LARGE SAUSAGE?

The sordid tale of this story, as explained on my weblog in Feb. 2006: I had a piece of fiction published semi-locally (by the NC Association of Women's Clubs, no joke) in 1998, and it was humiliating because the piece was submitted without my knowledge and I was not pleased at all for various reasons, best summarized by simply saying it was not an effort I was proud of. [Because the piece was not written seriously and was actually done for my freaking MATH class in thirty-five minutes, I used an idea that was, basically, not mine at all.] That made it much, much more embarrassing when I won first prize in the Southport-area contest with it, then second prize in the statewide competition (which led to the publication. a copy of which I never received). I was proud of the awards but very much wished that my chair did not creak so loudly when I accepted the first one, and even more so that the material was better, and better in fact than I was capable of making it at the time, or at least more original. And I also felt awful that my best friend at the time had written a very mature piece that was disqualified due to length. It was a weird situation I don't like to remember. It was for this reason that even though people really seemed to like this story, I never posted it here or intended to do so. But read on.

I think of it all a little more fondly because we had a "young author's" night packed with people at the end of the school year, and I read the story and performed the dialogue in my Torgo voice and stretched out all the sadistic parts and at the very least saved the crowd from the seven poems about "love" that preceded me. That was great, and I think that's the kind of feeling I wanted to revisit.

Not one to deny the past, I present the awful story here in its entirety, but if you could hear me reading it, you'd enjoy it. My apologies to the late Harold P. Warren for stealing his character and getting locally acclaimed for it.


All he wanted was a pizza, but the only thing Dave received was the most terrifying night of his life.

It was 9:00 on Halloween night. By now, the army of trick-or-treaters had ended their activity and gone home for the night. Unfortunately, they didn’t leave without making it a point to take all of his beloved candy.

Dave was hungry.

He wanted a pizza. He picked up his phone book and located the only place in town that delivered. It was a small, individual restaurant known as Torgo’s Pizza Palace. Nobody really knew where it had come from or why it was there, but it had been there for so long that the citizens always assumed someone else knew why it was there and they were too polite to say anything. Sure, the pizza tasted a little strange, but Dave was so hungry he could have consumed an entire McDonald’s hamburger without vomiting afterward and becoming quite dizzy for several hours.

Outside of Dave’s small house, his bloodhound Rover began to bark loudly. Someone knocked on the door. Dave angrily mumbled as he walked down the hall. “Oh, [expletive]. Probably those [expletive] trick-or-treaters wanting some of their [expletive] candy again. [Expletive].” When he opened the door, however, he was surprised to see that the person knocking was not a child at all. It was a dark-skinned man with what appeared to be burn marks and scars on his face. The man did not seem to have any knees. In their place, it looked as if his legs were filled with fluid. He wore a “TORGO” T-shirt.

“L-l-l-arge s-s-s-aus-a-a-ge?”

“What?” Dave replied. “You must have the wrong house. I was planning to order a large sausage pizza, but I haven’t yet. What a coincidence.”

Torgo laughed. “a-HA! HA! HEE! EE! EE!” His laughing sounded like a suffocating cat. “It is quite a co-o-o-o-o-inci-i-i-dence. I am s-s-s-orry. I got the w-w-w-rong hou-u-u-se! a-HA! HA! EE! EE! EE! EE! EE!”

Dave smiled nervously.

“By the wa-a-a-a-y,” Torgo continued, “that is a nice dog you have.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dave replied. “That’s my bloodhound, Rover.”

“Y-y-y-es. A very n-n-n-ice do-o-g.” Torgo turned to Dave. “I am very sorry if-if-if I was an in-n-n-convenience. G-g-g-ood ni-i-i-ght, s-s-ir.”

“Good night.” Dave closed the door. Despite that unpleasent experience, he still wanted his pizza, and he was going to get it! He immediately walked to the phone in order to try to get a different delivery man.

Dave picked up the reciever and dialed the number, which was 555-8364. To his shock, it was answered by the same man.

“H-h-h-ello?”

“Hey! That’s odd! Weren’t you just at my door?” Dave inquired.

“Oh, y-y-yes. Y-Y-ou’re the m-m-man with the d-d-dog. Are y-y-ou calling to p-p-p-lace an order?”

“Yes, um . . . I’d like a large sausage pizza and a Mr. Pibb.”

“Tha-a-a-t can be arranged, my f-f-friend. I will bring it to you right now.”

“But aren’t you in your car”

“Yes, but I ju-u-ust made a n-n-new pizza a m-m-moment ago.

“Oh. Whatever,” Dave replied. He then opened the door to see Torgo staggering up the driveway.

“I h-h-h-ave y-y-your pizza-a-a. It’s h-h-hot and f-f-f-f-resh!” Torgo walked up to the front door and handed Dave the pizza. “T-th-that will-l-l-l be five d-d-dollars, please.”

Dave handed him the money quickly, hoping to get Torgo out of the house as soon as possible. There was something unsettling about the guy’s appearance and voice (and knees).

Unfortunately, Torgo asked that fateful question: “C-c-can I use the b-a-a-a-a-throom?”

“Uh . . . sure, I guess.”

“Th-th-thank you. Enjoy your p-i-i-i-i-zza.”

“I will, I will.”

As soon as Torgo entered the bathroom, Dave took out a slice of the pizza and bit into it. It tasted even worse than it had the last time he tried it. The cheese was a disturbing dark orange color, with a green tint closer to the center of the pizza. Even worse was the sausage, which was gooey yet terribly hard to bite into, almost rubbery. And the sauce -- It tasted like it had been lifted off the streets of Los Angeles after lying there for two weeks, constantly being stepped on and driven over. Extremely thick, it had a bizarre, gelatin-like form to it which made it indreasingly difficult to chew. Even the crust was bad, with the other contents seeping into the thin layer of bread, soaking it as well as Dave’s hands with that awful “tomato” sauce.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Dave cried. “Where’s Rover?”

The toilet flushed, and Torgo stepped out of the bathroom. “Aah! Th-th-a-a-a-t’s better!”

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY DOG, YOU FREAK?”

“Oh, y-y-es. The bloodhound. A very nice dog. Very nice, indeed. a-HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!”

“My God! Are you implying that you killed poor Rover and put him in the pizza?”

“Oh, d-d-don’t worry. I ha-a-a-ave a feeling that your dog is aro-o-o-und h-e-e-ere s-s-s-somewhere! a-HA! a-HA! A-a-a-a-fter all, don’t you think that there’s a l-l-l-little ‘Rover’ in all of us? a-HA! HA! HA!”

“You can’t do this, you maniac! I’ll sue you for everything you’ve--AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”



* * *

Three hours later, Torgo sat in his car waiting to make his next delivery. The phone rang.

“H-h-hello?”

“Um, yes, I’d like a large sausage pizza, please?”

“Yes, ma’am. I h-h-have a l-a-a-a-a-rge sausage p-i-i-i-i-i-zza with your name on it! a-HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HEE! EE! EE! EE! EE! EE! EE! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

“Um . . . thank you,” replied the puzzled voice on the other end of the line. “Goodbye.”