Dating is weird this week on the Drabblecast. We bring you a Drabblecast original, “Yummy Tummy” by Chelsea Pumpkins, read by The Word Whore. Tasty!
Cover art by Michael Butkovich
by Chelsea Pumpkins
The bell over the door chimes as Aaron pushes it open and holds it for you.
“Welcome to Yummy Tummy,” the smiling cashier says. Sorry, yogurt artist.
You’re surprised and skeptical that the blind date Jenny set you up on has taken you here, for frozen yogurt. Jenny has high standards when it comes to guys, and those standards typically revolve around where they dine and how high their credit score is.
If Jenny sets you up with cheap dates, what did she really think of you?
Nevermind. You’re here now, and might as well make the best of it. It’s not all bad. Aaron has a cute crooked smile that curves around an elongated canine (Jenny jokingly called it his fang). His shirt is free of wrinkles and his hair is cut into a sleek fade. And he did pick you up, out of the way and all. You could work with this. Besides, who doesn’t like froyo?
He hands you an empty carton—a medium (safe choice). “What flavor are you gonna get?”
Ordering food. The first test of a first date.
“Dang, they’re out of plasma today,” he adds before you can answer.
“You ever mix a few together?” you ask.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Aaron answers (Gross).
At a dispenser you pull the lever labeled “O” and watch the creamy, red yogurt twist into the cup. You only fill it halfway, saving room for a second flavor.
Aaron is still pacing in front of the options.
You choose marrow for your second half.
“Classic combo,” Aaron says, smiling at your cup. He stops in front of the semen lever and, after a speck of hesitation, pulls heartily.
He noticed your raised brow.
“I know, girly flavor,” he says bashfully. “But I can’t deny it—it’s delicious.”
“Well, don’t let me yuck your yum.” You lick a bit of marrow slipping off the side of the cup.
Up next: toppings. It’s one of those places where you pay by weight, and you don’t want to take advantage of Aaron’s generosity. But you don’t want to look like one of those girls who can’t eat, either.
You let him go first. You’ll gauge from there.
“Let’s see,” he says. Aaron is a narrator. Clearly not an internal monologue type. You don’t even need to browse the options now, because he’s reading them all to you.
“Wax sprinkles, butterfingernails, dermis flakes, oh! Scabs—I love these.” He sprinkles two spoonfuls atop his creamy white dollop.
He’s not holding back. After the scabs, he goes back for a heaping mound of earwax sprinkles and then scoops out a huge serving of brain matter, dripping red-purple preserves all over the white counter in his effort. That’ll make his cup heavy. And expensive. Guess you don’t need to be concerned.
You go straight for your favorite—baby teeth. Places like this usually keep them near the end of the line and towards the back, because they’re expensive to stock. But they’re also the most delicious topping they have. It’s an inventory strategy, and it never tricks you. You know their deal. You worked summers as a sandwich designer at ClubFlay (their jingle eternally stuck in your head—Eat flesh!).
They’re well stocked at Yummy Tummy today. The bin is almost overflowing with a tasty rainbow of tiny chiclets, from pure white to dark purple. Your mouth waters, anticipating the satisfying crunch of the outer shell, followed by the soft, gelatinous core.
Aaron is still going, down the other end. He’s dipping into the fecal crumbs now. While he’s preoccupied, you rush another spoonful of baby teeth into your cup.
You snap out of your ravenous reverie for a moment, and you’re a touch embarrassed by how hard you went. You can’t put them back, that would be disgusting.
You shake your cup, sifting some of the teeth towards the bottom, hidden. Those will be nice and cold when you get to them.
Aaron is almost done, and thank fuck because his cup is spilling all over the place. He’s a literal kid in a candy shop right now with a twinkle in his eye (and probably a chub in his pants).
You use tiny tongs and pluck a few slices of candied tongue to garnish your creation.
Right in time.
“Ooh, looking good,” Aaron says looking over your shoulder, his breath rusty and hot.
He walks to the stand of sauces and leaves a tiny trail of dusty crumbs with every step. You’re crawling out of your skin at your instinct to pick up after him. You hate his mess, and you hate that you want to clean it up.
By the time you reach the bottles of fluids, he’s already made a smorgasbord of it. So many oozing colors, you can’t even tell what he chose. It smelled sweet, salty, and metallic all at once.
You keep it simple, and smoothly squeeze a drizzle of sputum—thick and yellow—across your frozen yogurt.
Aaron reaches into the small covered bin on the counter (with his fingers). “Pretty please with an eyeball on top?” He playfully places a jellied ball of vitreous humor atop your cup.
You. Are. Mortified.
You’re balancing your cup with a handful of napkins and spatula disguised as a spoon as you approach the register.
“Together?” the artist asks.
“Nah, we’ll pay separately,” Aaron answers. He looks back at you and winks. “Women’s rights, and all that.”
You nod at him, your mouth agape. What could you even say?
Aaron pays for his own monstrosity, choosing No Tip (of course), and leaves the counter to find a table.
While she rings up your order, you check your phone.
Jenny: How’s it going? Text when you can!
You type out a response: Girl, WTF! Am I being pranked?
Aaron is halfway through his yogurt before you even sit down. And you’re pretty certain half of that is plastered in his beard. He reaches across the table and lays his sticky hand on top of yours. “I’m really glad Jenny set us up,” he says, looking right into your eyes.
You don’t know how much longer you can fake it. You squeak out an “mhm” through pinched lips and pull your hand back.
You push aside the eyeball you didn’t want and dig into your tasty treat while Aaron breaks every first-date conversation rule in the book.
“My ex and I used to come here every Tuesday.”
“I’m on this cream for a fungal infection—”
“You want kids, right?”
You almost wish he’d go get another cup because now that his hands aren’t busy, he won’t stop drumming them on the table. His stupid, sticky index fingers with absolutely no rhythm.
You’re nearing the end of your cup, and the only saving grace in this moment are those cold baby teeth waiting for you at the bottom. You’re so happy to see their shiny little edges you actually smile at them.
Aaron leans to see what you’re looking at.
“Ooh baby teeth. Big spender.” He laughs and plunges his spoon into your cup. He shovels your precious morsels into his mouth, dropping some onto the floor.
He chews them right in your face, mouth open. The sight of his teeth crushing your teeth, the sweet smell of their spongy roots—it drives you over the edge.
You shift the spatula-spoon in your hand, haul back your arm, and plummet the utensil deep into Aaron’s left eye.
He’s on the ground, blood and viscous fluid running beneath his hands that try to hold his eye in place. Your spoontula sticks out between his clasped fingers.
You crouch above him and do him the courtesy of yanking it out. He wails. He reaches for your face, his semen-sticky fingers snatch the inside of your mouth. And you bite. Hard.
He rips his hand away, now two fingers short. Blood is flying like a rogue garden hose and Aaron is completely berserk, in pain and shock.
You dig his severed fingers out of your mouth. You’re surprised—they actually aren’t all that bad under the skin. You toss his index finger (his drumstick) back at him.
You sling your purse over your shoulder and start dialing for a cab on your phone. You walk straight out of Yummy Tummy, sucking the bloody stump of Aaron’s middle finger.