It was a mundane Monday, just another dull day on his way to a dreadful job. Dante Agustin was running late for work. He pushed through the other pedestrians, picking up the pace to make it across the street before the light turned, but it was too late.
He let out a frustrated sigh and looked up at the dreary sky. The towers of glass and steel loomed over him like giant overlords, casting their shadows over the minions.
Dante shivered under their cold gaze as he waited for the light at the crosswalk to turn green. He spotted a growing crowd in front of a restaurant, with the line wrapping around the block. He removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the cloth he had pulled from his pocket, and slipped them back on.
"HAMS." It read on the restaurant's black awning in bold gold letters.
"What's going on over there?" he heard someone ask.
"I heard a new restaurant opened up the other day," someone answered.
"Is it any good?"
"It must be; just look at the line! It's not even open yet."
"HAMS! What kind of name is that for a restaurant?"
When he arrived at the corporate building, he rushed through the glass turnstile doors, hurried to the elevator, and punched the button to go up to the 49th floor. With his suit soaked in sweat, he huffed and puffed to his cubicle, where he plopped himself down in his chair.
He frowned at the piles of paperwork that had suddenly appeared overnight in his inbox. They were as high as city skyscrapers. For the next four hours, he stuck to the routine of settling complaints, reviewing forms, and stamping papers with the company's signature red seal.
The job was physically taxing. The joints in his fingers tightened, and his wrists began to numb. But he buried himself deeper into work. The work overwhelmed him, almost sinking him into the dirt under its steel weight.
The Big Clock on the wall clucked its tongue. Its tick-tocks prickled the tiny hairs in his ears, and the stifling air heightened his irritation. At times, Dante believed the Big Clock was self-aware. It would tease the workers by pretending to glitch—its second hand slowed, and the minute hand twitched.
Have patience, he told himself. It was almost lunch break.
The Big Clock knew what every worker was thinking. Smirking, it lingered a moment longer on the 59th second before moving on to the next minute.
Dante's stomach grumbled. His growing frustration was locked up inside his guts. He had never once publicly shown a disagreeable manner, which had earned him "Employee of the Month" a few times a year. The recognition came with a company pen, a candy bag, and the best reward yet—a $15 gift card to any diner within a mile radius of the office.
Dante struggled to focus. His fingers tingled as if he had just plunged his hands through a thicket of pine needles. The tingling coursed up his arms to his brain, and then a lightheadedness swept him off his seat. Weightless, he floated from his desk.
His co-workers poked their heads up and gawked like gophers out of a hole. Laughing, he waved goodbye and flew out of an open window. He flew up above the skyscrapers, which narrowed their steely eyes at him and gnashed their glass teeth in rage. They stretched out their long steel arms, whipping them about to grab him by the ankles and chain him back to his desk. But he was too high up in the sky now. He had reached the stratosphere.
The sight took his breath away. Clouds rippled before him like ocean waves, and rings and orbs of heavenly colors surrounded him. He curled up into a ball, closed his eyes, and imagined what it was like to be in a womb. But the high didn't last long.
A disapproving "ahem" popped Dante's little daydream bubble. He fell from the sky and collapsed back onto his desk, with an ankle shackled to the desk's leg. He felt the invisible chain's weight and its hundreds of tiny teeth digging into his skin and bone.
The building rumbled. It was laughing. The walls and floor vibrated, and the fluorescent lights above swayed.
Sliding his glasses back to their rightful place on the bridge of his nose, he lifted his eyes to look at the intruder.
The Supervisor of Employee Productivity, a large man built like an ox, loomed over the towers of documents, envelopes, memos, and manila folders on the desk, which quivered under the pressure. He existed to make sure the employees were on task. If he caught one asleep or not present at their desk, he noted the minutes and added them to the time they'd be required to stay after office hours.
Overtime... it sent shivers up Dante's spine. Though he hadn't served overtime (yet), he had heard from others that after 5 o'clock, the atmosphere on the 49th floor would shift. The air thinned. The lighting glared hotter and brighter, stinging the eyes. The Big Clock took pleasure in the workers' angst. It slowed, so that seconds stretched to hours. Sometimes it stopped altogether, and the employees would languish in despair for what felt like an eternal sentence, though in reality, only an hour had passed.
"Catching a few winks, Mr. Agustin?"
The Supervisor took one of the papers from Dante's desk and began reading. He had a fried burger in his other hand. The meat protruded between the buns like a fat burnt tongue slowly slipping over crusty lips. It had a strange and sweet fragrance, like honey mixed with grease.
The Supervisor took a bite of the burger. He helped himself to a second and then a third bite, each time emitting a sound—somewhat of a snort. An oink.
"No, I wasn't—" Dante started to say, his heart drumming hard in his ears, "I mean, I've been just so tired lately..." his voice trailed off, then he cleared his throat and kept his head down. "I know... I know, sir, that there's no excuse."
The Supervisor returned the paper to the pile, but it slipped, somersaulted weightlessly in the air, and landed in front of Dante. On the left margin, right by the paper's edge, there was a greasy thumbprint.
"This isn't the report that was due yesterday," said his superior, flatly.
"The report?"
The Supervisor nodded. "Yes, the weekly 'Self-Reflection on Performance' report that every employee here is required to submit. Come on, Mr. Agustin, you know that!"
Dante's stomach dropped. "I haven't typed it up yet."
"That's not like you!"
"W-Well, I... you see..." he fumbled for an excuse, "My computer has been unusually slow, and sometimes it freezes."
The Supervisor shook his head in disappointment. "Tsk, tsk! Looks like you'll have to work overtime—"
"But!" Dante interjected. "Rest assured that you'll receive my report before five o'clock today."
With bated breath, Dante fidgeted in his seat. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He rolled his pen between his fingers. His right leg shook.
The Supervisor leaned over so that his face was mere inches from Dante's. A gust of onions, melted cheese, and meat blew from the Supervisor's flared nostrils and gaping mouth. Naturally, when someone breathed in his face, Dante would have taken a step back. But the aroma captivated him. It reeled him in like a seductress beckoning him to enter the bedroom. His stomach growled loudly. It yearned for lunch.
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The Big Clock was just a second away from announcing lunch break. It heard the stomach growls of the workers and purposely yawned, pausing its second hand, which caused its minute hand to spasm. Hearing an employee burst into tears, the Big Clock cackled.
“All right, that's fine by me,” the Supervisor finally said, “But remember that late work may affect your chances of having your name entered in the lottery for a promotion this year.”
He dug through his pocket and offered a peppermint candy in the palm of his hand. “A little encouragement to keep you going, Mr. Agustin!”
Dante cautiously reached out, and as he picked up the candy, the Supervisor's hand snapped shut around his like a clam and squeezed.
The blood drained from Dante's face.
“Is there something else you wanted, sir?” he asked.
“Mr. Agustin, why didn't you attend the office party last weekend?”
Surprised by the question, Dante thought it over; he tried to remember the reason he gave. Unable to recall, he shrugged and gave the Supervisor an apologetic look.
“I think I wasn't feeling well that night. Why do you ask?”
He sighed in relief when his hand was released from its trap.
The Supervisor shrugged his shoulders. “I noticed that you've been withdrawn lately. Perhaps you should attend another gathering that I'll be hosting this Friday night after work,” his voice rose in excitement, “I've just reserved a room at HAMS. Fantastic place! The food there... Well, it's something else! And they've only opened just the other day! I don't know what it is, but…”
The Supervisor’s voice faded into the background as Dante inspected the man’s glistening face.
Dante removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the cloth, and slipped them back on. He squinted. His eyes settled on the nose. It was pushed back like a snout. The nostrils flared and snorted.
He straightened himself up in the chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He ogled at the unshaved chins. Two, four, six chins he counted. They weren’t there before. He was sure of it. They quaked with every word as the Supervisor rambled on.
“So, are you going to come or not?”
A pair of black beady eyes zeroed in on him.
“Oh…uh…yeah. Yeah, I mean—I don’t know” Dante stumbled again on his words. “—but, you know, I’ll think about it. I’ll definitely think about it.”
“Don’t be a loner, Mr. Agustin. We’re a family here! And if you want to get anywhere in life, then you’ve got to open up a bit to people.”
The Supervisor smiled, unknowingly showing the chewed pieces of dark meat that bespeckled his beige teeth.
The Big Clock screeched like a banshee, signaling lunch break. The other employees practically leapt out of their chairs, grabbing their hats and coats, and raced towards the elevator hall.
The Supervisor frowned. He hated it when the workers took lunch breaks. It was known in the company that he had made numerous attempts to whittle the break from an hour to eleven minutes.
“Lunch breaks set back productivity,” he once argued. “Hunger is motivation to work a little harder, thereby increasing productivity!”
Dante pushed back his glasses on his nose. He was fixated on the Supervisor’s face.
Did his eyes get darker? Did his nose seem stubbier than a moment ago? The tuft of hair on his chins, however, glistened even more.
These questions and thoughts on his close observations followed Dante across the street to the mass gathering at the restaurant, HAMS. Every man, woman, child, cat, and dog were waiting outside. With a ticket number in hand, they pressed their wet noses against the windows, anxious for the hostess to call out their number.
A savory smell poured out when the hostess opened the doors and called out a number. The smell cast a spell upon the mass of curious and excited diners. Their noses turned up, and they took a deep breath, holding it in their lungs to savor the aroma as long as possible before releasing it in one longing sigh.
Dante admitted to himself that he was no different from those who crowded before its doors. And like them, he was entranced by the smell. His mouth salivated.
When his number came up, he pushed through the herd who groaned in disappointment and angrily grumbled about the long wait. The hostess flashed him a saccharine smile and escorted him to a table for one. Then, a beaming waitress approached his table. She recommended the “HAMS House Burger,” their current popular dish. It came with thick potato wedges, a generous amount of coleslaw and pickles, and a soda with a silly straw that had more loops and curves than a roller coaster. But after a few minutes scanning the other dishes listed on the menu, he decided to order the pork onion soup, and the waitress complimented sincerely on his choice.
Slouching in the chair, he glanced around the crowded, smoky restaurant, curious to know what others had on their plates. The first thing that struck him was the alluring smell. It played and twirled with his nostril hairs. It kissed his mouth and tugged at his tongue. He shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie.
"Perhaps I should've ordered the house burger," he thought. "Is it too late to change the order?" But as he raised his hand to wave at a waitress, he caught sight of a couple sitting at the table next to the window, where a group of salivating young folks peered in from the outside.
Two juicy "HAMS House Burgers" sat happily on plates before the round and pink couple. They tended to the burgers with such care and awe, as if they were the proud parents of newborn twins. Their mouths enclosed the meal, and instantly their eyes darkened and glazed like melted sugar poured over chocolate doughnut balls. They basked in waves of carnal lust.
The burger's grease glowed like gold and shone on their chin hairs, leaving little golden droplets on the front of their shirts. The woman's peach-shaped face darkened from pink to magenta, and her greased pink lips shone like polished wood.
The man's forehead sweated as he undid his tie, easing the discomfort on his growing and reddening neck. The ends of his handlebar mustache stood erect. After lingering in that blessed moment, they gorged on the food without restraint.
Dante turned his eyes away, sickened by the scene yet secretly aroused. He laid his gaze on a loud family of five seated at a long table. They had a small child who restlessly swayed in its highchair. He noted that each plate had the house burger, and even the child fed on some morsels served in a little trough. Their eyes darkened and glazed over, too.
So absorbed by the scene, he didn't realize the waitress had already brought his hot soup. The aroma, like a pair of lovers' hands, rose from the bowl to cup his cheeks in its warmth. It pecked him on the nose and moistened his lips.
He gingerly dipped a finger and tasted the creamy soup. It tasted sweet like honey and bitter like blood, and though that would make anyone recoil in disgust, the flavor roped him in. The steam rising from the bowl whipped around his neck like a noose and yanked him closer.
Just as his tongue rolled out to dip into the soup, he heard a creature oink. He glanced over at the other diners around him. In disbelief, he removed his glasses and searched for the cloth in his pocket.
"I must've left it at the office," he mumbled to himself as he used his shirt to clean the glasses.
The people were changing. Their eyes shrank into beady black eyes, and their noses shifted into snouts. Their clothes stretched and ripped at the seams as their bodies transformed into the shape of pot-bellied pigs. With each bite of the HAMS burger, they snorted and squealed in excitement.
He wasn't imagining the event at all. No, no, no. This was truly happening! He clutched his chest in shock with one hand and gripped the tablecloth with the other. He watched as the diners fell to the floor on newly morphed four-toed feet. High-pitched squeals ruptured from their mouths.
Then, chaos broke loose. What were once well-mannered humans were now aggressive, loud, and riotous pigs. They ran amok. They turned over tables and knocked down chairs. Plates, mugs, and wine glasses shattered on the floor. Silverware was scattered, and the tablecloths and napkins were shredded into bits.
Caught in the whirlwind, he clung to the chair for dear life but was violently thrown off. He froze as a couple of pink creatures approached him. They sniffed and licked the soles of his shoes. They snorted, sniffing their way up to his pale face. One smeared grease across his cheek with its lips.
Then, realization struck him. He recognized the peach-shaped head of the creature and its companion with the erected handlebar mustache. It was the couple he had seen earlier.
Their black beady eyes bore into his. He saw a sliver of their former selves. They were once like him. They were once chained to a desk and buried six feet under a pile of paperwork and had served overtime. But now they were free! They had never felt so liberated and jovial. They could eat whatever they wanted, love whomever they lusted after, and roam wherever they desired.
"Be with us," Dante swore he heard them say.
With trembling hands, he reached out and stroked their heads. His heart fluttered. Their short coarse hairs tickled his fingers, sending a strange but thrilling sensation through him. They leaned into his touch. For the first time in a long while, he was moved.
All the stress and frustration that had built up inside of him for years and years, one layer atop another, finally collapsed!
A howl ripped through his throat. It shook the walls, cracked the floor, and shattered his glasses. He was exhausted but at peace.
Leaning forward, he kissed them both on each blushing cheek. Then, wrapping his arms around one of them, he nuzzled their skin and breathed in their scent. The softness of their flesh made his skin hum in excitement. As he sank his teeth into their softness, joyful tears flooded his eyes as the metamorphosis coursed through his body.