Elevator Food

All right, all right Dr. Kavoski, I’ll tell you my story one last time.  It’s going to be the same tale I told the courts and you all along.  Nothing will change.  My account is totally true . . .


I was an electrical engineer for Peewee Buildings, Inc.  We had a huge deal to build a new mega mall on Luna–I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It was all over the news.  It was going to be the size of a small town, with a gigantic Titan-a-glas dome covering it. Talk about spectacular view.

Everything was basically set, except for a quick way to transport people from Earth up to the Moon Mall. Our job–that is twenty of my colleagues plus myself–was to hook up the transport elevators and get them up running.  There were going to be three elevators, each the size of a small cabin.  They were attached to the cable that extended from Earth to Luna. They had a weight limit of nine hundred fifty tons.  That made them some of the strongest elevators ever created.

One day, all twenty-one of us boneheads were on an elevator simultaneously checking it out and working on it.  I was on my break so I decided to head over to the self-service bar.  The trip up or down would take several days, so all twelve elevators were fitted with amenities, like sleeping quarters, dining areas, and self-serve bars.  I brought out the liquor and helped myself to a Long Island iced tea.

I just began to sip my tea when the elevator doors closed and I felt it jerk as it began its ascent.  I initially thought that some dumbass forgot to tell us they were testing to see if it worked, but then the elevator’s control panel exploded.  The regular lights went out and the emergency ones flickered into illumination.

At first I was upset; then I realized that the elevator’s radio had lost power and I could no longer hear that crappy soft rock music.  I twirled around on my barstool and sipped my Long Island iced tea.  I figured in about ten minutes the elevator would stop its ascension and return to Earth, where a buff construction worker would pry open the door using his sweaty muscles and get me out of there.  He would give me a ride home in his Mercedes.  At his house we would make passionate love all through the night . . .

Ooops, I got off track didn’t I?  Okay, where was I?  All right, ten minutes passed and no knight in shining armor came to my rescue.  At the time, I was unaware that we were the only idiots at the construction site.  And on a Friday too!  Nobody would’ve been back until Monday! I would be stuck together for the weekend with those losers, or until somebody noticed this horrible error–whichever came first.  Well, as long as I had an unlimited supply of Long Island iced teas, I figured I was fine.

All right, my numskull coworkers began running up and down the elevator crying and screaming, “What we gonna do?  What we gonna do?”  Personally, I didn’t give a crap what they did, as long as they left my iced tea and me alone.

A lot of my coworkers said that they needed a drink and hit the bottle pretty hard.  By the next night, we had a house-sized elevator filled with drunks.  Like the panicky, pathetic losers they were, they drank up all the alcohol and ate all the finger foods in a day.

I went to lie down to go to sleep.  I woke up ten minutes later realizing that I was sleeping head first in someone’s vomit.  In fact, the whole elevator smelt like throw-up.  Some of the fat ones on board claimed that they were hungry, even though they could survive off their blubber for two years.  As a group, they decided to rid the elevator of the spit-up by eating it.

Now, instead of my surroundings smelling like half digested ham sandwiches, I had blubber butts trying to talk to me with breath that smelled like half digested ham sandwiches and stomach acid combined.  I’m just glad I didn’t sleep with any of those losers. Or did I?  I don’t remember, and I truly don’t care.

We all slept like little babies.  We had hangovers like drunkards in the gutter.  On day two, at around noon, the fat people–this included six men and four women–formed a huge huddle.  It looked like a football offensive line discussing the next play.  They even placed their short, flabby hands in the middle and yelled “break” when disbanding.

With hungry–no, ravenous–eyes, they began creeping slowly towards John Johnson.  John was a skinny toothpick that couldn’t lift a toothbrush with both hands.  John saw the gang of fatties approach him.  John trembled, and then started to run from them.  The fatties followed in hot pursuit.  They chased John around our cell.  He tried to get away, but became trapped in a corner.

Wheezing, the Fat Boys and Girls pounced on him like starving, rabid lions.  The other ten of us watched the fatties devour John–raw, uncooked, and still alive.  We didn’t intervene, fearing that we would be their next meal.

Two hours later, the Fat Gang took another victim.  This time it was a human Barbie doll, plastic parts included, who slept with the boss to get put on the assignment.  I helped the Fat Gang trap her by knocking her out with an empty rum bottle.  Since I assisted them in capturing a meal, the Fat Gang gave me permission to have the first body part.  I passed on the offer.  I rather die hungry than eat the company whore.

The Fat Gang continued eating their coworkers until I was the only skinny person left, and it was only Sunday afternoon. We were still a couple of days away from docking at the Moon Mall. I was afraid that none of us would make it there alive.

Seeing my fellow coworkers’ fates, I didn’t even attempt to run like my friend John.  Knowing I’ll be their last skinny meal, the Fat Gang got in an argument over who got what part of me.

The arguments got so heated that they started throwing blows.  Christopher Plops hit Jackie Smells over the head with a barstool, killing her.  Seeing her dead, the Fat Gang began eating her.  In fact, they liked the fat one so much that they didn’t even bother trying to eat me.  One after another, the members of the Infamous Fat Mob got devoured until only the ringleader, Lenny Proctor, remained.

Lenny Proctor always had a crush on me, and I knew that he’d want to have sex with me before he ate me.  I wasn’t going to have that.  I faked, as most women do, that I also wanted to have sex with him.  When he got close to me and I could smell his disgusting raw human meat breath, I blinded him with the can of mace I kept in my purse.  He smacked me and it was on.

I took off my earrings and removed my high heels.  He charged me like a deranged bull and I stuck my nine-inch heel into his skull.

I survived off of his meat until Tuesday, when the elevator finally arrived at Luna.  I tell you what, the workers at the Moon Mall were shocked when the elevator docked at their station. Luckily they had it completed. They weren’t expecting the first test lift to happen until that Friday. Boy, were they shocked–especially how they found me.

When they pried open the door, I was sitting, front-and-center, gnawing on one of Lenny’s legs.  The workers just stared at me, too stunned about the whole situation to do say anything.  I guess they didn’t expect to see cannibalism in the elevator car. I got arrested, charged with twenty accounts of murder and a whole bunch of other crimes that I can’t even remember, put on trial and sentenced.

Obviously, the courts didn’t believe my story. I told them about the Fat Gang and how they started the cannibalism. But nobody believed me. Prosecutors–along with detectives, medical examiners, and other “expert” witnesses–said something about holes in all twenty skulls of my coworkers that are consistent with what a nine-inch heel would make. What do they know! How can a person be a “witness” when the person wasn’t even there? I guess I shouldn’t had confessed to killing Lenny with my shoe.

My public defender pleaded insanity for me.  Sure, I get a bit claustrophobic, and maybe I do hate fucking fat people, and maybe I was a little stressed out at the time, but I’m not crazy. I got sent to this stupid mental hospital until I’m sane enough to go to a regular prison.  And you know what happened from there.

Yesterday you said that I had about two more weeks here in this dump and I’m wondering if that still stands.  You know, I’ve been thinking about writing down what happened to me and make a million dollars off the book.  I even got a great title for it: Elevator Food. Catchy, isn’t it?

*This short story appears in free eBook Stranger Than Speculative Fiction, Vol. 2.

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