By Nick Zverloff
Tomato, garlic, and onion mixed into an aroma powerful as the rock music blasting from the ceiling. Neon lights illuminated the menu behind the counter. Chipotle Showdown Bowl. Tex-Mex Explosion Bowl. Endless Battle Refillable Bowl. A man stood before his restaurant, his outfit ridiculous as his menu names. He wore a jacket with pointed studs on the shoulders, oversized sunglasses, and a single fingerless glove. His t-shirt underneath his jacket portrayed a volcanic eruption with the words “Diagnosis: Delicious” emblazoned on the chest.
His door opened, a customer, overweight, bald, his coat wet from the freezing rain. His face drooped, eyes on the smiling man behind the counter. He walked past the paintings depicting ninjas, dinosaurs, and aliens in battle, toward Dr. Volcano.
“Welcome, dude! Can I get a name for your order?”
The customer muttered, “Rupert.”
“Radical Rupert!” Dr. Volcano gave a thumbs up and danced along with the rock music.
Rupert sighed. “Are you the best cook in town?”
“I sure am. Want proof, my man? I’ll give you my signature Eruption Apocalypse Bowl on the house and let you decide!” He pressed a button on his register. A light flashed and sirens blared. “Free meal alert!”
Rupert sighed, his head slumped. “No.”
Dr. Volcano turned off the sirens. “No?”
“It’s too spicy for me.”
Dr. Volcano waved his arms. “What about my Giant Magic Bean Bowl?” He flicked his wrists and revealed an ace of diamonds from seemingly nowhere. “It cuts the heat, but keeps the flavor, like magic.”
Rupert shook his head, his face drooping like a sad dog. “That’ll give me heartburn.”
“I can offer you my Eternal Garlic Warrior Bowl. Those with acid-reflux and indigestions can handle it. I believe anyone can be a warrior, and this chili bowl proves it!”
Rupert shook his head. Single tear formed in the corner of his eye. “I don’t want that.”
Dr. Volcano smiled. “I’m never one to back down from a challenge. Tell me what you’d like and I’ll crush it like a meteorite, because I’m the best cook in town.” He folded his arms and put on his most confident grin.
“I want chicken noodle soup with” he sobbed, “a little milk and some sugar mixed in.” He wiped tears on his wet cold sleeve. “The way Mom used to make it.”
Dr. Volcano kept his self-assured smile, but sweat poured down his forehead. “You sure? I’m all ‘bout powerful flavor and sizzling spices. Comfort food, it’s not my style.”
“Please.” His shaky hands clasped to Dr. Volcano’s smooth faux-leather jacket. “I need this.”
Dr. Volcano’s eyes raced toward a picture of a space soldier on his wall, Captain Starboom. He stood among a pile of smoldering killer robots with an army racing toward him. He held a gun in each hand and winked at the viewer. Captain Starboom wouldn’t give up, no matter how ghastly the odds. He faced hundreds of deathbots with a smile because he knew he could trash them all before they killed him. Dr. Volcano whispered, “Thanks Captain Starboom.”
Rupert sobbed. Dr. Volcano led him to a chair.
“My man, I never back down, never surrender, and always fight to the end. Sit right there and I’ll return with chicka-nooda-palooza!” He marched to his kitchen like a soldier into battle.
Rupert collapsed on the table, head down, and sobbed. He wept as the music played songs of strength, courage, and hope against the powerful forces of evil. Rupert heard none of this, the only sound his mother’s voice singing lullabies in his mind.
Dr. Volcano returned with a gigantic bowl. Chicken noodle soup, with a little milk and extra sugar mixed in. It came with a novelty spoon, its handle shaped like a broadsword. “This meal is about to erupt!”
Rupert raised his head and looked into Dr. Volcano’s oversized sunglasses.
“It’s what I say before I serve everyone.”
He wiped tears from his face. “She used to tell me it was made with love.”
Dr. Volcano gave a silent thumb up and an awkward smile.
Rupert tasted his soup. He spat it out and fell to the floor, his voice incoherent gloom spilled like mud across the floor.
Dr. Volcano kneeled to meet him. “Do you want something else? It’s still free, my good man.”
“I don’t want soup.” The bald man moaned. “I want my mommy back.”
Dr. Volcano shook his head. “I can’t do that, but I can give you a free meal on the house! How about we move on and trade the past for the future?” He took the chicken noodle soup away. “I’m no fortune teller, but I see explosive flavor on the horizon!”
Rupert sobbed on the floor, curled into a cold wet ball.
Nick Zverloff is from Akron, the strangest city in Ohio. His work can be read in New Realm, Eye To The Telescope, and Scuzzbucket magazines. He’s also into retrogaming and has nonfiction on the subject published on the website Hardcore Gaming 101.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 