It is the middle of the night, roughly one a.m. The entire city is fast asleep, save for one sleezy diner. It's called the Naked Wilma, with the 'W' modeled to look like a pair of breasts. Upon entering the diner you see there are no naked Wilmas, or anything even remotely sexual. You take a seat in a far off corner and relax.
Your name is Poiji, just first, no last. You've often thought of making up a last name for yourself but could never conjure anything respectable.
"Hello, Miss," A waitress has come over to your table. Her eyes are a peculiar gold, and her hair is long and dark. "What would you like to order?"
You stare at the menu and choose a small platter of chicken wings. The waitress smiles oddly at you once you have placed your order. "Right away." She walks off and you stare after her. Something about her is familiar, yet unnerving.
She slips away behind the counter, seemingly the only other person in the diner. She sets the chicken to cook then takes out a set of cups and a large vial of dark pink liquid.
You are the only customer in the diner and are confused by this. "I didn't order that," you say.
"I know," the waitress replies.
She distributes the contents of the vial among three cups and pulls out two smaller vials from below the counter. One is a pearly white and the other a pleasing lavender. She pours each into separate cups. She then mixes the contents of the cups until one is a lovely pastel pink.
The food finishes and she brings it over on a surprisingly ornate tray. You are still staring at the cup of pretty juice. You wonder what she used to make it, and if it tastes like bubblegum or fruit. You consider asking for it, but figure the waitress concocted it for her own consumption.
She follows your gaze and flashes that odd smile again. She brings you the cup, setting it down gingerly in front of you. "It's on the house."
You thank her and take a dainty sip. Then another. In a matter of seconds you're greedily chugging the drink, unable to get enough. The waitress watches. It tastes sickeningly sweet, yet at the same time sour and tangy.
You put down the cup, now entirely drained of its contents. Your stomach begins to hurt, like someone is dragging a knife through it. Your skin burns and itches. You claw at it wildly, drawing blood. Your scalp begins to crawl, as through there is a slew of insects walking through your hair.
You double over, retching.
The waitress continues to watch with interest, carefully stepping back as the contents of your stomach begin to cover to floor as to not dirty her shoes. "They've never done that before," she mumbles.
You continue to vomit for a full minute before your stomach is completely empty. You then stand for a moment, stagger, and collapse. The waitress prods you with her foot and realizes you are still alive. "You're the very first," she murmurs, taking out her phone. She dials a number and places the phone to her ear, waiting.
"Hello?" She asks.
You hear a voice on the other end, but cannot make out the words or gender.
"No, not corpse clean up, experiment collection. She is currently a bit fragile so be careful. If she dies you'll meet the same fate."
A pause as the person on the other end speaks.
"That is none of your business, Collection. Stop wasting time and get down here." And with that she hangs up. She notices you peering up her through your dirtied hair, which is ever so slowly graying. She gives you a look of utter disgust before slamming her shoe against your face.
Everything goes dark.