by Ian Bahas

Three days ago at the grocery store the perfect man asked me out on a date. ME! Gorgeous, funny, rich, good with kids, you name it! He’s taking me out to this a Japanese place called Ichigo's Beautiful Squid Pagoda. Weird name, but he assured me the food is out of this world. JUST as I am finishing my makeup he knocks on the door with that hilarious knock you always hear on sitcoms. When I open the door, he is standing there with the most beautiful blue orchids I have ever seen and a big smile on his face like he is the one getting the good end of the deal here. “Are you ready for the best night of your short life?” he asks in that deep voice of his. Ignoring the short part, I answer “Why yes kind sir, would let us be off.”.

As I take his hand, I notice it feels a bit...slimy. Not like sweaty palms wet either, but actual slime. He notices my discomfort and, realizing the reason for it, quickly pulls out a handkerchief to wipe whatever was on it off of his hands. When we reach the car (a Benz!) he opens the door for me and cheerfully yells “all aboard!”. Laughing, I step into the car to find one of the strangest setups I have ever seen. A picture of the moon on the moon roof, green lighting everywhere, shag carpeting seats, a fake mustache hanging from the rearview mirror, and some weird letters...I guess russian or something like that. I have always been terrible with languages.

On the way there we talk and I find out he was the CEO of a tech startup that hit it big with some kind of algorithm or whatever. That explains the car, all those tech guys have weird tastes. When I turn to ask what this algorithm does exactly, I notice his eyes are reflecting the light from the street lights, kinda like a cat. As I try to wipe that stupid look on my face, he saves the conversation by telling an absolutely horrible knock knock joke that sends me into fits of laughter.

We reach the restaurant talking happily about the latest developments on a sitcom we both watch. So far the date has gone great, minus a few hiccups, but hey, everybody has their little eccentricities. As he hands his keys to the valet, who is also drop-dead gorgeous (maybe I can introduce him to michelle...), they converse in some strange language and occasionally look at me. Obviously these two are friends and he is bragging about his good fortune. When the valet turns to get into the car though, his eyes also seem to reflect the light. Weird, maybe they are brothers? Anyways, we go into the restaurant and, as expected, it is filled with all kinds of upper-crust types, all of which seeming to be around 25-35. Not a single lined face in the crowd. He walks up to the host, mentions our reservations, and we are seated at a window with a beautiful view of the city.

After a few minutes the waiter (yet another hottie! Do they get their people through a modeling agency or something?) brings our menus. Yikes! You could feed a family of 6 with the price of an appetizer here. As I am about to order, the menu flickers for a moment, showing more of that weird lettering, then goes back to normal. How is that even possible? this is a paper menu, not a screen. Eh, probably nerves. He seems, again, to notice my discomfort and does a little magic trick with his hands and a flower (ok, I know, I am easily amused. Deal with it.). This seems to get things back on track and we start discussing his past. To be honest, the whole thing reads like a perfect man’s guide to perfection and perfectness. Has a wonderful mom and dad, only child, volunteered at homeless shelters and soup kitchens throughout his life, quarterback of his high school football team , made eagle scout, graduated valedictorian at both his high school and MIT. The only way this man could be more perfect is if he were if he had chocolate for blood.

It is at this point we get our food. It is at this point that I come to a chilling revelation. The waiter bringing our food looks exactly the same as the host, who looks just like the valet, who looks just like every other staff member in this place, who looks like every single other man in this place. And who looks just like my date. I look down at my plate and realize just what it is I am looking at, as if my brain was put to sleep and was now waking up. They’re eggs....alien eggs....eggs that are hatching.

Ad blocker interference detected!

Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.