Dining with Chica (Request)

The churning liquid bubbled and hissed as Chica stirred it. Or rather, a mockery of Chica. The thing was bloated, like a drowned corpse. And alive. Gaping gashes in the belly yawned, oozing blood while keratin-coated talons were dug firmly into the floor. Chica gibbered quietly to herself while a rheumy eye stared hungrily at the pot’s contents. The other was swollen with crimson. The words on her bib swam in a swarm of letters, like an angry beehive. They never quite formed a sentence.

Michael had hidden himself in a closet just a few feet away from the gluttonous monstrosity. He had left his bedroom some time ago and was moving around the house, trying to find an exit. Moving between the creatures’ patrols, he entered what seemed to be a kitchen. But it was all wrong.

The room was small, and cluttered. Cooking utensils were scattered around on the floor and on the lone table in the middle of the room, along with various cans and meats that Michael couldn’t identify. Three stoves were at the west side of the room.  There were doors at all corners of the room. Michael didn’t try any of them except for the one he was closest to, in the southeast corner. He heard Chica’s footsteps, and her panting get louder.  Before she opened the door, Michael was already inside the closet. It was cramped, and filled with goods. But it would suffice. There were slits in the door, allowing Michael to peer into the kitchen.

An obnoxious stench emanated from the decaying meats laid haphazardly around the closet’s space. The smell only intensified as Chica came near, and dumped what looked like tomato soup into a pot, which she placed on the stove. Purple flame rose from beneath the instant the pot touched the metal, and soon it was boiling.

Chica stirred the soup with a wooden ladle for a few minutes. Then she opened her stunted, gnarled beak and plunged it in. She withdrew the spittle-covered instrument, and stopped stirring.  She stared at the wall, blankly, before grunting.Then she turned, and began to search the room. She threw aside pots and cans, moving around the room in a circle.

She moved onto doors, and opened them. She moved towards Michael’s closet, and was staring straight at it from across the room. Michael’s heart stopped, as the words on her bib slowed and started to come together. Until she stopped and noticed something of interest, at which point the letters became a whirling mess again.

A horrid green thing was slung across the middle table. It looked like a snake’s shedded skin, but was considerably larger. And opaque. It was the size of an alligator, and held by Chica with two hands. The body was segmented like a centipede with two pincers at one end.  Whatever it was, it was clearly dead.

Chica began tearing the skin-thing apart with clawed hands, placing the shreds into the pot.  When she got to the pincers, she looked at them for a brief second before shoveling  them into her mouth. Then she went back to stirring.

Chica sampled her soup again, this time with her hands. She dipped a massive, yellowed hand into the pot and lifted it above her head, letting the red liquid drain into her beak. It was repulsive, and in the dim light of the kitchen Michael could at last see that the soup was too dark to be tomato. It was much darker, and left red stains on Chica’s bib.

She stopped, and stared off into space again. She grunted, before her head turned towards Michael’s closet, and the body followed suit. Chica moved forward, and threw open the door. She grabbed Michael with both hands, and threw him onto the table. As her claws cut down his chest, the letters on the bib became still, and visible.

“LET’S EAT!!”