The fast food smelled rancid, and the guitars sounded cheesy. The hotdog fingers loomed before us, and ropes of grease hung from them. Silver lining: we were shielded from the mammalian rain by the cyclopean hand that threatened turning us from full-fledged characters to barely legal isekai harem members: flat in all possible interpretations of the word.
Mateo whistled loudly, and a new pit came running from the stairs. He was now wielding duals again. But it would never be the same, this was but a mere imitation of the original partner of the pit who survived, whose story I have already told you[1].
“So, Mateo, what should be expect from this one?”
He pondered for a second, watching the things absently minded. “Imagine the tendrils of grease are sea wasp tentacles that increase your cholesterol to the point of getting you severely sick. Touch them for long, and you become a ravioli container.”
Mariana licked her nose. “Sounds appetizing.”
“Mariana, cute thing, do you always think of food?” he asked with the soft voice he used only with dogs (as far as I knew).
“I have priority rules: food thoughts are at the top, then pee thoughts, then goodgirl thoughts, then ass-sniffing thoughts, then my pathological love for Walter and, lastly, self-preservation.”
“Thanks, Mariana,” I thanked Mariana.
A tendril descended upon me and I rolled to the side in response. The floor was slick and disgusting. The dirt from the destroyed planters got stuck on my skin and belts. Appalling service, two stars and a half, the waiters were absent and thus well behaved.
Mateo ebbed and flowed through the saturated and trans fat tentacles. His movements full of energy and hope for a tomorrow with omega three and six. The man was dancing salsa with the eldritch gods of coronary heart disease, and they had two left feet.
I aimed Mariana against the pair of tendrils that came to take away my caloric deficit and gave them a taste of the U.S second afoodment: a well regulated intestinal flora, being necessary for the security of a free colon, the right of the people to keep and bear Mar, shall not be infringed.
Her hairs nested around the tentacles, imprisoning them, neutering the threat. The now fluffy appendages tickled me, trying in vain to attach to my skin, impeded by the thick layer of keratin that covered them.
Mateo was sweating, his movements getting slower. But it wasn’t him getting normally tired, no: the tendrils seemed to be growing in power, taping on him now and then. Making him chubbier with each touch. No matter how many he severed, another one came for him.
“Help me! Walter, idiot, help me!”
“Okay, take cover.”
Deciding we had crossed the foodzila threshold, I choose the nuclear option, and loaded Mariana with Invoke Cangel.
Three, two, one, and I pulled the trigger. The Chihuahua came out of Mar’s mouth. It was dripping saliva, but it seemed to not care.
“Be not a-fried,” the little dog said. Good lord, even Mariana’s summons had discovered puns.
The little Chihuahua took flight, the recoil making me lose my footing and fall onto my back. The minuscule dog exploded into a storm cloud that billowed restlessly for a few seconds. Then, in a flash of light, the rings of dog heads expanded from the shining wound on reality, and they kept the chi’s momentum. The corgi butt became visible in all of its delicate and fluffy glory for a fraction of a second, and then the impact happened. Mind-melting Cangel rings sunk into the sea of fries, burgers and pizza, destroying deep-fried guitars and drum sets in the process, reducing them to delicious gut-wrecking splinters.
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Mateo quickly lost the weight the tendrils had added, as the spell wore off. The sausage fingers went limp and burning debris started falling from the wrist.
A slightly less chubby Mateo passed me, running in direction to the staircase.
Then I realized severing the block-sized hand that loomed over my head would mean it had an ample chance of collapsing over me, which, you know, sounded pretty bad for the knees.
It was going down, and I had no time to avoid the palm that would soon splat me like the bug I always deserved to be. Raising Mariana over my head, I hoped for the best
It all went black. But not because of the falling hand, no, a shield of some substance had risen around me. I scratched it with a single nail: it was dough. In near total darkness, I noticed a small figure cuddling against my feet. Reaching for it, I knew the Empanada Priest was trying to save my life.
“I love you, little overpowered ball of shit.”
“What about me? Eh? Eh?” exploded Mariana.
“I love you too, you big overpowered sack of shit.”
“That’s more like it. This better not repeat, ever,” My jealous dog warned me.
Our precious moment got interrupted by the turbulence of the impact. All around we could hear the sizzling sound of boiling oil and grease, the splatting sound of meat falling against the floor, the slight cracking of the dome that, for now, was holding.
After a few instants, a piece of dough fell from the dome roof, and it started collapsing all around us. The danger was gone, the food debris all around being reduced to char. The garden had turned to a hell filled with acrid smoke, and, beyond the dark horizon of the rarified atmosphere, a face of televisions frowned, and flaunted a life bar still ninety percent full.
Sitting, aiming Mariana to his face again, I shot a fire lance to his eye, purely out of spite. I knew it was basically useless, but, even during battle, I considered catharsis an essential part of human experience.
Coughing, I raised the Empanada priest to my head, his little forepaws grabbing onto my not-so-noticeable receding hairline. He, in turn, raised his scepter. A white silhouette gradually emerged from behind the veil of smoke to our left, walking solemnly towards us. With his crusty cape, a crown made of onion cuttings, a pie-shield and a legendary saber that was just a really long Empanada with a handle, the Empanaperor had come to our aid.
He offered me a hand made of knife cut meat, and I accepted it, standing with his help, holing Mariana under my armpit like she was a bag of potatoes.
“I can feel your recipes being worthy of living on, Walter Ignacio Gallardo, but theirs,” It glared at the demiurge with eyes of sweet corn mixture, “not so much. Shall we end their culinary heresy together?”
“Hell yeah. May I bite you?” I committed a Marianism.
The Empanaperor averted his gaze, and a second later closed his eyes with a smile.
“The bravest warriors are the quirkiest. You may not and shall not bite me.”
“I will bite you,” said Mariana, licking her snout in ways I didn’t know were physically possible until then.
“Let us hope I’ll be blessed with a glorious death in battle, if that’s the case. Brace yourselves, for here come the beasts!”
As the deformed animals aimed for our throats, the emperor made short work of misshapen bears, elk and eagles. He slashed, charged, and proffered war cries, and despite him bleeding empanada juices form his multiple bite and scratch wounds, he never stopped severing legs, piercing chests and crushing skulls.
He battled with relentless fury and hatred for the wildlife while I searched for the way to the staircase to check on Mateo and take the little Priest to safety. It was no easy task with the smoke blinding me, stinging on my eyes, nose and throat. From somewhere beyond the black curtain the wailings of dying mammals and birds could be heard.
“Eat golden dough, foul enemy of tradition!” the Empanaperor shouted, and thus we knew he was winning.
I licked the fingers of the hand that had stretched that of the summon. The juice alone could be described as ambrosia. Why had our allies to be this delicious, why was their flesh this forbidden? It was disgrace.
Finally, I saw a ray of light reflecting on the most polished of mirrors: a flare that could only be Mateo’s polished scalp.
“Goddammit, you are alive,” he cursed, approaching me. “This better be the last time you almost kill us today.”
“This all is happening because that priest motherfucker summoned this from your memories, and I am the guilty one? Your unwarranted confidence got us into this.”
“It’s not like I can forget it and make it unhappen. Cunt.”
If I were a cartoon character, a lightbulb would have lit above my head right then and there.
“It’s made of memories.” I started laughing, “It’s made out of fucking memories! That’s it!”
“What, do you have a plan? I am the one who killed it before, you know?”
“Entertain him alongside the empanada dude, I have a plan that, with some luck, will win us this fight.”
“You have never killed a demiurge.”
“Oh, but I don’t need to kill a demiurge.” I winked and rubbed his soft head, so I’d get some good luck. “Just a memory.”
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[1] Or not, because Mariana ate it.