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Mark and I were on our way to a newly opened restaurant named Django’s. Mark really has an appetite for foreign cuisine, especially exotic food.
“We’re just one block away, Chad,” he said. “They say Django serves the most delicious and most exotic food you can imagine.”

“You know I don’t have much,” I said. “And I’m not really into exo-”

“Don’t worry. It’s my treat.”

Ugh. It’s not about the bill, Mark. It’s the food.

We finally arrived at Django’s. It looked pretty normal but I immediately noticed something weird.

We were the only ones there.

Then a small guy with super neat hair and a thin mustache came over and greeted us.

“Good evening monsieur. Allow me to take you to your table. I am Django, and I will be your personal waiter.”

“Cool,” Mark told me. “See, I told you. This place is awesome!”

“Wait,” I said. “Django? You’re the owner?”

“Oui, monsieur, I am Django, the greatest cook you’ve ever met, and I will be your most loyal servant for tonight. As you see, you are our first customers.”

“Great!” Mark exclaimed.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess…”

Django led us to our table. I gotta admit, the place was pretty neat.

“So what might we be having today?” the very pale Django asked as he handed us the menus.

“Cool names you got here,” Mark said.

I looked over the menu and was quite shocked. What kinds of names are these?

“I’ll take this, uh, Pasta Massacre…” I said.

“Okay,” Mark said. “One order of Pasta Massacre. I’ll have Tenderloin Brutale. And two orders of Bloodiest Mary.”

“Bloodiest Mary?” I repeated under my breath.

“Would you gentlemen also be interested in our specialty, Stuffed Head?” Django asked.

“Ooh, sounds exciting!” Mark said. “I’ll take one.” He’s lost his mind.

“Your orders are on their way, sir.”

“Mark,” I whispered. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

I didn’t want to sound like a chicken, but their food sounded horrible. And creepy.

I hoped it wasn’t too bad.

Then I spotted Django walking towards us, a silver tray in hand.

“One Tenderloin Brutale and one Pasta Massacre. Bon Appétit.”

I examined the pasta. It looked normal. Normal pasta, normal sauce?

I reluctantly took a bite.

A strong feeling swept over me. I became overjoyed. It was as if all the love in the world flooded my mouth and danced around my tongue.

“This is... this is incredible!” I shouted.

“Yeah, this too!” said Mark, as he chowed down on the tenderloin.

I couldn’t believe it. It was heavenly! I needed more! I was hungry for more!

I was about to take another bite when I saw something disturbing. It was round. I poked it with my fork and closely examined it.

White all around with a blue circle in the middle.

s**t.

It was a ******** eye.

I threw the fork away from me in terror.

“What is this?” I yelled at Django. “What the hell is this?”

“It is an eye, monsieur,” he replied calmly. “This is an exotic restaurant.”

“Cool!” Mark said. “An eye!”

Django was right. This is the most exotic restaurant here. My pasta had an eye.

I started thinking. Should I continue eating? But it was Mark’s treat. It would have been impolite. So I took another bite. It tasted better than ever. Maybe they were right. I was just overreacting.

That’s when I swallowed something really good.

I searched my pasta for another piece of that meat.

I saw another chunk. I ate it and it sent me to ecstasy one more time.

“Here are your Bloodiest Marys, monsieur.”

What could this be? I wondered.

“Maybe this has real blood,” I told Mark jokingly.

“Maybe,” he replied.

I took a sip. And it felt real good.

It was so warm. It had a very distinct taste that I have never tasted before.

I had to ask Django what it was.

“Django,” I called him.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“What is in this pasta?”

“Our sauce is made from the finest and freshest human blood, eyes, fingers, throat, liver, heart, lungs, and intestines.”

Oh.

My mind was blank for five seconds. And then I started to puke.

Mark was shaking violently.

Django continued, “That tenderloin is from the hip of a sixteen year old girl. But we sometimes take 13-15 year olds, by request. We use their blood and other bodily liquids for our famous Bloodiest Mary.”

I nearly wet my pants. Mark did.

I took the knife and aimed it at the sick b*****d. “I’m gonna kill you!” I screamed in anger. “You’re crazy! You’re sick!”

“Are you going to finish your meal, then?” Django asked.

“You’re a devil!”

“I am not a devil, I’m a genius. Now, we only have one rule for people who do not finish their meals. We cook them.”

“Wh-what?”

“Will you finish your meal, monsieur?”

We had no choice. I ate every human finger, eye, and other body parts in my pasta. Mark cried as he ate the tenderloin.

After finishing the sick meal, we sat in silence.

Django came back carrying another tray. “Now for our specialty, the Stuffed Head.”

The next thing we saw was a male human head, served on a silver platter.

Enjoy.

“******** this,” I said. We wanted to leave but we had no other choice. The exits were blocked.

I began to eat the brown eyes. Django suggested we should try the tongue.

Then the head was opened. We needed to eat the brain. Then the skin. Everything.

“Don’t forget the stuffing,” said the devil. “They are human penises, kidneys, and ovaries.”

I didn’t want to hear that. Hours passed and we finally finished the devil’s course.

“P-please let us go,” I said.

“You didn’t like it? It was marvelous!” Mark said.

“What?!” I cried.

“Oh, so it didn’t change your mind after all. Django, I’m gonna order again. I’ll bring my family along. We’re having a feast, and I want you to make the most out of my friend.”