The Weak Do Not Deserve to Eat Here

The Weak Do Not Deserve to Eat Here
a Culinary Review of Kuma's Corner
By Psycho Butcher

It is a discernible fact of human existence that there are stupid, witless human beings who have little appreciation for the life granted to them by dark unknowable powers, and that these are the majority. These people consume vast amounts of frozen food, eat at TGIFridays with some regularity, obsess about their girth, or the lack of it, and generally cannot tell decent food from the massmarket crap that pervades every opportunity to stuff a ho-ho or McNugget into an orifice. Note, gentle reader, I am not saying there is anything wrong with occasionally getting high and debasing one's self with a bag of Doritos, or wandering through the drive through of a Mc Donalds and, in an intoxicated state, shoving fistfuls of lovely fries down ones throat while sitting in a parking space. Such episodes are a vital to the process of being human, and debasement has its place in the scheme of things. The crux of the matter is that stupid people cannot tell the difference between a hamburger that is a true work of culinary genius and a massmarket piece of crap designed to appease the masses. Kuma's serves the former, not the latter. In fact, the hamburgers at Kumas rank among the finest culinary accomplishments in the city, along with the hot dogs at Hot Doug's, the sandwiches at Bari, and the cassoulet at La Sardine.

This place is also notable because it is a bar devoted to Metal, in all its destructive energy, ostentation, glory, and ugly grandeur. It is a virtual shrine to Metal and its aesthetic, from the names of the menu items to the vinyl on display over the bar, from the malevolent bear logo, to the "Die Emo Die" written in chalk above everything else over the bar. It is a place where metalheads go to finally hear their favorite music, played without irony or apology, as they dine, get drunk, or otherwise enjoy themselves. The place is devoted to supporting the local scene, and acts such as The Lair of the Minotaur and Plague Bringer receive equal billing to the likes of Neurosis and Darkthrone.

The place is frequently very busy, especially at those hours when a hamburger and three pints of beer seem like a good idea. If you cannot tolerate a wait for a table, you are weak, you should not go here. The strong know that waiting for a table means that, either the food is good, or that there are not many other options around. Every stupid bar in the city has a hamburger, so the second contingency is void. The food is that good.

I have watched many a petulant couple enter the place, notice the wait, then leave and it is always amusing to note instances where the would-be carnivores were scared off by the music. One particularly notable example walked in, dressed to go somewhere nice, the way yuppies do. The woman, seeing the place and hearing the crushing strains of Mayhem and Pig Destroyer, lambasted the man for bringing her to a trashy place, full of metalhead vermin. He left with his tail between his legs, emasculated. Fool.

I will not describe the menu except to say that the Mac and Cheese is every bit as good as the burgers. The salads are surprisingly good, because to neglect them and have them on the menu would defy the place's monstrous and uncompromising commitment to metal superiority, the selection of beers and wines is appropriate, and that to serve a hamburger, crumbled over a bed of fries, as the Slayer is served, is genius.

I am pleased to report that they have made some progress on their fries, which are now quite good. This is important, because an excellent hamburger served with average fries is an average experience.

Kuma's Corner is as 2900 West Belment. kumascorner.com

It Raised a Black Sword

It raised a black sword. Ivory talons, glistening pale in the icy moonlight, gripped the pommel with an an ancient and terrible fury. The blade was longer that a man is tall, and by the look of it, still sharp after countless centuries in the abyssal void. Its owner roared.

In the surrounding forest, storm birds shook snow from the trees as they alighted. Ruin, they called, startled by beast and man alike.

I faced it with a gleaming axe. This nightmare thing was my enemy by chance alone, and yet, there was no escaping it. Were I to run, it would doggedly pursue me, crossing the threshold of every house I visited till doomsday if need be. A carrion giant, spawn of bloodbirds, from some world where giant mammals roam, forger of iron weapons, world wanderer. It would slip through the ether and find me in my dreams, gaining power with each passing moment.

Now, while it was new to the icy surface of Gondwana, the wraith vulture, worldbender, ebony eye, must be destroyed at the blade of my battle axe.

Its attack came as a sweeping downstroke.

In the dim Southern light, it closed the distance between us with three thundering footfalls, plunging its weapon at my head with an animal fury. Was it guessing I could not see the grey blade in the twilight? Or was it thinking nothing at all, driven by instinct? Its eyes were as empty as blown glass.

I spun to the right, dodging the blade, and swinging my axe in a great circle that intersected squarely the beast's right haunch. I did not hear the thing howl, though it did so. Black blood sprayed from it, bone crunched, and the thing fell forward to the frozen Paleozoic Earth. Even as it did so, it wrenched furiously sideways and backwards so that I would fall with it. I lay on the pebble bank of a frozen stream, solidly beneath the arm of a beastly giant.

What an arm it was Black-skinned, scaly in places, and covered with grey pinfeathers in others.

The vulture giant rolled to its back and brought me tightly against its chest as it did so. Bird hearts do not beat exactly like those of humans, and I heard its noisy blood as two clawed hands raked my armor-clad back and sought to secure a neckbreak hold on my head. By then though, my dagger was unsheathed, and I sought its heart with my blade. Deep and sure, up beneath the breastbone and through layers of muscle and sinew, I thrust the steel blade till my arm was elbow-deep. It flung me to the side, an awkward toss I was to feel for days afterward, but the thing was mortally woulnede. It crumpled into a ball and died.

Quickly, I reached for m notebook and dissection tools.

Beasts like this-betweenworld wanderers, do not last long after death. Something from the other side pulls them home. Maybe, they are resurrected, maybe they return their substance to a vast pool of humor, caloric, and quintessence, from which other monsters are built. Maybe they just die.

In the North, amid the flat forests and scaly trees, where the cockroach kings build mighty castles, our world harbors creatures with such capacity to travel amid the threads of reality; the blueback, the ebon-eye, the skinworm. I cannot imagine that those particular creatures, once fully-grown, are mortal by any means, in this world or another.

Parchment unrolled, quill in hand, I dip my stylus in black ink, warming the bottle between my hands. the moon comes out from among the clouds, and I thank the Metal Gods for helping me defeat my foe. Quietly, I pray to the great four; I pray to Metallica, hearing the sacred music in my head.

My first cut opens the chest cavity. I gaze in awe at all the structures. Tube, bone, and air sac, its ribs are hollow inside, and spongy. A sac near its heart is full of solid stones, polished smooth like gems, textured like fresh soap. I pocket a few of them, wondering if they were ingested on Gondwana or if they are from the creature's strange birthplace. Deftly, I cut its impaled heart from its chest.

It is heavy-perhaps the heft and size of a man's head. Rising, and taking two steps away from the body, I put it under my nose and breathe deep. The monster's essence is still escaping from it. Inhaling, I drink some of the creature's power for my own use.

Strange memories fill my mind.

I spend the next two hours sketching. Twice, I have to light a torch, and later have it blow out in the frigid wind. Three times, I stop and raise my axe, to ward off the strange nocturnal lopings of Lystrosaurs. Finally, the carcass dissolves in smoke, its substance passed back into the aether. I pull my greatcoat over me and sleep, restlessly.

Strange dreams overtake me. Bright fields, and cities made of sticks, rising a hundred hands tall and filled with thousands of birdfaced bests. The thing was a mere chick once.

In the morning, I raise its great sword, too heavy to carry, and heave it into the stony slope, a marker of where the thing perished.

Note the vampire bats lurking in distance

As you can see, Ruby is coming along in the development of vast and dark powers. This video is old. She can spit blood now.

A link to my distant past

Check out the proto-emo look I sport. I wish I could say I was on speed, the way I wave distractedly. Nope. Most of the dorks in the film are total geniuses.