From the desk at the back of the room came the sound of playing cards being shuffled, followed by the quiet voices of two men. The fire popped, sending a flash of light which briefly illuminated them.

Everyone else gasped.

The Projectionist, one of the men, was sharply dressed in a grey suit, collared white shirt, and silk paisley ascot. He laid a card on the desk and smiled at Zombie Frank, the other man, exposing his brown, rancid teeth and stretching the flaky, pale skin around his lips and cheek. Frank, dressed in a dirty, burgundy usher's uniform that matched the half-rotted skin on his face and empty, scabbed right eye socket, placed a card on the desk with a decaying, blood-crusted hand. He made some sort of guttural grumbling sound as dirt and worms dribbled from his mouth and onto his bow tie.

They turned over their cards. The Projectionist's card had a picture of screaming teenage girl and the number fifteen; Zombie Franks' had a photo of horrified ten-year-old boy and the number seven.

The Projectionist smiled and took both cards. "Looks like I win this time, Frank."

Frank hit the desk and mumbled something that sounded angry.

"Now, Frank," The Projectionist said, "don't be a sore loser." The Projectionist looked at the Horrified Ten-Year-Old Boy on the card; the Boy looked back at him, beating on the inside of the card and trying to get out. "Hello, dear boy. I have such a delicious nightmare for you. If you thought that the one Frank gave you was scary, just wait until you see mine. It's so terrifying that-"

He stopped speaking, aware that the rest of the room was silently staring at them. He turned to everyone and flashed his brown, putrid grin. He stood up and addressed the room.

"Now, where are my manners," he said with a macabre showman's charm. "Let me introduce myself. I am The Projectionist from the Drive-In Horrorshow. And this," he said, gesturing to the other man sitting at the table, "is my loyal ticket-taker, Zombie Frank."

Zombie Frank nodded at the group; several worms fell from his forehead and landed, squirming, on his filthy dress shoes.

Frank's stomach growled.

The Projectionist gave him a disapproving glance. "I'm hungry, too. But you ate all the finger fries already, Frank. I told you to ration them - severed hands can be hard to come by these days. We were supposed to be at the boneyard already to restock. When I said that I wanted fresh, young corpses I didn't meant that we should go to a school. Besides, what kind of school is full of dead children?"

Frank crossed his arms and grumbled.

The Projectionist looked back at the room. "My empty stomach reminds me of a tale that I haven't thought of in a long time. A story about a man who just loved to eat...until his appetite got him in serious trouble. This is a story that we call:

TONY MEATBALLS

by @DriveInHorrorshow

Tony Meatballs was a hit man - a good one, one of the best. He'd had a long career, with all the perks: a nice car, tailored clothes, and the knowledge that his life was secure in the local mob scene. After all, he was reliable, never drew attention to himself, and always did quality work.

But Tony also had a big problem: he was addicted to food. Good, well-made, delicious food, the kind so tasty that it could only made by a master craftsman.

It wasn't an issue when he was first starting out in his twenties, since he was young and in shape. As a matter of fact, his love of food was an asset: he was a chef at the exclusive French restaurant Prof de Louf, an ideal cover job. But the decades ticked by and he grew fatter, wider, and slower as his addiction took hold.

Chicken Parmesan. Oysters Rockefeller. Foie gras. Chateaubriand. And then there were the desserts: Three-layer chocolate cheesecake. Raspberry-filled bear claws. Butterscotch ice cream. All made from scratch.

When he reached his fifties, he hung up his apron. Being a chef for other people became a pain in the ass - quite literally, as his weight topped three hundred pounds and his aching body struggled to propel his ever-expanding bulk around the kitchen. And being a hit man paid enough. So he decided to cook exclusively for his number one customer: himself.

Tony had no use for the outside world. He hated it. His life had its own personal orbit around fine dining. What's more, to his delight, he never had to leave the house. Once he discovered that he could have his ingredients home-delivered, he lived off of Whole Foods, Roche Brothers, Wegman's, and any other supermarket willing to drop off an ingredient or seventy at his doorstep.

The pounds kept packing on. And on and on. Luckily for Tony, his line of work gave him a lot of leeway - as long as he bumped off the target, he could do it any way he wanted. So being massively overweight was not a problem: he could run them over, he could shoot them, or even smother them with his enormous girth. The clients never complained as long as the job got done. And since he was freelance, there was no boss giving him grief about how fat he was. It was a perfect situation.

But the perfection didn't last. The price of good food had gone through the roof, and Tony's need for calories was endless. Lately, he'd found himself having to take jobs that he would have turned down a few years ago. He'd agreed to one such job on Wednesday from a local mob boss named Paolo - a routine hit, some dirtbag the next town over. He wasn't crazy about it, but he had until next week to get it done and the guy lived only ten minutes away. It was as lazy and easy a hit as he'd ever had.

In the meantime, he had eating to do.

On the evening of Friday, July 8th, the doorbell rang. Tonight, Tony thought, is going to be a special one, indeed. He opened his front door and grinned when he saw a sealed package on the doorstep. He scooped up the package, brought it inside, and opened it.

He drooled.

Inside the box were a dozen fresh one-and-a-half-pound lobsters, sitting in an airtight cooler at a perfect thirty four degrees. They'd been on a fishing boat in Maine at daybreak, before starting their trip down the coast to Tony's house. Thank you, internet Fishmonger.

Lobster. The crown jewel of all food. Of all the thousands of ingredients Tony loved, lobster sat at the very top. And while there were a hundred ways he could think of to prepare them, his favorite was the classic:

Lobster rolls.

Showtime.

Tony put on a pot of water to boil. Ingredients were prepared, butter melted, celery chopped, homemade mayonnaise pre-measured. He formed perfectly-risen dough into twelve flawless brioche rolls and stuck them in the oven. Tony moved like a musician, a dancer, an artist creating a masterpiece in his edible medium of choice. The lobsters were dropped into the boiling water with a splash!, their shells enveloped in a bath of percolating bubbles.

The scent of cooking lobster filled the air. Tony took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took it all in. It was heaven on earth. This Friday evening in July was his Christmas morning.

Then his eyes flew open. His pulse quickened.

His jaw fell. He dropped his tongs to the floor.

Tony ran to the drawer next to his fridge, not even bothering to wash the butter off of his hands. He pulled open the drawer and pushed pencils and food-delivery menus out of the way as he looked for his note pad.

His memory raced to his conversation with Paolo on Wednesday, just two days before:

Tony had just sat down to a heaping serving of homemade baked Alaska. He'd been daydreaming about it all afternoon, almost unable to contain his excitement. He pulled up his chair and eyed the airy meringue dome that contained the ice cream, the sponge cake, the chocolate, and was about to cut it with his fork-

Brinnnnng.

He looked at the counter. His satellite phone was ringing.

Only two people called him these days: food delivery guys, and wise guys.

He wasn't expecting any food delivery.

He stood up from the table, waddled to the counter, and picked up his phone.

A voice on the other end started gabbing in his ear. "Tony, how ya doing? Been cooking up a storm like usual?"

"Hey Paolo," Tony grumbled. He grabbed a pad of paper and pencil from a drawer, shuffled back to his chair, and sat down. The baked Alaska sat in front of him, beckoning like a siren.

"So listen, Tony. I got a problem. Remember my sister, Rita? Well, she's been taking on with this new guy, Roy is his name, some college professor type, and I got this funny feeling about him, and..."

Paolo's voice faded into a din, drowned out by the baked Alaska's siren song.

Tony picked up his fork.

"...you wouldn't believe the way this Roy talks, like he's fuckin' Shakespeare, all 'thou fairest' or 'The end is nigh," I mean who the hell says 'nigh?' And then my ma gets involved, and..."

Paolo droned on and on, talking about things Tony neither cared about nor really heard. Tony drooled. All he wanted was the baked Alaska.

Tony cut into the delicate meringue with his fork. A lover's touch.

He took a bite and closed his eyes. Heaven.

"...so anyway, my sister's a whore. But that's not why I called." Tony didn't answer. "Hey, Meatballs. You croak on me?"

"Nophe," mumbled Tony through a mouth full of sponge cake and ice cream.

"Good. 'Cause I got a job for ya. Take this down." Tony propped his phone between his neck rolls and his shoulder, grabbed a pencil in one hand, and picked up his fork with the other.

Tony took another bite of baked Alaska. The vanilla ice cream swirled around his palette as he wrote down the details of Paolo's job, hearing the mob boss through a hazy cloud of bliss.

Tony wrote: Dirtbag named Terry...takes the train...

Tony watched his pencil in one hand but didn't really see it, as his mind's eye replaced the pencil with the divine dessert sitting in front of him.

His hand kept writing as he half-paid attention to it: something North Access Street...Friday...of week...9 p.m....

"Tony? Got it?" Paolo's voice snapped Tony back to reality.

"Yeah. No problem, Paolo."

"Good." And Paolo hung up. Finally.

No sooner had Tony heard the dial tone than he turned his attention back to his baked Alaska prize. After he finished, his belly full - for a few moments, at least - he put the pad back in the drawer, riding a high that could only be achieved with good food.

Now, rifling through the menus two days later, Tony saw the pad. He pulled it from the drawer in his butter-stained hands. He almost had a heart attack as he read what he had written:

He'd written "9 p.m." and "Friday." That much he remembered right.

But it wasn't "by next week," like he'd thought - which would have given him exactly a week, until next Friday, to finish the job. "By the end of the week."

This week.

Today. At 9 p.m.

Tony looked at his clock. It was 8:45 p.m.

Panic began to seep in. This was more than a simple misunderstanding.

In Tony's line of work, there were no simple misunderstandings.

His eyes scanned his kitchen, his gaze alighting on each ingredient like a trapped fly trying to find its way out of a glass box: the mayonnaise, the celery, the butter, cayenne pepper, the pot of boiling lobsters and the brioche in the oven.

His mind whirled, lost in its own trap, thinking about what to do when:

Ding!

A timer went off. It cleared his head like a splash of ice-cold water.

Ding!

The lobsters. The brioche. Both timed to be done at the exact same moment. They were ready.

Tony hadn't moved this fast in thirty years.

***

Tony nearly knocked the cooler of lobster meat off his car's front seat as he took a hard turn onto North Access Street, almost tailspinning. At the last second, he grabbed the cooler and managed to keep his precious cargo from falling to the floor and crushing the delicately stacked pile of fresh brioche rolls.

He stopped his car and looked at the clock on his dashboard: 8:58.

He took a big, heaving breath. "Easy," he told himself.

Ten years earlier, North Access Street was an up-and-coming neighborhood. That is, until the housing market went in the shitter. Now, it was nothing but derelicts, bums, and people looking to hide. Cops didn't come down here. Not when people like Paolo greased their wallets.

Tony reached behind the cooler, fumbling, and grabbed his butter-stained notepad. He read:

Terry. Late thirties, tall, balding. 3235 North Access St. Off work - 8 p.m. Takes train. Home – 9 p.m.

Tony cruised down the street until he found number thirty-two thirty-five, a few hundred yards away. He parked.

He checked the dash: 9:00. Right on time.

Tony waited. He tried not to think of his precious cargo next to him. Tried to harness his willpower.

Gotta control myself, he thought. Tony forced himself to keep his eyes on the road in front of him, waiting for Mr. Terry Dirtbag to make his appearance.

He checked the dash: 9:01.

The aroma of lobster seemed to be oozing from the tightly-sealed cooler. Tony tried to ignore it and keep his eyes on the road.

He checked the dash: 9:02.

Where is this guy?

The aroma of lobster was getting stronger; now it was joined by the smell of the freshly-baked brioche rolls.

Tony tried not to drool.

9:03.

Tony was starting to sweat. One little look couldn't hurt, could it?

Tony started to reach for the cooler with his right hand. His other hand slapped it away.

No! Focus, moron.

9:04.

Tony's lip was trembling. He peeked over his front seat, gazing at the plate of brioche rolls on the floor. The saran wrap on top of them was lightly dappled with steam.

Tony forced himself to look back at the street.

The street was still empty.

9:05.

One little look, right? That's ok. Just to tide me over. I won't take a bite, I promise.

Tony opened the cooler. His treasure was carefully laid out inside: baggies of melted butter, mayonnaise, celery, and so on. And in the biggest baggie of all:

The lobster.

Tony licked his lips.

He looked at the street: still empty.

9:06.

Terry Dirtbag was running late. Maybe the train was delayed. No need to sit here just waiting. I gotta pass the time, somehow.

One little bite won't hurt, right?

He looked at the empty street, the clock - 9:07 - and back to his prize.

He was quick.

He grabbed a large bowl from his back seat and put it on his emergency brake, balancing it against the cooler. He whipped out the lobster, the butter, the mayonnaise, and the rest, pouring it into the bowl.

He looked at the street: empty.

Tony unwrapped a mixing spoon from a dishtowel and stirred the lobster.

He was almost there.

He could taste it.

He dropped the spoon.

Tony stared, horrified, as it fell past his legs and hit the floor mat, picking up a hundred hairs and pieces of dirt from the carpet beneath his feet.

Tony hesitated for only a second.

He plunged his hands into the bowl, stirring the lobster meat with his fingers, feeling it squish between his palms, a splendid texture.

He closed the top of the cooler and placed the bowl on top. He pulled back the saran wrap on his pile of brioche rolls and grabbed one. It was still warm.

He spread melted butter on the roll; the brioche sucked it up like a sponge. Tony grabbed a handful of his perfect, heavenly lobster meat and spread it in a neat row in the split center of the open roll.

Tony was breathless as he gazed at his magnificent creation. It looked better than he could have ever imagined.

As he drew the lobster roll towards his open, drooling mouth, he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

A man in his late thirties. Balding. Walking, glued to his phone, towards thirty-two thirty-five North Access Street.

He sure looked like a Dirtbag.

Shit!

Tony leapt into action, heart pounding. He threw open his cooler and put the lobster roll inside, balancing it delicately on top of the baggie of chopped celery.

He tried to open his glove compartment, but his slippery, mayonnaise-and-butter-covered fingers flailed at the lock. He grasped again and failed again, leaving glistening wet stains on the plastic handle.

"Come on, come on," he whispered to himself. Terry the Dirtbag, absorbed with his phone, didn't notice the frenzied man in the car ten feet away, fumbling wildly with his glove compartment.

Tony pulled on the glove compartment door with both hands; it flew open, sending flecks of butter-covered celery on his face.

Tony wiped his forehead and snatched his favorite silenced 9mm. It slid from his greasy fingers and fell towards the fresh brioche below.

"No!"

Tony swatted the 9mm in midair. It bounced off the parking brake and fell into his lap.

Terry, a few feet away, kept walking and looking at his phone.

Tony fumbled with the 9mm, attempting, with both slippery hands, to get a grasp on the gun. He looked like a man trying to restrain a black, crisco-covered fish. Tony slammed his left elbow on the button to roll his window down. The window started to descend just as Terry walked by.

Tony said in a frenzied voice, "Hey, Terry"

The Dirtbag turned around. "Wha?"

Tony finally got a firm grip on the 9mm. He put a bullet in Terry's head.

The Dirtbag went down. Tony shot him again, threw the 9mm in the back seat, and drove away.

It was done.

***

Tony wiped his hands on a towel, until they were clean enough for him to get a firm grip on his 9mm. Then he threw the gun into the churning waters at Coney Point. Now it was time for the real business.

He took the cooler and stack of brioche rolls and placed them on the still-warm hood of his car. It looked like the world's most hastily thrown-together picnic, but Tony didn't care. Finally, he would have his treasure.

He pulled the saran wrap off of the brioche rolls and took a transcendent whiff.

He opened the cooler and set the melted butter and bowl of lobster meat next to the rolls.

He reached for a roll.

Brinnnnng.

He felt a vibrating in his pocket. His phone was ringing.

Tony grunted and grabbed his phone. He propped his phone between his neck rolls and his shoulder, reached for a roll with one hand and the lobster meat with another. He was about to speak when Paolo cut him off:

"Hey, Meatballs. What the hell?"

Tony paused. Something wasn't right. "Hey, Paulo. What's going on?"

"You messed up, big time. Where are you now?"

"Coney Point."

"We're around the corner. Stay there."

***

A minute later, Tony was flanked by two goons holding guns to his ribs.

Paulo - half of Tony's size, easily - stood in front of Tony. Paolo held the butter-stained notepad in his hands. He looked at it and shook his head. He stood on this tip toes and held the notepad in Tony's face.

"It was thirty-three twenty-five North Access, you fat fuck," Paulo said as he pointed to Tony's smudged handwriting. "Not thirty-two twenty-five. Who knows who that poor schmuck is?"

Tony blubbered, "It was a misunderstanding, Paulo, I'll take care of it. Right now. It must have gotten smudged or..."

Paulo smelled the note and looked at the smeared letters. "What is this, butter?"

"Well, I packed a snack for the trip. I got some Maine lobster, so fresh, and I figured-"

"Really? Really? What do think this is, summer vacation?"

"Like I said, I can take care of this-"

Paulo held up his finger. Tony Meatballs stopped talking. Paolo pointed at the two goons.

"Wait," Tony said. "Can you do me a favor?"

***

Twenty minutes later, Tony took the final bite of his lobster rolls. He barely felt the slight pressure of the gun to his temple as the buttery saltiness, the succulent lobster, and the understated crunch of the brioche carried him away on a cloud of bliss.

The Projectionist grinned and rubbed his stomach. "My, that story really got my appetite going. I'm so hungry that I could almost eat pickled zombie brains."

Zombie Frank, lying on the floor in the fetal position with his hand over his face, groaned at him.

"Not yours, of course," The Projectionist said to Frank. "Don't you worry."

Crunching sounds came from Frank's mouth, like a dog chewing on a stick.

The Projectionist looked down at him. "Now Frank, what are you doing?"

Frank pulled his hand away from his mouth. Two of his fingers were missing - instead, they were sticking out of his chewing jaws.

The Projectionist addressed the room again. "It seems like my loyal assistant is letting his stomach get the best of him. Perhaps hearing another story will distract him from eating his entire arm." He put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Come now, Frank. Let's have a seat and listen to a new tale."

Frank grumbled and climbed back in his chair. The Projectionist sat down beside him.

"The floor is yours," he said to the room. "Who's next?"