Why you shouldn’t eat a block of Wisconsin Cheddar as a snack
No one knows what happened after he disappeared behind that steel door, his knees knocking and his hands scrabbling desperately at his pain-wracked stomach. But when the door shut behind him, the deadbolt snapping into place with the grim finality of the snap of a crocodile’s jaws around a hapless reality show host, the sounds that emerged from that room were an unholy mix of man’s most diabolical inventions and God’s most twisted conceptions.
There was silence for a moment, then a loud metal scraping, as if the teeth of a chainsaw were being dragged across the blood and bile-stained linoleum, curling tiny strips of flooring under the rusted iron teeth. Then, whimpering, the sound dragged from that primal place where cavemen used to cower, gazing out over the flickering fire to the darkness, where tooth and claw waited to tear and rip. A voice spoke rapidly in German, the guttural syllables clawing their way up past years of tobacco and toilet wine. The whimpering became pleading, disjointed words promising a life of purity and repentance if the fate looming over them would only settle its terrible gaze on another.
Alas, the demons do not hear the pleas of men, and a mighty roar shook those of us forced to listen to our very bone. An engine fueled by the blood of the damned and lubricated by the tears of grief-stricken mothers revved up to a high-pitched shriek, and we all wept as black exhaust billowed out from beneath the door, smelling of burned bones and rotting despair. A deep chanting mixed in with the terrible thunder, alien words that my ears recoiled to hear. But as we all fell to our knees and prayed to an uncaring God for this abomination to come to a merciful end, the water began to flow.
But this was no gentle trickle. The thundering rush of white foam and pounding black riptides rose with all the other horrible sounds. His screams took on another quality, moving through agony and terror to the wails of madness, a mind broken by the sight of all that men are not meant to witness. A rush of liquid horror burst from the gap beneath the door, a bilious mixture of black pus and corrupted water, and we all clambered up onto whatever refuge we could find. One hapless sonar technician wasn’t quick enough, and we had to watch as his flesh foamed and spit, dissolving as he scrabbled at the side of the Pepsi machine I had sought salvation upon. He begged me to end his life quickly as he was dragged beneath the noxious waves, but I was helpless to intervene as a shadowy form moved sinuously in the roiling filth, snapped its terrible jaws, and dragged him screaming below.
Just as I felt my sanity fading into some dark corner of my subconscious, the sounds abruptly stopped. The waves subsided, draining away through the cracked and ruined floor. The door creaked open, and our beleaguered comrade stumbled out. His hair was now shock white, his clothes hung in shredded tatters about his now-skeletal frame. He fell to his knees, and collapsed into a ruined heap of despair and madness on the stinking tile, his bloodshot eyes staring into a future now tainted with hopeless futility.
As we trembled, wanting to help but unable to move, the doctor emerged. A tall, impossibly thin man, wearing an immaculate white suit. The bones seemed to shift beneath his nearly translucent skin, and he opened a mouth filled with broken and bloody teeth. His voice was the chorus of burning children’s screams, and I wept hot tears of blood as he hissed:
“Behold the power of cheese!”