As soon as you drop into the large metal bowl that serves as the nano waiting area for the pasta department, you're picked up along with eight other nanos are mixed into a big bowl of fettucine nanofredo. After a few seconds of disoriented tossing and twisting, you find yourself on the bottom of the pile of heavy pasta and creamy, slippery sauce. You frantically scramble through the thick noodles until you break through the surface, gasping for air. Your bowl is sitting on a tray with several other meals - a bowl of salad here, a slice of pizza there, a sandwich behind you. One more bowl of pasta is loaded onto the tray in front of you, and then the tray is lifted high into the air by one of Mel's army of waitresses.
"Lol," says a familiar voice behind you, as the restaurant interior bobs and weaves around you. You turn around to see Callie, one of the few dozen of your two thousand nano colleagues that you actually know by name and face. She's reclining against the side of the bowl, her legs buried in noodles. "Aren't you off today?," she says with an inquisitive eyebrow twitch.
"Yeah," you say as you wade through the waves of noodles to get a bit closer to her. "Sal called me this morning."
"Me too. He's got me on two shifts today. Wako's really got management's balls in a vice, huh?"
"Looks like it," you say.
Ahh, Wako Tebbs, you think. So that's who spread the "nano flu." He's been trying to organize a uni0n here for years without any luck. Today's sick-out must be another one of his ill-fated attempts to assert some nano-power.
It's not that you oppose the IDEA of a uni0n per se. They've done lots of good things around here for nano rights and whatnot. It's just, well, Wako. Something about him rubs you the wrong way. Everything, really. You strongly suspect that the people he cajoled into taking today off only did so to get him to finally shut the fuck up about it.
Suddenly, the bobbing of the tray slows to a stop, and you feel your bowl being lowered onto the table. You and your colleagues look up and are pleased to see a familiar face peering down at you hungrily. Your customer today is Randa, a frequent customer at Mel's. Randa is a pleasantly plump, chocolate-skinned, infectiously cheerful woman in her mid 30s with a spacious, comfortable stomach. Randa is sitting at a table with a few of her coworkers, also regular customers at Mel's. Randa and her friends all like to play with their nano food, which can be quite humiliating at times. But they're also generous tippers, which more than makes up for it.
She chats cordially her colleagues about office politics while chowing down on her lunch. Some of your colleagues yell and scream and dive out of the way as her fork plunges into the bowl, but you decide to save your energy for the moment, and just take in the chaotic scene unfolding in the pasta bowl around you. You watch with nervous anticipation as Randa lifts forkful after forkful of pasta high into the air into her mouth, knowing full well that you will be included in one of those forkfuls very soon. It's a quite disturbing feeling, even for someone who's been a professional ingredient as long as you have -something deep in your psyche wants you to run for your life, even though you know you're perfectly safe. You wonder if that feeling ever goes away. You hope not. The day being eaten becomes thoroughly routine is a day you don't even
After a few more nanoless forkfuls of pasta, Randa turns her attention to the nine nanos in her bowl, and her eyes scan the the faces of you and your colleagues as they search for their first victim. A mischeivous smile creeps across Randa's lips, and she aims her fork menacingly at all of you. You and your colleagues all scramble out of the way as the fork suddenly plunges into the noodles. There is a sudden yelp from somewhere on the other side of the bowl, and you can only turn and watch as the twirling fork tangles up a frantically screaming Callie under strand after strand of gooey noodle.
"Oh, no," screams Callie in an almost-convincing melodrama as the fork is lifted up out of the bowl. "Somebody help! Please!," shouts Callie, reaching pleadingly with her one free hand towards you and your colleagues.
Randa just giggles at the struggling Callie, who is trying desperately to pull free from her fettucine bonds. After watching Callie's pathetic little display of panic for a minute or so, Randa opens her mouth and slowly guides the fork into the dark, pinkish cave. Callie's frantic screams grow to a horrified climax, and are then cut off abruptly as Randa seals her lips shut. Randa looks hungrily at you and the other seven remaining nanos in her bowl, even as she continues to slowly chew on your colleague.
Finally, Randa swallows, and you can hear Callie's faintly muffled screams descending through Randa's torso and disappearing just below the edge of the table. "Mmm, delicious," says Randa, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Who's next?"
It's all a big show, of course. Randa's playing the Big Bad Predator role for your entertainment, just as much as you all are playing the Frightened Prey role for hers. Some customers are just like that. Sure, it's a little extra work for you, what with all the theatrics and all, but you don't mind. It's nice to have a customer who actually takes notice of you, rather than just robotically shoving you into his or her pasta hole without so much as a smile.
As you sit atop a mound of noodles, you see her smile mischeivously and aim her fork towards you - looks like you're next on her agenda. You dodge the fork as the tines bury themselves in the pasta right where you were sitting, and deftly pull your feet out of the sudden whirlpool of twirling noodles.
"Where do you think you're going, little guy?" she says playfully, as she lifts the forkful of you-less pasta to her mouth. "You can't escape from me," she says as she chews, "you're mine!"
"Not if I can help it," you say, dodging another forkfall. As her twirl misses you a second time, you ponder your next move. Sure, you could hide from Randa, only stalling the inevitable. Or, you think as you watch her lifting another twirl of creamy pasta to her mouth, you could surprise her with a suicide mission.
