[Lucifer] Ch: 49 [Malcom's Hell Loop] (Patreon)

[Interlude] [Note: You can skip it. It's basically a filler.]😬😬

Welcome to the Golden Trough.

That was the name written in bright neon letters above the entrance of the most exclusive steakhouse in Los Angeles. Malcolm Graham sat at the absolute center of the main dining room, occupying a throne made of crushed velvet and gold leaf. The room was packed with people he recognized. The mayor was present. The chief of police was there, too. Dan Espinoza was also in attendance, standing in the corner wearing a small maid outfit and serving drinks to the criminals.

Malcolm laughed until his chest ached. He had won. He had survived the Palmetto warehouse. He had taken the money, framed his colleagues, and somehow emerged as the undisputed king of the city.

The waiters, tall men with unnervingly wide smiles and perfectly blank eyes, carried out platters of food that defied logic. There were mountains of truffle fries, lobsters the size of small dogs, and a chocolate fountain that sprayed directly into the open mouths of cheering politicians.

"To Detective Graham!" a man in a very expensive suit shouted, raising a glass of incredibly expensive champagne. "The smartest man in the LAPD!"

"Hear, hear!" the crowd roared.

Malcolm grinned and rubbed his hands together. A waiter stepped forward and placed the crown jewel of the banquet on the table right in front of him. It was a Tomahawk ribeye steak, thick as a phone book, glistening with garlic butter and smelling like absolute victory.

"Don't mind if I do," Malcolm said. He picked up his silver knife and fork.

He didn't even bother cutting a reasonable piece. He hacked off a chunk of meat the size of a baseball, shoved it into his mouth, and bit down with all his might.

The steak tasted like heaven for exactly one second. Then, a piece of bone completely invisible to the naked eye wedged itself sideways perfectly across his windpipe.

Malcolm stopped chewing. His eyes widened. He tried to swallow, but the bone felt like a steel girder locked in place. He tried to inhale, but only a pathetic, high-pitched squeak escaped his lips.

He dropped his fork and grabbed his throat.

"Look at him go!" the mayor cheered. "He loves it!"

Malcolm stood up, his face turning a vibrant shade of plum. He knocked over his wine glass and slammed both hands onto the table, silently begging for help.

The waiter with the wide smile stepped forward, pulled out a violin from nowhere, and began playing a jaunty, upbeat tavern tune.

Malcolm stumbled backward, clutching his neck. He looked at Dan in the maid outfit. Dan simply gave him a thumbs-up and continued pouring drinks. Malcolm dropped to his knees, his vision tunneling into a tiny pinprick of light. He threw himself onto the floor, thrashing like a fish on a dock, aggressively pointing at his own throat.

"Encore!" the chief of police yelled, tossing a handful of rose petals onto Malcolm's twitching body.

Malcolm gave one last pathetic kick, his face now the color of a bruised eggplant, and everything faded to black.

...

Welcome to the Golden Trough.

Malcolm blinked. He was sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table again. The velvet throne felt soft beneath him. The neon lights buzzed happily overhead.

He rubbed his neck, feeling a strange, phantom ache right in the center of his throat. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. Something felt very wrong, though he could not quite remember what it was.

"To Detective Graham!" the man in the suit shouted again. "The smartest man in the LAPD!"

The crowd roared.

The waiter stepped forward and placed the massive Tomahawk steak in front of him.

Malcolm stared at the meat. A profound sense of dread washed over him. The garlic butter no longer smelled good. 

"Take it away," Malcolm ordered, waving his hand frantically. "I don't want the steak. The steak is cursed."

The waiter tilted his head, his smile stretching a fraction too wide. "Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

The waiter whisked the steak away and snapped his fingers. Another waiter rushed forward, carrying a massive silver platter packed with crushed ice. Resting on the ice were two dozen fresh, glistening oysters, each one practically vibrating with an unnatural, neon green glow.

"Ah, the seafood," Malcolm said, his confidence returning. "Much safer. Good for the brain... Good for the king."

He grabbed a tiny silver fork, scooped up the largest oyster, and tossed it back. It slid down his throat like a cold, slimy bullet.

Exactly three seconds later, Malcolm's stomach made a noise that sounded remarkably like a chainsaw starting inside an empty metal garbage can.

He froze. The smile melted off his face.

The green glow from the oyster was now visible through his white dress shirt, illuminating his abdomen like a radioactive lava lamp.

"Holy shit!" Malcolm looked down at his stomach.

His stomach made a second noise. This one sounded like a submarine imploding under extreme pressure.

"He is digesting!" the mayor cheered, clapping his hands. "A true champion of the culinary arts!"

Malcolm clutched his stomach and stood up. He needed a bathroom and an exorcist along with a completely new digestive tract. He took one step toward the hallway, and his knees instantly buckled.

The pain was astronomical. It felt as though he had swallowed a live badger that was now trying to dig its way out through his belly button. He collapsed onto the expensive carpet, curling into a tight, miserable ball.

"Motherfuckers help!" Malcolm groaned, sweat pouring from his face like rain. "Someone get a doctor."

The waiter with the violin stepped over Malcolm's writhing body and began playing a fast-paced polka.

Malcolm let out a wail of pure agony. His stomach expanded violently, bloating to twice its normal size. The neon green glow pulsed to the beat of the polka music. He rolled onto his back, screaming as loud as his lungs would allow, his body temperature spiking to volcanic levels.

"Look at the colors!" Dan yelled from the corner, adjusting his little lace apron. "Spectacular!"

Malcolm exploded.

...

Welcome to the Golden Trough.

Malcolm struggled to breathe, his hands moving to his flat, normal stomach. He checked his throat. It was clear. He looked around the room in a panic. There was the velvet throne, the mayor, the cheering crowd, and Dan in the stupid apron.

"To Detective Graham!" the suit shouted. "The smartest man in the LAPD!"

"Shut up!" Malcolm screamed, standing up and knocking his chair over. "Everyone just shut up!"

The room fell dead silent. The violin-playing waiter froze mid-bow.

Malcolm backed away from the table, breathing heavily. He remembered the steak and the oysters. He finally understood what was going on. They were trying to kill him. But he was back to life again. Considering his puny brain, he failed to grasp the situation properly.

"I am not eating anything," Malcolm declared, pointing an accusatory finger at the kitchen doors. "You hear me? Not a single bite. You cannot kill me if I do not eat your poison."

The waiter smiled, his eyes completely hollow. "Very well, sir. Fasting it is."

The waiters cleared the table instantly. They took the silverware, the plates, the glasses, and the tablecloth. Malcolm crossed his arms and stood his ground. He felt quite proud of himself. He had cracked the code. He had beaten the system.

Then, his stomach growled.

It was a small rumble at first, but it quickly grew into a sharp, clawing hunger.

"Nice try," Malcolm said to the empty room. "I can wait you out."

But time in the Golden Trough did not work normally. Within thirty seconds, Malcolm felt like he had not eaten in a week. His mouth turned incredibly dry. His lips cracked.

Within a minute, his clothes started to feel loose. He looked down and gasped. His arms were shrinking. The muscle and fat were simply melting away, leaving behind thin, fragile sticks of bone wrapped in pale skin.

"What are you doing to me?" Malcolm panicked, his voice sounding thin and raspy.

A waiter walked past carrying a plate of fresh, hot chocolate chip cookies. The smell hit Malcolm like a physical blow. He lunged for the plate, but the waiter simply sidestepped him with supernatural speed.

Malcolm crashed to the floor. He tried to push himself up, but he had no strength left. His uniform hung off his emaciated frame like a tent. He felt a profound, cavernous emptiness inside his body that screamed for sustenance.

Another waiter walked by, dragging a roasted pig on a silver cart. The pig turned its head, looked directly at Malcolm, and winked.

"Please," Malcolm begged, dragging his skeletal body across the carpet. "Just one fry... No, just a crumb."

The mayor leaned over him, holding a massive, juicy hamburger. The grease dripped onto Malcolm's forehead.

"He possesses such discipline," the mayor noted thoughtfully. "A true inspiration to us all."

Malcolm reached up with a trembling, bony hand, trying to grab the burger. His fingers brushed the warm bun, but then his arm simply snapped under its own nonexistent weight. He let out a dry, dust-filled cough. "Motherfuckers..." His vision blurred as the terrible, hollow pain of absolute starvation consumed his mind, and darkness claimed him once again.

...