Adventures In Evil Zombieland 2038 - Episode 8 - A Futuristic Dining Experience

Our happy anarchist couple has quite the dining experience in Evil Zombieland. 

So I’m walking down one of the main thoroughfares of my smart prison, err, I mean city.  It’s nighttime and the illumination level beamed down by the so-called intelli-lights falls somewhere between dim and lustreless.   

“Not far now,” my girlfriend says with a hint of cynicism.
“Hey, I’m supposed to be the cynical one,” I say.

She smirks, “I’m just as cynical as you.  It’s just that you say it out loud more.”
“True.”

We’ve already walked 20 blocks and have another 20 or so to go.  Why are we walking so far, you might be wondering?  Because we’re out of travel credits until next month.  Ahhh, the joys of Agenda 21 technocratic austerity!

It’s a special night, which has me in a cautiously joyful mood.  We’re going out to dinner! And I can’t tell you how rare of a treat that is in the year 2038.  Hence my cautious joy!

30 minutes later, and eureka! We’ve reached our destination! A charming little place called “Malentina’s Emporium of Sustenance”.  I know, I know, whoever dreamed up that horrific name should feel deeply shameful.  Anyway, we’ve heard great things about the food, and that’s why we’re here, not cuz of some snazzy name.    

There are tons of people and humanoids roaming around, chatting endlessly about nothing and playing with unlimited gadgets and gizmos.  And that’s just on the outside of the place.

On the inside, it’s more of the same.  We approach an annoyed looking hostess, “Table for two, please”.

Her disinterested reply, “The wait is between 2 and 3 hours.”

This doesn’t shock me.  Actually, it’s a bit less than I expected.  You see, most restaurants here in Evil Zombieland in 2038 typically have about a 3 hour wait to get a table.  Why? Because the gang with fancy titles called government highly restricts food vending licenses, so there aren’t too many restaurants.    

Of course, there are super high priced ones where you can get a table without waiting, but those are generally only affordable to those in the mid to upper echelons of the mind-controlled, order-following class of henchmen and pawns.  The managerial class, you might say.

We put our name on the never-ending list.  “What now?” my girl asks.
I give a cheshire grin, “I’ve got an idea.”

“I don’t like when you get that look on your face,” she says playfully.
“What look? Let’s walk down to Black Tie and have a cocktail.”

She waivers, “A drink there costs more than a meal here.” 

“It’ll be worth it. Come on.  It’s just down the street.”

So now we’re approaching Black Tie.  Wow, it actually has real stone and wood.  Wood isn’t allowed to be used in construction anymore, and stone is highly restricted by the malevolent Agenda 21 enforcers.    

We walk in and the décor doesn’t disappoint.  Sparkling chandeliers, mahogany, crystal, the works.  After absorbing some snooty looks from patrons and staff alike, we approach the middle-aged man at the host station.    

With a twisted brow he asks, “Are you lost?”

With an amused,  yet deadpan face, I say, “We’d just like to have a drink at the bar.  Thanks for the salt!” We strut past.  He turns red.    

No shortage of fake people sporting outrageously expensive smart-clothes at the bar.  After ordering 2 smart whiskeys from a boy-band-looking humanoid bartender, we settle in and I take mental notes of the characters around us.    

“Plotting your master plan?” my girl asks with amusement.    
“You know me all too well.”    

The smart whiskeys arrive.  I suggest we mingle.  “That lobster-faced lady.  Guarantee she’s a bureaucrat.  Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

I approach her as she’s in mid-fake-laugh, “Hi, do I know you from somewhere? I saw you on one of the fake news channels, didn’t I?”

She turns a brighter shade of red, “Oh, I’m afraid not.  I work for the population council.”

Perfect.  I move in for more, “Oh, the population council? You mean that group of extortion funded authoritarians who try to play god and decide who can produce offspring and in what quantity? You must have one hell of a Satanic ego!”

Her eyes bulge, “Excuse me? And who are you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m the guy that just told you the truth.  Gotta run, see ya!”

I slam my whiskey and dart to a different part of the cocktail area, trying to avoid Darth Lobster’s optic death beams.    

While looking around for the next “victim” of an educational, truth telling rant, I notice a huge wooden bookshelf.  I’ve never seen so many paper books in all my life! I wonder how many violence-backed Yudollrubpounds that cost?

I’ve got one spotted.  Gruff looking older guy with a crew cut.  More than likely in the employ of the death cult known as the military.    

As we approach, I tell my girlfriend, “Follow my lead.” 

Then when we’re next to the guy, I say super loud to my girl, “Hey! Isn’t that terrible! I heard the same thing! How dare they even think of reducing the military budget!”

His eyes lock with mine.  Bingo.
Gruff mercenary greets us, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear you.  Where did you hear that?”

“I honestly can’t say.  May I ask why it concerns you, sir?”
He cocks his head up, “I work with the autonomous drone fleet resources department.”

I give a sideways glance, “Oh, you mean that drone fleet that monitors rural lands and keeps people away from natural resources, thus creating a monopoly for those in the dark occult ruling class? The same drone fleet that murders people if they dare step foot on a certain hill or pick a certain flower? That evil tool of the cybernetic control system that helps keep humanity enslaved?”

“Why you little!?” he grumbles.  He starts cocking his head around.  I figure he’s looking for a member of the staff to have us thrown out.    
We decide not to give him the pleasure.  “Ok, that’s enough fun for right now,” my bemused girl says.    

I agree and we happily make our way back to Malentina’s.    

2 hours later and we’re sharing a tiny synthetic table and looking over the menu at Malentina’s.  I can't help but notice most of the zombies around me, stuck in virtual worlds of augmented reality and treating their food as an afterthought.  Another reason for that 3 hour wait!    

“I hear the reconstituted poop burgers here are phenomenal,” I say with a straight face.    

My girl gags.  Some people just still can’t adjust to the idea of eating what used to be poop, despite all the assurances from armies of scientists who insist it’s safe.    

I’ve eaten one before, I’ll be honest.  It was, well, edible.  I’m sure with enough chemical wonder sauce, it would actually taste good.  It might be cancerous from tons of chemicals, but it’ll taste good.    

My girl says excitedly, “Oh, they’ve got insect cakes here! I’ve never tried those!”

Insect cakes.  Imagine crab cakes, but with insects instead.  Jealous?

A humanoid waitress with pink hair and covered in plaid comes over and gives a tin can giggly greeting.  She asks if we have questions.

“Yeah, why does the Global Food Council exist? On that note, why does government exist?”

“The Global Food Council exists to...”

I cut her off, “It was just a joke.  I’m not interested in your programmed and predictable answer.  Anyway, yeah, I have questions about the food.  I’m curious about Veggie Compost Blend Number 3.  It says it’s a souffle-like dish, radiated to perfection, with an Aspernola Glaze.  What’s that glaze, exactly?” 

She announces with robotic cheer, “It’s a new experimental flavor enhancer, a mix between Aspartame and Canola Oil. It’s double recommended by the Global Food Council and the Population Council.”

I feign ignorance, “Gee, why would the Population Council be recommending such a thing? I’m sure it won’t make me sterile or give me cancer or anything like that.”

My girlfriend kicks my shin under the table.    

Undeterred, I continue, “How many synthetic ingredients does your Almost Pizza have?”
“Almost Pizza contains 177 synthetic ingredients.”

“May I ask how many health problems those ingredients have been linked to?”

It’s hard to make a robot look confused, but I pulled it off.  “The Global Food Council does not make such information available.”

I grin and persist, “What about the Population Council?”
“Negative.”

So I order the reconstituted poop burger and my girl goes for the Almost Pizza.  

Ten minutes later, and two gorgeously presented products of science gone wrong appear before us.  It’s time to dig in.    

Or maybe not.  I stop some extortion funded criminals in blue uniforms talking to the hostess.  I tell my girl to look.  Her eyes bulge out.  They start to come our way.

I look into my girl’s eyes, “I hate to eat on the run, but….”

I grab my poop burger and she grabs a couple slices of almost pizza pie and we dart out the back.  We zig and zag to buy ourselves a few more cage-free moments.    

We stop in an alleyway to catch our breath and take a bite of what these days passes for food.  My girl asks, “That military psycho sent some order-following pawns our way, huh?”

“That’s a safe bet, I’d say.  How’s your food?”
“I’m sorry we paid for it.”

And yes, for those of you wondering out there, we didn’t dine and dash.  A true anarchist like myself would never steal.  The Yudollrubpounds will be automatically deducted from our account.  The whole “pay with your face” thing.  Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, right?

So now we just got home, tired, sweaty, hungry, and financially poorer.  Another day in the life in Evil Zombieland.  But not just any day.  This was our big night out on the town.    

Thanks for your time and attention!

Just say "NO" to slavery!"

Top image is from publicdomainpictures.net