05-14-2015, 08:52 PM
Mickey hated to be contrary, but thus far, he was not a fan of Dante’s Abyss.
He had been gallivanting around for a couple hours now, trying to figure out what the goshdarn heck to do next. Reporters populated the lobby, clamoring for interviews and photographs with anyone who walked through the portal into the Dante Verse. What was the big deal? The powers-that-be barely picked anybody to compete yet… why did all these people want their attention?
The mouse managed to slip by most of the press thanks to his small stature, but the sheer volume of people in the lobby overwhelmed him beyond belief. Instead of sticking around, he headed for one of the other domes.
Immediately upon entering the Recreation Dome, Mickey’s nose began to twitch. The smell of food—all types of food—wafted toward him from all directions, and he knew immediately he would much rather be here than back in the lobby amidst the calamity. Different scents danced in and out of focus, and Mickey came to a haunting realization.
He had not eaten since that morning.
But what, the mouse thought, should he use to fill the gaping hole in his belly? His little black eyes roamed around the row of restaurants laid out before him. He had no frame of reference for most of them, so his decision came down to which sign had the prettiest writing on it.
“Olive Garden,” the mouse said aloud, examining the sign’s swirly green lettering. He shrugged—it sounded good enough, even if he couldn’t be sure what “Italian food” was.
Inside, a young lady in a tie greeted Mickey, escorting him to his table and assuring him that his server would be right with him. While he waited, he examined the fancy-looking menu. He recognized some of the dishes, like spaghetti—a particular favorite of dog-kind back in the Disney realms—but some of the others stumped him. He did not even know how to pronounce “fettucine alfredo,” let alone what it was. ¬¬
A couple of minutes passed and soon, another young lady in a tie strode up next to his table, carrying a bottle of wine. “Hello, sir!” she smiled cheerily, breaking him away from the menu, “My name’s Elena. I’ll be your server today. Can I interest you in a wine sample?”
Mickey’s eyes landed on the upside-down glass goblet on the table. “Oh, so that’s what that’s for,” he mused, “Gross. No thank you, I’ll just have a glass of water.” He had an aversion to alcohol.
“Oh,” the waitress nodded, on top of her game no matter what, “That’s fine! What else can I get for you today?”
Mickey slid the menu toward her, and pointed to one of the items. “Does this say unlimited soup and salad, or am I just reading it totally wrong?”
“It does say that! You also get unlimited breadsticks!”
No WAY.
Mickey’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. Unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks? What the heckskies was this place, heaven? He immediately ordered all of the above, and Elena hurried off to put it in as quickly as possible; certainly she could see the mouse’s mouth watering at the very idea. Within about ten or fifteen minutes, she had returned, carrying with her a cute little basket of breadsticks, a big clear bowl of salad with fancy-looking tongs, and a bowl of red, tomatoey-looking soup.
“Would you like cheese on that?” she asked, holding up a tiny little white cheese grater. Mickey didn’t really know why anyone would want parmesan cheese on a salad, but being a mouse he naturally loved cheese, so he had her sprinkle some on the soup and then dove right in.
For a little while, he existed like this—tearing through lettuce and croutons, sucking up the soup, and ripping through breadstick after breadstick. And they just kept coming. He would drain a bowl of soup or salad or a basket of breadsticks, and bam! A new one was on the table. By the time he finally finished, he swore he had eaten more than he had ever eaten in his entire life.
“Wooooooow,” he sighed, leaning back in the booth and placing a hand on his engorged stomach. This is the best day of my life.
After he looked decidedly finished, Elena reappeared. “Are you all done, sir?” she asked cheerily, “Can I take these plates for you?”
“Yep, ya sure can,” he nodded, sitting up as best he could, “Now what do I owe ya?”
Elena giggled. “Oh, nothing, sir,” she smiled, reaching into the pocket of her apron and pulling out a couple of little mints, wrapped in a nice silver package. “This meal—and any other you consume while you’re here—are compliments of the producers of Dante’s Abyss. But I do have some mints for you to take with you!” She sat the mints on the table and then waved over a couple of bus boys. Mickey watched as the crew of tie-wearing Olive Garden employees took away his unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks. He had half a mind to wave good-bye as it went.
He took one of the mints and popped it in his mouth, sliding out of the booth and heading toward the door. Well, he smiled, at least if I get picked for this gosh-awful competition, I’ll be well fed?
He had been gallivanting around for a couple hours now, trying to figure out what the goshdarn heck to do next. Reporters populated the lobby, clamoring for interviews and photographs with anyone who walked through the portal into the Dante Verse. What was the big deal? The powers-that-be barely picked anybody to compete yet… why did all these people want their attention?
The mouse managed to slip by most of the press thanks to his small stature, but the sheer volume of people in the lobby overwhelmed him beyond belief. Instead of sticking around, he headed for one of the other domes.
Immediately upon entering the Recreation Dome, Mickey’s nose began to twitch. The smell of food—all types of food—wafted toward him from all directions, and he knew immediately he would much rather be here than back in the lobby amidst the calamity. Different scents danced in and out of focus, and Mickey came to a haunting realization.
He had not eaten since that morning.
But what, the mouse thought, should he use to fill the gaping hole in his belly? His little black eyes roamed around the row of restaurants laid out before him. He had no frame of reference for most of them, so his decision came down to which sign had the prettiest writing on it.
“Olive Garden,” the mouse said aloud, examining the sign’s swirly green lettering. He shrugged—it sounded good enough, even if he couldn’t be sure what “Italian food” was.
Inside, a young lady in a tie greeted Mickey, escorting him to his table and assuring him that his server would be right with him. While he waited, he examined the fancy-looking menu. He recognized some of the dishes, like spaghetti—a particular favorite of dog-kind back in the Disney realms—but some of the others stumped him. He did not even know how to pronounce “fettucine alfredo,” let alone what it was. ¬¬
A couple of minutes passed and soon, another young lady in a tie strode up next to his table, carrying a bottle of wine. “Hello, sir!” she smiled cheerily, breaking him away from the menu, “My name’s Elena. I’ll be your server today. Can I interest you in a wine sample?”
Mickey’s eyes landed on the upside-down glass goblet on the table. “Oh, so that’s what that’s for,” he mused, “Gross. No thank you, I’ll just have a glass of water.” He had an aversion to alcohol.
“Oh,” the waitress nodded, on top of her game no matter what, “That’s fine! What else can I get for you today?”
Mickey slid the menu toward her, and pointed to one of the items. “Does this say unlimited soup and salad, or am I just reading it totally wrong?”
“It does say that! You also get unlimited breadsticks!”
No WAY.
Mickey’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. Unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks? What the heckskies was this place, heaven? He immediately ordered all of the above, and Elena hurried off to put it in as quickly as possible; certainly she could see the mouse’s mouth watering at the very idea. Within about ten or fifteen minutes, she had returned, carrying with her a cute little basket of breadsticks, a big clear bowl of salad with fancy-looking tongs, and a bowl of red, tomatoey-looking soup.
“Would you like cheese on that?” she asked, holding up a tiny little white cheese grater. Mickey didn’t really know why anyone would want parmesan cheese on a salad, but being a mouse he naturally loved cheese, so he had her sprinkle some on the soup and then dove right in.
For a little while, he existed like this—tearing through lettuce and croutons, sucking up the soup, and ripping through breadstick after breadstick. And they just kept coming. He would drain a bowl of soup or salad or a basket of breadsticks, and bam! A new one was on the table. By the time he finally finished, he swore he had eaten more than he had ever eaten in his entire life.
“Wooooooow,” he sighed, leaning back in the booth and placing a hand on his engorged stomach. This is the best day of my life.
After he looked decidedly finished, Elena reappeared. “Are you all done, sir?” she asked cheerily, “Can I take these plates for you?”
“Yep, ya sure can,” he nodded, sitting up as best he could, “Now what do I owe ya?”
Elena giggled. “Oh, nothing, sir,” she smiled, reaching into the pocket of her apron and pulling out a couple of little mints, wrapped in a nice silver package. “This meal—and any other you consume while you’re here—are compliments of the producers of Dante’s Abyss. But I do have some mints for you to take with you!” She sat the mints on the table and then waved over a couple of bus boys. Mickey watched as the crew of tie-wearing Olive Garden employees took away his unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks. He had half a mind to wave good-bye as it went.
He took one of the mints and popped it in his mouth, sliding out of the booth and heading toward the door. Well, he smiled, at least if I get picked for this gosh-awful competition, I’ll be well fed?
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)