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The server at the all-you-can-eat buffet couldn't help but stare as the new guy took his seat. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine, but his demeanor was all kinds of sad puppy.
It was as if he'd lost his favorite chew toy and hadn't eaten in weeks. She pasted on a smile and greeted him, mentally noting the empty wallet vibes he was giving off. "Welcome to Buffet Bonanza," she sang, handing him a menu the size of a phonebook. "Our special today is... well, everything, really."
He scanned the menu with a wild look in his eye, like a kid in a candy store who'd just been told he could eat as much as he wanted without throwing up. "I'll have it all," he said, slapping the menu shut like he was sealing a deal with the devil.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Oh boy, she thought, here we go with another one of these. They always thought they could conquer the buffet, but it was the buffet that usually conquered them.
As she walked away, she whispered to her coworker, "Keep an eye on table six. I think we might have a world record contender on our hands." Her coworker raised an eyebrow but didn't bother looking over. They'd seen it all before. The guy probably wouldn't even make it through the salad bar without begging for mercy.
But something about the way this one was eyeing the dessert section made her pause. There was a hunger there, sure, but it wasn't just for food. It was like he was looking at those chocolate fountains like they were the Holy Grail and he was Indiana Jones on a sugar-fueled quest.
The server's name tag read "Sam," and she had a feeling this would be a night she'd tell the grandkids about. She turned back to the kitchen, shouting, "Hey, B, we've got a live one out here! Get the stretchy pants ready!" The kitchen staff chuckled, but she had a sneaking suspicion this was going to be more than just another funny story to share during smoke breaks.
As she approached with the first plate, piled high with everything from fried chicken to sushi to mac 'n' cheese, she couldn't help but wonder if he was a competitive eater in disguise or just someone who hadn't had a decent meal in a while. But when he began to scarf down the food, it was like watching a tornado swirl through a salad bar. Forks flew, napkins fluttered, and plates rattled as he devoured the food like it was his last meal on death row.
Sam's eyes grew wider with each bite he took. The poor guy looked like he was fighting a battle with an invisible food demon, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's, and his eyes watering as he shoveled food into his mouth. She was half expecting a food coma to hit him like a ton of bricks, but he just kept going, piling plate after plate with an efficiency that would put a factory assembly line to shame.
The other customers started to stare, their own meals forgotten as they watched the spectacle unfold. Kids whispered to their parents, asking if he was a superhero, and the parents, equally baffled, could only shake their heads and murmur, "I think he might just be really, really hungry."
The kitchen was in chaos, cooks running around like headless chickens trying to keep up with his insatiable appetite. Sam had to admit, she was impressed. But she also couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the poor guy. It was clear he was dealing with something more than just hunger.
As she cleared his seventh plate, she leaned in and whispered, "You know, the buffet's not going anywhere. You can take a breather." But he just looked up at her, a wild glint in his eye, and said, "No can do, I've got a date with that dessert bar." And with that, he was off again, leaving Sam to wonder if she should start placing bets on how many slices of cake he'd manage before the night was through.
Her next visit to his table was met with a mountain of food that would make even the most seasoned buffet-goer weep. He'd created a food pyramid, with a volcano of mashed potatoes at its base, a river of gravy snaking around it, and a mountain of meats and veggies that looked like it was about to erupt any second. "Are you sure you don't want me to call in reinforcements?" she quipped, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. He just gave her a thumbs up, a piece of steak lodged in his teeth, and went back to his feast.
The other servers had started to gather, whispering about the mysterious man who could eat them all out of a job.
It was like watching someone play a video game on god mode, except the prize was a food coma instead of a high score. She had to admit, the sheer absurdity of it was kind of fascinating. The way his jaws moved in a blur, the sweat beads forming on his forehead, and the occasional burp that sounded like a car backfiring – it was like a performance art piece titled "The Consumption of the Infinite."
But amidst the laughs and whispers, Sam noticed something strange happening. The more he ate, the more... alive he looked. His skin was glowing, his eyes were clearing up, and he was sitting up straighter. The sad puppy look was slowly being replaced by something more... powerful. And it wasn't just the sugar rush talking.
The kitchen had gone quiet, the only sound the rhythmic clank of plates and the occasional "Whoa" or "Dude, he ate that?" echoing through the swinging doors. Sam had to admit, she was getting a bit nervous. This wasn't just a man enjoying an all-you-can-eat; it was a food apocalypse, and she was the unsuspecting survivor caught in the middle. She glanced at her watch – had he really been eating for two hours straight?
On his next visit to the buffet, she decided to tag along, if only to make sure he wasn't hoarding food in his pants. She'd seen it all in her years of serving, but this was on a whole new level. The sight that greeted her was... well, it was like watching a food-themed Cirque du Soleil. He was balancing a stack of pancakes with the grace of a ballerina, while juggling three skewers of shrimp. He caught her eye and winked, flipping a piece of shrimp in the air and catching it in his mouth without missing a beat. Sam couldn't help but snort with laughter, which earned her a glare from the other customers who hadn't given up hope of scoring the last piece of prime rib.
The man looked over his plate, piled high with more food than Sam had ever seen outside of a Thanksgiving Day parade float. "Is something funny?" he asked, a smear of barbecue sauce on his cheek.
"No, no," she said, trying to compose herself. "It's just... you're, uh, really going to town on that food."
He leaned in conspiratorially. "It's a talent," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "I kinda.. have a parasite if you will." He added sheepishly.
Her smile froze on her face. "Oh, I see," she said, not sure if she did.
Suddenly, the man's body started trembling, as if he was being electrocuted. His eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a low growl. The customers around him gasped and scooted back in their chairs. Sam took a step back, ready to call for help. But just as quickly as it had started, the trembling stopped, and he snapped his eyes back into focus.
"I'm so sorry about that," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Do you think I could get some tater tots? And maybe a side of those fried mozzarella sticks?" His voice was strained, like he was fighting against something.
"Of course," Sam said, her mind racing. What the hell was happening here? Was he on some kind of crazy diet? Or was it a bet? Or was he just really, really into tater tots?
As she rushed back to the kitchen, the kitchen was in disarray, pans flying and oil spitting as the cooks tried to keep up with his demands. "Tater tots!" she called out, and a mountain of them appeared in front of her like manna from heaven. Or hell, depending on how you looked at it.
When she brought them out, he devoured them like they were the last morsels on earth, his eyes never leaving hers. There was something in them – something that made her want to both run away and stay right there. It was like he was daring her to figure out his secret.
But she had a job to do, and that job was keeping this... whatever he was, happy and fed. So she plastered on a smile and said, "Is there anything else I can get you?"
He looked up, his eyes locking on hers, and for a second, she swore she saw something... else looking back at her. Something dark and hungry. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a friendly nod. "Just the check, please."
Sam's heart sank. The show was over. She'd seen enough food to last a lifetime and was ready to get home to a quiet night of microwave popcorn and Netflix. But as she approached the table with the bill, she saw that the plate of tater tots she had brought out was still untouched. "Everything okay?" she asked, gesturing to the cold, congealing pile of potatoes.
He looked down at it, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "It's not... quite what I was expecting."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, reaching for the plate. "Let me get you something else."
But before she could take it away, the plate was gone. In its place was a crumpled napkin. She blinked, sure she'd seen wrong. "What happened to your food?" she asked, confused.
He just shrugged, a smug smile playing on his lips. "It's all in the wrist," he said, flexing his hand. "Magic trick."
The other customers had lost interest and gone back to their own meals, the thrill of the unknown overshadowed by the comfort of the familiar. Sam took the bill over to the cashier, her mind racing. What was this guy's deal? Was he a food critic with a weird sense of humor? Or was he some kind of... no, that was ridiculous. He couldn't be.
But as she rung him up, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just served dinner to something that wasn't quite human. The way he'd eaten, the way he'd moved – it was all too... predatory. And what had happened to those tater tots?
As he paid, he left a tip that was more than generous – so generous, in fact, that she almost didn't want to take it. "Keep the change," he said, his eyes glinting in the fluorescent light. "You've been a great sport."
"Thanks," she said, tucking the cash into her apron. "Come back anytime." But she hoped he wouldn't.
As he walked out the door, she couldn't help but watch him go, his stride confident, his shoulders back. And when the door swung shut behind him, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The rest of the night was a blur. She cleared tables, refilled drinks, and avoided the kitchen as much as possible. The cooks had gone from amused to spooked, whispering about the man who'd eaten them out of house and home without breaking a sweat.