing chemistry of turning what he had in-hailed into feces.
    The Wurm, just like his namesake, had to constantly eat to move. He would sift through the world harvesting nutrients with a constant flow of dirt running through his intestines, which he shot out his anus like jet propulsion into adult diapers that hung and swayed like a sail pushing him forward. When full the Wurm would randomly empty his vast excretion-canopy as if he were a drifting hot-air-balloon dropping off ballast from his basket to float onto further taste-bud stimuli.
    What appeared to be a dab of mayonnaise was caught in the corner of The Wurm’s mouth. A gray tongue crawled out and scooped up the gelatinous white morsel. The Wurm smacked his gums as he chewed, and then began to blow a large bubble out between his lips with blue veins expanding across the it’s white surface.
    Everyone in The La Troff was transfixed with horror, but couldn’t look away. They were mortified as the bubble suddenly popped and imploded back into the Wurm’s mouth where he gnawed it like cud.
    The loud pop had seemed to free most of the La Troff’s patrons from their hypnotized gaze. They scurried to the door tipping over tables and throwing cash in the air like confetti.
    The Maitre’ De tried to block them, flaying his arms about pleading, “Do not leave! I will deal with this matter!” But he was overrun by the crowd, and fell into Ms. Triver’s Goat Cheese Salad.
    After being overrun by the rush of disgust, the Maitre’ De picked himself up, snapped his fingers sassily, and began to march his way toward the Wurm swishing and swaying his hips with attitude.
    “Monsieur! You have been barred from this res-tau-rant! I must ask you to leave at once before you cost us anymore bus-i-ness!”
    The Wurm didn’t look up from his meticulous consumption of the condiments on the table, and merely reached into his jacket pocket pulling out a long piece of paper. “As of this morning,” began the Wurm still chewing on peppercorns and ketch-sup, “I own the La Troff.”
    The Matrdee’s limp hand spun circles back to his brow from the shock of realizing that the deed was authentic.
    “And if we run out of business,” the Wurm said grinning, “the entire staff will become part of my personal kitchen at my estate. The cooks at the La Troff make the finest cuisine!”
    The Maitre’ De snapped his fingers. All the waiters assembled at his side, their arms folded behind their backs and their eyes pointing to their shoes.
    “What is your wish monsieur?” The Maitre’ De smartly added.
    The Wurm’s chubby face segmented with pleasure. “I’ll have the number four special... and multiply it with the number ten to create some a kind of seafood casserole... Then deep-fry the whole damn thing into a giant lollipop!”
    “Very good sir.”
    The Maitre’ De gracefully skipped off into the kitchen just as Jack Yellow stepped out of the walk-in cooler. Jack was the assistant cook. He had been the dishwasher at the La Troff since he was sixteen, and now after four years he had received a change in position and a slight increase in pay.
    Jack had just finished a large joint during his break back in the freezer. As he extinguished the roach in a tray of shrimp he decided to quit his job. It wasn’t going anywhere.
    “Jack!” yelled the Maitre’ De, “We need a number four and a number ten to be turned into a number forty! And don’t mess up the math this time!”
    Jack fantasized about which bodily fluids he could fill the order with, but he couldn’t stand it a minute longer. He had enough. So he threw down his apron and began making his way out.
    “What are you doing! Come back! The owner is out there!” The Maitre’ De called after him.
    “Go eat-out your grandma!” grunted Jack over his shoulder.
    Before he left the building Jack slipped into the utility room. He smirked and turned the hydraulic controls that ran the rotation of the restaurant up to full blast.
    Jack was already through the lobby and out the door before the top floor of the Mucron Building started to increase in speed. Glasses began to slide off the tables, the chandelier began to shake, and then the entire La Troff began to spin like a mad carousel.
    The Wurm and what was left of the patrons began heaving their exotic meals onto the antique carpet. Some of what was purged-up was still alive but quickly killed as the spinning restaurant splattered everything loose against the outer windows.
    Finally the velocity of the hydraulics made the La Troff restaurant completely dislodge from the Mucron Building, and the entire top floor spun away across the city.
    Dozens of UFO reports were made that day. The restaurant spiraled off until it blinked out of sight, left linear time, and into a realm of regressing limbo. Today, if you use a Geiger-counter, you can still detect the La Troff’s invisible presence hanging somewhere high above the city like a hole in the air. Sometimes when it rains you can almost taste the bile and rust in the back of your throat.

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