Pink Top City Shorts: Bon Appétit

Pink Top City Shorts: Bon Appétit

That afternoon, Fabien leaned back into his sofa, his legs sprawled out, his flip-flops kicked haphazardly onto the floor. He wore a blue plaid shirt over a Mountain T-shirt and jeans. He held his green bong in his hands. He rested his bare feet on the coffee table.

With a flick of his wrist, he sparked his lighter. The flame danced against the glass, illuminating his face, as he lit the cannabis in the bowl piece. He placed the mouthpiece to his mouth and took a slow, deliberate breath.

As he exhaled, the smoke drifted upward, swirling into the air.

The opening power chords of “Working Man” cut through the stillness of the room, sharper and grittier than anything else on the radio. Fabien let his head sink back against the sofa cushion, eyes drifting shut as Alex Lifeson’s iconic, snarling guitar riff took over the space.

As the drums kicked in, locking into that relentless, driving rhythm, Fabien tapped his fingers against his thigh. The music seemed to pull the tension right out of his muscles. He liked the way the song refused to hurry itself, letting the guitar solo bleed out and meander in that classic, blues-soaked, heavy-rock style.

He watched the blue-gray smoke curl toward the ceiling, perfectly synced to the slow, heavy groove of the bassline. When Geddy Lee’s voice finally hit, raspy and defiant, Fabien felt a rare, quiet grin tug at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t have to be anywhere, he didn’t have to be anyone, and for the next seven minutes, the only thing that existed was the feedback humming in his ears and the cool, steady rhythm of the track.

He sat there, perfectly still, letting the song wash over him, letting it carry the weight of the day away until the final chord faded into the hum of the amplifier.

The sudden, shrill intrusion of the telephone cut through the final, fading echoes of the guitar solo like a knife. Fabien blinked, the haze of the music and the moment instantly fracturing. He grimaced, staring at the rotary phone mounted on the wall in the kitchen as if it were an uninvited guest.

He didn’t move for a heartbeat, hoping it would stop, but the persistent, rhythmic ringing demanded attention. With a heavy sigh, he stood up, his joints feeling loose and heavy. He rose and picked up the receiver.

Fabien: “Yeah?”

He muttered, his voice raspy from the smoke.

Woman: “Fabien? Is that you?”

The voice on the other end was unmistakable—sharp, frantic, and decidedly out of place. It was Priya Bhagat, Gus’ mother.

Fabien rubbed his temple, his free hand instinctively smoothing down his hair.

Fabien: “Mrs. Bhagat? Yeah, it’s me. Is everything all right?”

He itched his left leg with his right foot.

Priya: “I have something here for Geeta. Could you have her come and get it?”

Fabien rolled his eyes.

Fabien: “It’s Gus.”

He glanced at his door.

Fabien: “I’ll pick it up for him.”

~

The heat of the Pink Top City summer didn’t just sit on you; it pressed down, a thick, humid blanket that made the air shimmer over the asphalt. Fabien adjusted his stride, the rubber of his flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the sidewalk as he navigated the walk downtown. Even in the late afternoon, the city was electric, buzzing with the neon promise of the evening, but Fabien was focused on getting to Gus' old house.

Gus refused to make the trip himself, and Fabien didn’t blame him.

When he arrived at the impeccably kept townhouse, Priya and Vikram were waiting. There was a polished, brittle quality to their hospitality that made Fabien’s shoulders tighten.

Priya: “Fabien, it is so good to see you.”

She said, ushering him into the cool, air-conditioned foyer.

Priya: “We were just talking about Geeta. We miss our little girl so much. We wish Geeta would just come home for dinner, you know? It’s been so long since we’ve seen her.”

Fabien felt that familiar, sharp prickle of irritation at the base of his neck. He forced a polite, tight-lipped smile, putting his hand behind his back, clenching his fist.

Fabien: “Gus is doing well.”

He corrected gently, his voice steady.

Vikram sighed, leaning against the doorframe, his expression one of weary confusion.

Vikram: “I just don’t understand this phase, Fabien. Geeta was always such a bright, beautiful child. We just want her to be happy, but she makes it so difficult when she insists on being someone she’s not.”

Fabien’s knuckles went white. He knew how much it hurt Gus to have his identity treated like a stubborn fashion choice or a temporary lapse in judgment. He wanted to scream, to tell them that Gus was the most chill and most real person he knew, and that their “little girl” had never really existed in the way they kept trying to force him to.

Instead, he took a deep breath, grounding himself in the cool air of the hallway.

Fabien: “Gus is very happy.”

He replied, his tone firmer, leaving no room for argument.

Fabien: “He is exactly who he is. I’m here to pick up a package for him?”

The atmosphere shifted, the tension hanging heavy between them. Priya’s face softened into a strained look of concern, as if she were pitying a child who had tripped and fallen. She turned and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a heavy, fragrant plastic container wrapped in foil.

Priya: “At least take this to her.”

She pressed the warm container into Fabien’s hands.

Priya: “It’s biryani. I made extra, just in case Geeta was hungry. Tell her… tell her we love her, and we hope she comes to her senses soon.”

The smell of the spices—saffron, cardamom, and roasted meat—was rich and comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness of their words. Fabien looked down at the container, its weight sitting heavily in his arms. It felt like a peace offering laced with a refusal to see the truth.

Fabien: “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

He went toward the door.

He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the sweltering Pink Top City heat. He walked faster this time, his mind already racing ahead to the moment he would get home.

The walk back felt longer than the trip there. The humidity had only intensified, and the heavy plastic container, still warm against his chest, smelled intoxicatingly good. The scent of the biryani—complex, spicy, and deeply aromatic—began to gnaw at Fabien’s stomach.

Oh, fuck, I am fucking stoned and hungry, he thought. He always eats my fucking food, so I’m eating this, he thought. He quickly ran into a Common Cents store to buy a package of plastic utensils.

As he walked out, he pried open the foil. The rice was perfectly cooked, flecked with brilliant strands of saffron and pieces of tender meat. He took a generous forkful, closing his eyes as the familiar, home-cooked flavor hit his palate. It was delicious. He took another, then another, his hunger momentarily overriding his better judgment.

But within minutes, the warmth in his belly turned into a cold, churning knot.

His vision blurred, and the vibrant Pink Top City sunset suddenly looked like a smeared watercolor painting. A sharp, chemical bitterness bloomed at the back of his throat, completely overpowering the spices. His stomach lurched, a violent, involuntary spasm that forced him to drop the container.

He stumbled away, his legs feeling like lead. He didn’t make it far before he collapsed into the tall, decorative grass of a nearby lawn. His body betrayed him, racking him with violent, retching heaves that burned like acid. The poison, potent and fast-acting, was tearing through his system. His skin went clammy and pale, and he could feel his pulse hammering erratically against his ribs.

For a terrifying few seconds, the world went black at the edges.

Then there was the tingling.

It was a sensation Fabien knew well. Deep within his cells, a dormant, rhythmic heat surged to life. It started in his marrow and radiated outward, a golden, tingling pressure that surged against the toxins.

He lay there in the damp grass, gasping for air, while inside him, a frantic, biological war raged. His stomach lining knit itself back together as fast as the poison could erode it; his liver pushed the toxins out of his bloodstream with forced, rapid filtration. He could feel the poison losing its grip, neutralized and pushed to the periphery by his own accelerated metabolism.

He stayed there for a long time, shivering despite the residual humidity of the evening. Eventually, the nausea receded, replaced by a dull, throbbing exhaustion. He sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing finally leveling out.

He looked at the spilled container in the grass. Fabien had just managed to pull himself upright, his knees still trembling, when he heard a faint, scratching rustle from the nearby gutter.

A large, mangy city rat—brazen and hungry—had crept out from beneath the curb. Attracted by the rich, savory scent of the spilled meal, the creature skittered toward the mess of rice and meat that Fabien had discarded in the grass. It dove into the pile, gorging itself with frantic, twitchy movements.

Fabien watched, his breath catching in his throat, a cold spike of horror piercing through his lingering nausea.

The rat didn’t even make it a foot away from the container. It suddenly stiffened, its small body jolting as if struck by a lightning bolt. It let out a high-pitched, strained wheeze, its tiny claws scrabbling uselessly against the concrete, and then it simply collapsed. It didn’t twitch again; the life vanished from its beady eyes in an instant, its heart stopping mid-beat.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Fabien stared at the small, lifeless form, his own skin crawling. He had eaten far more than that creature. If not for the strange, relentless vitality that burned in his blood, he would be lying right next to it, stiff and cold on the Pink Top City pavement.

A wave of icy clarity washed over him, dousing the last remnants of his sickness with pure, unfiltered rage. This wasn’t just a misunderstanding, or a clumsy attempt at a “peace offering.” They had tried to kill him.

He didn’t waste another second looking at the evidence. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white, and turned his back on the scene.

He walked home in the dark, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. The warmth of his regenerative healing was still tingling beneath his skin, a constant reminder of how close he’d come to the end.

~

When Fabien arrived home, he saw Gus hanging upside down from a tree in just his underwear. The silence in the suburbs was overwhelming. He heard the crickets chirping and frogs mating from a distance. There was a small pond by Tristan’s Château. He stared at Gus for a long minute.

Gus: “What?”

Fabien opened his mouth to tell him what happened, but stopped. No, he thought. I want those fuckers to think they won, so they never contact him again, he thought.

Fabien: “...Why are there piles of dirt by our fence?”

He knew why. He didn’t want to explain why he stared at him.

Gus: “I went into Jackie-babe’s house and stole every jar of Funny Feet foot deodorizer. I buried them all so her feet will be nuclear-level stinky.”

He smiled. Fabien smiled sadly.

Fabien: “...I see now. Ingenious plan.”

He inhaled sharply and stepped back into his house.