The Stomach's Sweatshop | [A Tanuki's Short Story]

That invitation was
the only light that had shone into my daily life.

"Participation fee: 10,000 yen.
If you finish all 100 dishes, a prize of 1 million yen."

I stared at the tips of my worn-out shoes,
and reached for that light without hesitation.

The venue was on the top floor of a skyscraper
towering in the heart of the city.

Polished marble floors.
Seven-colored light emitted from crystal ornaments.

However, that luxury
drifted with a bloodless, inorganic quality.

The windows were covered with thick frosted glass,
making it impossible to tell if it was day or night.

When I took my seat, there were
about fifty participants,
their faces filled with desire and expectation.

Before long, from the loudspeaker on the ceiling,
a smooth voice echoed.

"Welcome, everyone.
From here on, I will read the contract
that you will all be entering into."

1. Only those who finish all the dishes
will be awarded the 1 million yen prize.

2. You are not permitted to leave this venue
until you have finished everything.

3. Those who choose to withdraw
will spend an appropriate amount of time
in a separate room."

As the faceless host's voice cut off,
the massive doors behind us closed with a thundering sound.
In front of them stood burly men like temple guardians.

We could no longer turn back.

***

The first nine dishes were a dreamlike time.

Seafood that melted on the tongue.
The rich aroma of meat that tickled the nostrils.

"We'll get our 10,000 yen back in no time"

Everyone here must have been smirking.

But that optimism
crumbled easily at the tenth dish.

What was brought out was "Vichyssoise of Reality".

It tasted like iron rust,
and was a soup as cold as ice.

A sour smell that pierced the nose.
A taste that made my stomach cramp with every sip.

　Sobs leaked out from those around me.

　The twentieth item,
　"Shortcake Drizzled with Reprimand Tabasco"
　was nothing short of pure malice.

　The violent spiciness burned away a tongue caught off guard by the sweetness.

　With my face a mess of tears and sweat,
　I suddenly looked up.

　On the ceiling I looked up at, something like a lens
　was monitoring us with its sharp gaze.

　Ah, I see.
　I had realized it.

　We are being watched.
　This ridiculous struggle.
　This twisted face.

　Projected onto some monitor somewhere,
　becoming entertainment for someone.

　At that moment, something welled up from the bottom of my stomach.
　It was anger, it was despair,
　and a twisted stubbornness of "I won't end this ungracefully".

　"I will definitely take that million"
　
　It was the moment I whispered that.

　"……I give up!" one man shouted.
　
　Immediately, two security guards
　grabbed the man with mechanical movements,
　and dragged him toward the door beside the entrance.

　The scream the man let out
　stopped abruptly the moment the door closed.

　The venue was wrapped in a deathly silence.
　Is that the "Confessional"?
　
　The fear of dropping out settled in my stomach like lead.
　I stared at the plate in front of me.
　
　The ten thousand yen I paid.
　The agony of the twenty plates I endured.
　And the nameless audience watching from somewhere.

　To turn back now,
　I had already lost too much.

＊＊＊

　The fiftieth item I attacked with sheer willpower was
　"Beef Steak of Fulfillment".

　It was as tough as a rubber sandal,
　a thing I couldn't swallow no matter how much I chewed.

　As I forced it down my throat,
　a scene from the distant past revived in my mind.

　"This is a job worth doing"
　
　Days spent telling myself that,
　ignoring my heart as it wore away.

　Back then, too, I was like this,
　desperately swallowing meaningless lumps.

　"Affirm your own choices"

　Someone whispered.
　I gritted my teeth.

＊＊＊

　How much time has passed since then?
　
　Before we knew it, a strange sense of solidarity
　had formed among the participants.

　“There must be meaning in this suffering.”

　The woman in the seat next to me muttered with hollow eyes.

　“That’s right, the organizer is testing our souls.”

　The old man across from me replied in a trembling voice.

　Their table had turned into
　a gathering of fanatics.

　The shared delusion of being comrades
　had become the spice for self-justification.

　“I can’t take it anymore!”

　When one young man stood up from his seat,
　it was the other participants,
　not the security guards, who moved first.

　“Traitor!”

　“We have been chosen!”

　“Do you intend to throw away this precious opportunity?”

　They showered the young man with abuse.
　It was a witch hunt.

　“That’s right, are you running away?”

　I, too, was swallowed by the vortex of peer pressure,
　and joined in the shouting.

　I was so lost that I didn’t even realize
　that the words I was saying were not my own.

***　

　When the ninety-ninth course ended,
　only three of us remained.

　We all carried the light of aspiring martyrs
　within our exhausted souls.

　As if in response to that,
　the venue lights went out, leaving only one,
　and a single spotlight shone down.

　A pastry chef dressed in a pure white chef’s coat
　appeared silently, pushing a cart.

　On the cart, a superb custard pudding
　sat enthroned in a silver dish.

　With artistic movements, the pastry chef
　began to decorate it with colorful fruits, gold leaf,
　and spun sugar.

It is as solemn as a coronation,
placing a crown upon a king's head.

The finished dessert
radiates a dazzling brilliance.

"Wonderful!
You are the true winners who met expectations!
Now, receive your final meal!
This is the glorious crown celebrating your victory!"

The pastry chef lifts the finished pudding
and holds it out.

Just as his hands reached the table,
the pastry chef deliberately let his hands slip.

The silver dish hit the floor with a high-pitched sound,
and the perfect pudding shattered miserably.

On the polished marble floor,
yellow custard stains,
crushed fruit, and broken sugar work
spread out wretchedly, like the scene of a traffic accident.

"Oops, excuse me. But glory is something
you sometimes have to grab from the mud, isn't it?"

The host's voice continues, sounding amused.

"The condition for finishing the meal is
to lick up every bit of the pudding scattered on that floor,
right there on the spot."

Ah, I see.
Is this the ending of this story?

We were never winners.
We were just pawns in a show until the very end.

The purpose of this game
was not to grant us glory.

It was to watch the moment
we stopped being human.

I stood up slowly on trembling legs.
I dropped to both knees on the polished marble floor.

The final item is the "Pudding of Pride".

The remains of the pride I had risked my life to protect.

I got down on all fours and, like a dog,
stretched my tongue toward the sweet filth spread on the floor.

It was no longer for the prize money.
It wasn't even for the ten thousand yen I had paid.
It wasn't even to show off to someone somewhere.

My choice to throw myself
into this hellish full-course meal was not wrong.
Just to prove that.

Mindlessly, I just kept licking, single-mindedly.

A taste that condensed all the resignation
and absurdity I had swallowed throughout my life.

A single tear ran down my cheek.
Whether it was from frustration
or relief, I didn't even know myself.

"Congratulations on finishing the meal."

The inorganic voice of the faceless organizer echoed.
I slowly closed my eyes.

The heaven that should be visible beyond the point of fullness
is simply, dark.

🔸 Started a collaborative magazine. Looking for participants!

🔸 Posting on tales!

🔸 Recommended! (Tap the image) ⬇️

🔻 I ache, therefore I am | [Tanuki's Short Stories]

🔻 [Celebrating 100 posts!] I've reached 100 note posts and collaborative magazine entries! Introducing member articles with gratitude | [Tanuki's Stories]

Don't miss out anymore. You can read all the stories at once. ⬇️

#Tanuki #ShortStory #Fiction #MyWorkIntroduction