Lump

Octopus Soup

Octopus Soup

THE FIRST THING YOU notice is the smell. It is onions, garlic, and basil. You think you might be having pizza, but when you open your eyes, you’re sitting in a pan with potatoes, carrots, and mushrooms, inside a giant oven. The temperature is slowly rising.

You don’t remember quite how you got into this predicament, but you do recall meeting some very strange characters the night before who asked a lot of personal questions about your health. How much did you weigh, what did you eat in the last week, what kind of exercise did you do, things of that nature.

You struggle against bindings that hold you in the pan, they aren’t thick, but they bite into your bare skin. You suddenly remember more.

Earlier that day, before meeting the odd individuals, you ate half a gallon of ice cream. You didn’t mention that to them during their questioning. Who would admit to such a feat? It was gluttonous and disgusting, and you remember feeling that way about yourself after the last bite went down. Before that you were at the gym. Before that you were at a friend’s house trying to teach her child how to tie his shoes.

The oven opens and light spills inside. Bright, luminous light, much different than the red glow cast from the elements in the top and bottom of the oven. Something is stuck into the pan and you feel a hot liquid wash over your legs. You cry out in pain. Then comes another sensation. Something has been stabbed into your thigh. You struggle to look and see a meat thermometer sticking from your leg. You watch as the temperature rises. The needle stops on a line that reads, “Martian.” Above that is Venusian, Jupiterite, and Earthling.

You gasp, trying to breathe the hot air inside the oven. Your lungs burn. Your eyes feel like they may burst.

Suddenly, when a tentacle, complete with suction cups, reaches into the oven, you remember what may have spawned the idea of eating you in the individual’s heads.

Last night, when you met them, you were eating the octopus soup.