In
Which Dimension
is this
Buffalo Wild Wings
Located?
by Victoria Jenkins and Brynne Levine I don’t know where I am, but it’s certainly Buffalo Wild Wings. The ceilings are incalculably high, the walls decaying around us, and I dine tonight to the sounds of soft whimpers. The doors have seemingly vanished behind me, but then again, I can’t quite recall ever walking in. So far, this is what Yelp led me to expect. I journey deeper into the shadowy, unending bowels of the restaurant. For everyone step forward, it feels as though I have ventured two steps back. I would have lost my way were it not for the impossibly large hoofprints in the ranch-stained carpet below. Betwixt two golden pillars, I take my seat. I am bewildered to discover this location does not possess traditional menus. Rather, the seater places in front of me a smaller table. The genderless being dissipates and, left to my own devices, I glance around. Televisions line the perimeter of the space showing the latest athletic event- a desaturated knee surgery. A deep-voiced sportscaster narrates diligently. Before I can observe further, the server reforms from the air around me. I do not hear his voice so much as feel it, deep in my central nervous system. “Today you shall drink turpentine.” The quadruped ascends. I am strangely pleased. I settle into my chair as my beverage arrives, and like a stream of divine piss, the turpentine descends. Where do I put it? I am unsure. It descends. Now drenched in holy liquid, I cast my
10
gaze towards the menu, the second, smaller table. I want to question- they said no questions- but my train of thought comes to a shrieking halt. “MILD MEDIUM HOT WILD BLAZIN” a high-pitched voice chants from above. My eyes travel upwards and locate a figure, trapped in the rafters like a caged bird. His eyes are bleeding. My eyes are bleeding. He chants. The server returns in triplicate and I am surrounded. “Your dinner.” They hand me a locked box, where I can only hope my food resides. “But what can I get you to eat?” they ask in harmony. However, quicker than I could say ‘Do you have a gluten free menu?’, they maneuver into downward dog and sink through the floor. I look to my box. The lock has become a worm, which turns into a diamond, then two diamonds, and back into a lock. There is no key, but my attention is pulled away by the other patrons. They are hissing, screeching, pissing towards the televisions. Ah yes, our sports surgery. A thunderclap emanates from behind me. Too many beans for lunch? The chaos ceases instantly, every guest pivoting towards a central point. “MILD MEDIUM HOT WILD BLAZIN” is the only audible sound. The experience so far has definitely whet my appetite! Suddenly, a glorious, golden light begins to rise through the floor. The walls fall away, and we are in an open, grassy meadow, we are running towards the sun. A choir of angels sing the Goosebumps
theme song and the light solidifies into a proud, winged buffalo. It is the most powerful being I have ever been in the presence of. He opens his mouth to speak, and the angels fall silent- “Can I interest you in an order of fried pickles?” It is not a question, it is a warning. A chant begins anew. “Floate lyke a Buffalo/ Stinge lyke a wing”, they cry, but it is urgent, begging. Drumbeats. The buffalo trots gracefully to the most buoyant patron, nuzzles their torso softly, affectionately, and consumes the being whole. I can’t say I’m surprised, but I can say that I’m slightly less hungry. I blink, and the restaurant has solidified once again around me, empty. Was it always like this? I peer back down towards my supper, whence I hear a satisfying click. The cover liquifies and inside the small box is a bone, but somehow, it is also a mirror, and also many bones. I sift through the millions of bones- are they human? Am I human? Man? HU? It is time to go. I gaze steadily into the mirror and see a reflection that has become my own. My eyes are soulless, black, and I am hungry. I am Buffalo.