- Garg Fam
They want you to think that they are just a simple sandwich chain that began in Connecticut, but I know the truth. Even back in the day when I was just a mother of two, I’ve always been able to see past the veil. That’s why I’ve never fallen for that fake hoo-ha they’ve tried to push down my throat. They couldn’t get me with their brain-melting vaccines or the constant parade of fake-smile politicians jiggling loose in their skin suits. I’ve always had a keen eye for that kind of thing and why I became suspicious of America’s favorite sandwich restaurant.
I realized at some time right before my children finished high school that those submarine sandwiches exuded a dark aura. It was around 2014, when they still had that monster working as their spokesperson. I got tuna salad, with lettuce, tomato, onion and a heaping dose of extra mayonnaise, the kind I always get, but there was something wrong. The way the toasted bread crumbled, the little specks inside the tuna, and how the lettuce wrinkled all felt strange. I bought more sandwiches and they all had this bad feeling. I took them apart, analyzed them, and I even put some of it under my ex-husbands’ old microscope. I saw how the tuna salad squirmed under the lens and I found the roast beef had the consistency of baby fat. It was then I realized there was something inexplicably, excruciatingly wrong... and yet, I found myself drawn to those piping hot subs. I started buying them every chance I could and I would set them on the hardwood counter to wait for them to squirm into the wood. I became intimately familiar with them and all their little quirks. I knew that the chicken was laced with the poison known as soy and the tuna was really the flesh of devils. You bite into the lettuce and feel the miasma push into your gums. A presence was in them, something malicious seeped into the bread, the sauce, and the meat. I’m not sure if this is some far away being gazing upon humanity or if it exists in some warehouse somewhere cloaked in green and yellow shrouds, but I know it's inside the subs. There is a faint hint in its essence, it tastes like the blood of the innocent.
A name rang into my mind from Sunday school: Moloch, the horrid king besmear'd with blood of human sacrifice. The sandwiches resonated with this name because it’s oft spoken and ancient. I am surprised that the greater minds of Q-anon, Icke and Jones have yet to see it for what it is, but I feel like Moloch has chosen me. I’m the only one who could have tasted what’s inside these mortal flesh flavored sandwiches. I felt it on my tongue. I know I shouldn’t have eaten those vile things, but I was drawn by malignant energies of sandwich-based human sacrifice. The energy of Moloch.
I realized not too long after that my children couldn’t understand. They had become distant and spoke to me in harsh, awkward tones. I felt like they didn’t want anything to do with me. I’d catch them sneaking home. Eyes glued to the mayonnaise on my face. I bet on some level they knew what was happening and what had overtaken me. Perhaps they thought I was mad, maybe I was overtaken with the sandwich insanity, but it really didn’t matter in the end. When they went to college, they stopped returning my calls and that was probably for the best.
I felt like I was being split down the middle like two halves of bread and stuffed with assorted meats, cheeses and vegetables. I needed to fight this food atrocity, but it was willing me to consume while its symbols flooded my mind. Arrows pointing sideways like the horns of the great demon of sacrifice. That thing wanted to be realized through growth rebuilt out of its pieces. Not be in the sky, or some underground complex, but here in front of me. A true walking avatar. I decided that I’d let it have that wish.
In the year of twenty twenty, I went out collecting pieces for the demon’s body. I’d walk into those sandwich cesspits that lurk on street corners and inside Walmarts, greeting one of many pimply members of their incessant cult to purchase a new piece for Moloch’s avatar. I would smile at them and give my order, and I would move on. All the while I’d feel Moloch’s heavy aroma fizzing in my brain. I became paranoid about that demon’s impatience and I wondered how long my mind would hold.
Soon the body became nearly complete. It had arms and legs of submarine sandwiches. Wilting lettuce, darkening cheese and blackening, fuzzy flesh made the Avatar’s innards. I could see worms crawling in the bread of the body’s sinnew. Its gaping maw of onions and sweet dressing drool hung open, waiting for me to submit.
During my last visit to that accursed sub shop, I convinced the enlarged child working at the counter to give me as much as Moloch’s essence as they could with a heavy dose of my patronage. That retrobate’s greasy face gleamed with teeth as he handed me the bucket, unknowing of what I was about to do.
When I returned home, I doused Moloch’s avatar in the chunky mayonnaise and vile bits of fake tuna and watched it shiver with filth. I had finally brought him to me, MOLOCH. As he stood upon his sandwich feet, he gazed hungrily at me. His visage made me delirious, and I wondered once more if he was a figment brought on by madness. Before I succumbed to the stench of five dollar footlongs, I pulled a lighter from my pocket and lit it. The thing faltered and watched as I dropped the flame. The fire lit the gas that was puddled across the floor and set my garage and the abomination ablaze. I clutched the sides of my head and cackled as my mind finally collapsed. I didn’t care that I might not survive the flame. All I could care about at that moment was watching Moloch burn. And burn he did.