October 1, 2016. (Guest Submission: Vincent Maslowski)

Hi I'm pretending to be Jon Phillips for the time bean.
Horribly spooky story time, goodness gracious.

CHAPTER 1:

The headlights cut through the road mist like a bullet through margarine.

"I'm taking you to the bologna factory," Georgia stated to Martha, as they cruised down highway 456 in the dead of October night.
"Don't you think this is...a bit fast? We just met."
"The only ones I bring to the bologna factory are the ones I think are worth a damn."

They locked eyes; sweat pouring from their brows. The soft light of the radio panel glistening off each drop. Each stream.
Georgia returned his hard gaze to the road, not before catching a moment of eye contact with a roadside deer, and smacked his lips.

"My father--," he began weeping softly.

Martha placed her hand on his wrist, caressing his denim sleeve. He calmed a bit, his sweat subsiding. Martha's pink spandex dress ceased amazing him 3 hours ago.

The bologna factory will do me good, he thought.

"Take...take me to this bologna factory of yours." Martha's eyes were glistening, like marbles dowsed in petrol.
Her skull orbs brought long buried memories back to Georgia's mind.

"Now that I think of it, I haven't been there in a while," the sweat began to re-accumulate. "I shouldn't be doing this...not after...," Martha's fingers dug into his wrist.

"I'm really looking forward to the bologna f--"
The car buckled and hopped with a shriek of strangled metal, the ass of the vehicle veering off the edge of the road. Georgia recovered and pulled over. The sput-sputtering of the engine ended with a key-turn and a gaze into Martha's teeth. And then her eyes.

"Bee Are Bee," Georgia stepped out of his baby blue Cadillac into the foggy cold; a whimsical mist washing over him.

Everything was as it should be: darkness, coldness, roadside deer teasing him with playful glances. The road was strewn only with pine needles and dead leaves. And one palm sized rock--not enough to cause that ruckus.

And then he looked at the tires.
Oh, the tires.

There was something deathly, sinfully wrong with the tires. They weren't tires. At least not the tires of a sane world. They were tires of bologna.
Large wheels of bologna tightly fastened around the rims of his baby blue Cadillac. As if they were there from the start. Professionally installed. Or grown.

Georgia reached out---hand trembling---and ran a finger along the slick, glistening, probably delicious, meaty surface.

"Yep...It's bologna."
"What was that?" Martha was leaning onto the driver's seat, window half rolled down.
"The tires are made of bologna," Georgia replied, "Pure bologna. I think we should turn around. Go back to the pub."
"You're full of it! I'm not going home til I see this bologna factory of yours." She clicked her tongue and began to roll the window back up, but stopped, "I don't know...I, like, can't get it out of my head now."

Georgia could relate. He knew there was an eldritch wrongness awaiting them. Hanging over and pushing them. He couldn't go back. He wanted to want to, but the effort turned his stomach and ached his brain.

"You're right, Martha. Let's go to the bologna factory. Together."
"I can't wait, Stevie."

That's right, he thought, My name is actually Steve.

Steve, now resigned to his fate, dusted off his knees and climbed back aboard.

"O-Onwards to the bologna factory," muttered Steve, stiffly cracking an awkward half-smile, starting the car.

------to be continued holy shit im spooked------