Welcome to Sweetie's Diner. Folks are dying for a taste.
Episode 3: Sweetie's Diner
Content warning:
This story contains graphic violence, body horror, blood, death, cannibalism, and themes of racial trauma.
Sweetie’s Diner
Episode 3
July, 1968
Broussard, Louisiana
The devil don’t always show up with pointy horns.
Sometimes he rolls in wearing a seersucker suit, flashin’ shiny teeth, with a check in his hand.
Sweetie stood behind the counter of her empty diner, the air heavy and suffocating. Her white blouse had gone yellow with sweat and her hair stuck to the back of her neck. The air had died again, quit right after Mr. Jerry had his morning coffee.
Last week, it was the freezer. Big Mike had come out and rigged it up with duct tape and spit—but Sweetie knew it was a ticking time bomb. Now the stove sputtered, letting out a sigh like it was ready to quit, too.
“Ms. Thibeaux,” the devil had drawled. “The state’s gonna put a highway right through here. You ain’t got no more choice in the matter. Gone and sign this check now.”
He’d tossed the check across the counter like beads at a Mardi Gras parade. She looked at the paper. Squinted. But nothing made the three-digit number look any better. Twenty-five years in business, burned fingertips and aching bones. Was that all she was worth?
Sweetie ripped the check in half, right in front of him.
The devil just laughed.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll be back. One way or another, this place is gon’ crumble.”
And then he walked out, heat trailing behind him like a tail. That was two weeks ago. She hadn’t heard from him since. Maybe he slinked back into the ring of hell he came from.
But the fire he left behind was just getting started.
Every dime from her husband’s insurance money had gone into the diner—the only thing she ever owned outright. The only thing no one could take from her. And now they were gonna put a highway right through it. A blade of concrete straight through her heart.
Let ‘em try to take it, she thought. Let them bastards try.
“You gonna answer that?”
The question sliced through her thoughts.
Bills. They called every day at the same time. And every day, she gave them the same answer.
The heat crawled up her back and gripped her neck. She tried to breathe deep, but the air was stuck somewhere in her throat. This wasn’t the usual bayou heat. This was 1968 heat. The kind that steamed off broken promises and burning cities—Detroit, Chicago, D.C. The kind that welled up from a lifetime of smoldering ashes and a dream snuffed out on a Memphis balcony.
“Wrong number,” she muttered, eyes fixed on her hands.
The breath she’d been searching for wiggled loose in a shudder. Sweetie gulped it in. She folded the ends of the meat pies, pinching them tight before dropping them into the hot grease. Behind her, the fryer hissed. The smell of frying meat and heat choked the diner.
She turned back to the counter where Mr. Martin, her regular, sat hunched over the newspaper.
He coughed. “Sweetie,” he said, setting down half a smashed boudin sandwich. Same order as always— one coffee, no cream, and two links of red boudin—blood boudin—smashed between Evangeline bread. The filling oozed out, pig’s blood dripping off the white bread and streaking across the plate like something half alive. “Been comin’ here for years, so don’t take offense when I tell ya, mais, the food ain’t hittin’ like it use to.”
Sweetie didn’t flinch. She swallowed her pride like a spoonful of castor oil.
“I suspect so,” she said flatly. “Been playing with some new recipes, We’ll get it straight.”
Mr. Martin just nodded and folded his paper. Slid $2.00 across the plate and walked out without finishing his food.
She watched him go, saw his Chevy spit up dust as it backed out. Cars passed by, fast and careless. Outside, the world moved quickly but Sweetie felt stuck. The diner, and all its broken parts was all she had left.
“Ms. Sweetie?” Mikey whispered from behind. “Want me to bring out the smoked boudin?”
What for? A voice said. Ain’t nobody here to eat it! It had been hijacking her thoughts lately—always too cold and mean. And always just under her breath. But she still had it under control.
“Go ahead, baby,” she said
Mikey was Big Mike’s baby boy. Sweetie had taken a liking to him some years back and hired him on to learn meat. And he took to it fast. He could cut it, stuff it, and smoke it just right.
He followed her around like a puppy, always waggin’ some invisible tail. Happy with crumbs of approval. Not like her own boy, Pierre.
Pierre never liked to get his hands dirty.
He had the best education she could buy. And now he was in Law school out in California. Sweetie had to pinch herself sometimes just thinking about it. She’d come from a family of sharecroppers. Her husband, a long line of butchers. And now her boy would be the first to wear a suit that wasn’t drenched in sweat or blood. A lawyer.
Sweetie’s boy would be a lawyer.
Swack!
The cleaver slammed into the cutting board—barely missing her pinky.
She blinked. Looked down.
Her hands were wet with blood.
She was in the meat room. A half-butchered hog lay open on the table.
Something dropped behind her. She spun around quickly. Nothing there. Only the gentle sway of the butcher’s door.
How did she get there? When did she get there?
The clock on the wall ticked loud. 2PM.
Three hours gone.
And no memory of where they went.
“Oh, il fait chaud!” Betty said, standing in the doorway. She’d come to pick up her weekly meat box special.
“Yeah, that air ‘bout gone, Betty.”
“Hmm mmm,” she shook her head. “No way you can keep on like this, Sweetie.”
Sweetie didn’t answer. Just pushed the box of assorted meats—pork steaks, turkey necks, fresh sausage, ground meat—across the worn counter. Betty was right, but she couldn’t say that out loud. She couldn’t afford to do better, not when Pierre was so close to graduating.
She felt Betty’s eyes on her—judging, she thought. Sweetie looked up. For a split second, Betty’s face looked like it was sizzling.
Sweetie flinched, blinking the image of cooked skin away. When she opened her eyes again, Betty’s face was normal. Her eyebrows furled with concern.
“You alright, cher?” she said. “It’s too hot in here. Don’t you go and fall out in here like your man did.” She steadied the box in her arms.
Sweetie tensed at the memory of her husband, stiff on the floor, skin wet with sweat.
Betty cleared her throat. “Where’s that boy? Mikey!”
Mikey slinked through the kitchen door, eyes glued to Sweetie like he’d done something wrong.
“Take this box to the car for me,” Betty ordered. He nodded and grabbed it.
“Oh, Mikey,” Sweetie said. “You can head on home after you get Betty situated. We closing early today.” He tipped his head and left without saying a word.
Then the phone rang.
The sound scraped her nerves. It was too shrill—high and sharp, like claws on a chalkboard. Sweetie lunged for it, snatching the receiver clean off the wall.
The cord whipped around, loose. The handset bounced against the paneled wall like a wild mosquito.
They locked eyes.
Sweetie smiled.
Betty recognized that something was deeply wrong. But she did what most Black folks did in the face of something they couldn’t name.
She minded her business.
“Alright now, baby,” she said, scooting out of the thick heat. “Imm see you later.” Her heels couldn’t carry her out fast enough.
Hours passed by and the inside felt like outside.
Sweetie hadn’t had a customer since Betty, but she stayed busy grinding and stuffing the boudin in the meat room. Her hands moving on memory alone. Sweat pooled down her face and stung her eyes. She let it.
Then came the chime.
A customer.
She wiped her hands on her apron, unaware that they were still wet with blood, and stepped out front. She smelled him before she laid eyes on him: Cheap cologne. Entitlement.
The devil.
“Told you I’d be back,” he said, sliding onto a stool at the counter. He dabbed his neck with a red handkerchief. “Whew…it’s hot in here, yeah. Look like your air ‘bout to give up on you. This place just ain’t gone last, Sweetie.”
Her mouth tightened. Her eyes locked on the handkerchief. His initials, L.M., etched in the corner in old English letters.
He sucked his teeth. “Listen, they gonna start constructing that road in September. We got permits to clear and you’re holding up progress!”
Progress? The word knocked something loose in her chest. What fucking progress? The kind of progress he talking ‘bout will kill you! The voice was back, mean as a rattlesnake. Sweetie blinked it away.
“I told you,” she said. “I ain’t selling this place, this land. Ya’ll can put the road right side of this place if you want—but I ain’t moving. Now, kindly get off my property.”
Her hand felt heavy, like someone had dropped a weight into it.
She looked down.
A knife. Sharp. Bloody.
Her eyes bulged.
I just set this down in the meat room, she thought. I didn’t—
You did, the voice hissed. And you should. Do it.
“No!” Sweetie shouted, her eyes clenched shut. The voice simmered down, bubbling just beneath her chest, like a pot of red beans on low.
The devil’s eyes sharpened with disgust.
“You’re goddamn crazy!” he hissed. “I’m callin’ the state! They’ll haul you off to the looney bin where your ass belongs!
His voice blurred, turning to a static sound—like chicken frying in grease. She opened her eyes.
His face was melting as if it had been pressed to a grill, seared with black lines. Liquid oozed from his eyes and ears.
And the smell. Something sweet and rotten at the same time.
“Get away from me!” Sweetie screamed. “Get on out of here, you devil!”
She swung the knife.
A scream rang out. Something real.
Sweetie stopped. Looked at her hands—blood. She traced specks of blood up her arm and over her apron. The yellowed blouse now seasoned with red.
And her face.
She felt something wet mixed with the pools of sweat. She wiped at it, smearing streaks of blood over her lips.
The devil staggered, slumped over a booth.
His fancy suit was slashed open. Red streaks of blood peppered the light blue fabric.
And that red handkerchief, still tucked in his pocket, was throbbing.
A heartbeat.
Or maybe it was her own.
What is this? Sweetie thought.
Kill him, the voice cut in. Do it now or he’ll come back with the police. He’s gonna take it all from us! Do it!
Her mind flashed with rage. “You can’t take this from me! This is my place!”
She said it seven times.
And seven times, she plunged the knife into his chest. When she was done, the linoleum floor, cracked from years of disrepair, was covered with the devil’s blood.
Sweetie jumped away, breathless. Horrified. Not just at what she’d done, but at how right it felt.
Put him in the meat room, the voice demanded.
She grabbed him by his shiny black shoes and dragged his limp body through the diner, leaving thick, red streaks across the floor. In the back, she heaved him onto the butcher table.
She stared at him for a minute. Not the devil—not even a man anymore. The body was laid out like an offering, her table the altar.
Hurry up! The voice whispered. You can’t let anyone see this.
She undressed him and took out her tools.
Then, she carved him up slow and precise. Like she’d done to many animals before. By the time she was done, the meat was laid out like Sunday dinner. Sweetie carefully packed the pieces in plastic bags and shoved them in the freezer. She’d worry about getting rid of it tomorrow.
After she mopped up the front and wiped down the table, Sweetie sat down at a booth. Her hands trembled. But her face was calm.
The next day, Sweetie woke to cold wind blowing across her face.
Two fans whirred gently. One by the door and the other right in front of the counter.
Sunlight slanted across the floor. The blinking “OPEN” sign buzzed rhythmically.
She had slept there all night.
My Lord! she thought, rushing out of the booth. She needed to change—but stopped. Her clothes were spotless, blouse and apron white as snow.
Her diner sparkled, like someone had shined it up. She sucked in her breath, remembering what happened the evening before.
“Maybe it was a dream,” she mumbled. “The heat finally got to my head.”
She moved toward the counter to start the coffee, but paused.
Her fingers tingled.
She looked down at the blood stained tips.
Dried blood under her finger nails.
“You want me to put out the boudin?” Mikey’s voice broke through her fog. She turned to see him lurking by the meat room door.
“Yeah, baby. Go on and bring it out. Folks should be here soon.” She rushed to the sink, scrubbing her hands like murder would come off with soap. She dried them, wiped each finger. But still her fingers were stained a deep red color.
The chimes rang.
Mr. Martin was there for his usual.
“Good morning, Mr. Martin.” Sweetie sat hot coffee in front of him. “I”ll have your sandwich up in a sec.”
“Morning, Sweetie,” he said as he unfolded his paper.
Sweetie sat his boudin sandwich on the counter. He didn’t look up. She went to the back to grab a pan of smoked boudin and stuffing for the meat pies. She glanced at the freezer, thinking of when she’d have time to cover her tracks.
She stepped back into the diner. Mr. Martin was staring at her now, paper set neatly on the counter. Plate nearly scraped clean.
“Sweetie, this the best damn boudin I ever had,” he smiled, gold tooth shining. “Damn, woman. You shoulda been cookin’ like this.” He used the last tiny piece of bread to sop up the red liquid on his plate.
He slurped it down.
Sweetie froze. “Nothing changed,” she mumbled. She glanced behind her to see Mikey slinking by the meat room door. They locked eyes then he disappeared.
Had he changed something? She wondered. Shit.
“Yeah, Sweetie. You did ya thing today. My kids in town from Houston. I’mma bring ‘em by later. Let me get four links to go—oh, and two smoked links.” He ordered, sliding a ten dollar bill across the plate.
Sweetie tapped her foot nervously as she prepared his order. She examined each link, looking for clues. Maybe the meat was off or the seasonings were sour. But the red boudin looked the same, although a lil’ heavier. The smoked links were browned just right.
Nothing looked different.
Mr. Martin went on about the food as he walked out the door. He’d never showed so many teeth before. As soon as he left, she turned on her heels to the meat room.
She opened the freezer.
The packed meat was gone.
“Mikey!” she yelled, trying to contain the panic. He slinked around the corner, eyes downcast. His body tensed the way it always had, from years of being Big Mike’s punching bag, the child who wasn’t quick or mean enough to survive his daddy’s house. Sweetie took a deep breath, lowering her tone. He hadn’t done anything to deserve yelling at. “Baby, did you take the…meat from here to smoke and make the stuffing today?”
Her eyes bore into him, praying he’d say no. Hoping that by some miracle she’d got rid of it herself.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “I got here early with the fans. And I put all the meat on.”
He shuffled his feet. Sweetie couldn’t tell if it was out of nerves or habit.
“Alright, I ‘preciate it, baby,” Sweetie said gently. She wouldn’t dare ask him about her clean clothes or the shined-up diner.
Then Mikey looked up.
“Is there anything else you want me to do, Ms. Sweetie?” his eyes flickered. Sweetie’s breath caught in her chest.
He knew.
“No, just go on and finish butchering that hog.”
He nodded and shuffled off to the kitchen.
Business was booming.
Word of mouth had spread like smoke. Folks were calling her boudin the best in the state. Others said her food cured their hangovers and heartbreaks. Hoodoo, they said. Sweetie was conjuring the meat, serving up a hex on each plate.
Sweetie just smiled, tight lipped, as she watched them devour it, eyes closed, grease dripping from their mouths, licking their fingers clean.
She had Mikey helping her out front now, frying meat pies, stuffing boudin links, and fixing orders. He talked to the customers, looking ‘em straight in the eye. Confident. He was good at it. Took to the work like he was born to do it.
She pre-packaged meat specials—and raised the price by fifty cents. The diner sizzled with the smell of hot grease and smoke. The register rang every few minutes.
For the first time in years, Sweetie had to turn folks away.
And all the while, the freezer sat there buzzing with something more than electricity. Waiting.
“We running out of the meat folks like,” Mikey said.
It was late Friday afternoon. A customer had just ordered the last three meat pies.
“Bout how much we got?” Sweetie asked, wiping her slick hands on her apron.
“Til Monday if we portion it right.”
Sweetie nodded, tapping her finger against the counter.
She’d have to figure something out.
The diner was making money. The voice had tucked itself away. Quiet. The weight of the last few years had finally lifted—she could breathe again.
She couldn’t let it go that easy.
The chime rang.
Another customer.
“We closed, cher.” Sweetie answered, without turning. “Outta food for the day. Come back tomorrow morning.” She continued to sweep but she didn’t hear the chime ring again.
She turned around.
Pierre.
Her boy.
But he was different.
“Hi, mama,” he started, his voice deeper than she remembered. “I’ve been calling you, but couldn’t get through.”
Sweetie just stared.
He wore a faded dashiki over slouched black pants and a scruffy afro. And perhaps the most startling was his beard, or lack thereof. It looked like someone had thrown clumps of pepper on his face.
Who was this man?
“Well, ” he said, putting his books on a table. “You don’t look like you’re happy to see me.”
She blinked.
“Yeah, baby,” she said, slowly. “I’m happy to see you, just…you look so different.”
Unshaven. Unkept. Unwelcome, the voice sneered.
It was back.
“Yeah, ” he said, tugging proudly at his shirt. “This is the style now. Black folks out West ain’t going for that suit and tie jive.”
Sweetie just nodded, grinding her back teeth.
Pierre made his way to the kitchen and fixed himself a plate of whatever was left. He picked up a link of boudin.
“Wait—!” she called out, her voice filled with panic. “Don’t eat that. It’s been out all day. Ain’t no good.”
But he’d already bit into it.
Sweetie’s stomach flipped.
Pierre chomped down on the first half, then gulped the rest.
“It’s fine, ” he said through bits of meat flying from his mouth. “I was starving after that long bus ride. This is real good. New recipe?” He smacked on a bit of cold rice and sucked his teeth.
Her fingers tingled again. She clenched them into fists, afraid the blood would seep from her finger tips.
“Yeah, trying something new.”
Pierre nodded and gulped down the rest of his food. Sweetie watched him closely and turned to his bags. They were filled to the brim. He hadn’t been home in two years, too busy with studies he said. Now, here he was at her doorstep with a bag looking like it held everything he owned.
“Baby, I’m happy you here, but I thought school was starting.” Sweetie sat down on a stool, steadying herself from a long day of standing. “I was just getting ready to send your payment this week.”
He looked up from his plate, took a seat across from her.
“Mama,” he began slowly, “I quit law school last year.”
Her lip twitched. He raised his hand before she could protest.
“I know. I know. But listen, I’m doing some work with this group that’s really making change. Free breakfast programs, community protection,” he said, eyes gleaming with pride. “It’s not much pay, but it’s not about that. This work is important. I’m proud of what we’re building—we’re creating a legacy. I can always go back to school later.”
Sweetie’s eyes bulged. He thought he was building a legacy? What had she been doing for the past twenty-five years? He never saw her hard work, her sweat, her sacrifices as a foundation. To him, she was just an old lady in a dirty apron, cutting meat and serving up pig scraps.
Her breath got stuck in her throat again. He was supposed to be a lawyer. Her boy was supposed to be the one to make something of himself. And he gave it all up to feed strangers a bowl of grits?
Never cooked a damn thing in here. Just ate and ate. Took and took. While you worked your ass off for every dime, the voice growled.
“Hush up!” Sweetie snapped, too loud.
Pierre blinked. “What you say, Mama?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. “Pierre, you can’t just quit that school. You gotta—”
“My name’s not Pierre,” his voice was cold, sharp now. “Pierre Louis Thibeaux is a white man’s name,” he added, like he was daring her to correct him. “My name is now Akinyemi—means I’m fated to be a warrior! That’s who I am now, Mama. A real African name.
Pierre Louis was my daddy’s name, Sweetie thought. What’s wrong with my daddy’s name?
“I named you Pierre. I’m calling you Pierre,” she said, her voice sharp as a blade.
Akinyemi just looked at her.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, standing. “Ya’ll stuck down here. But Black folks all over the country are waking up. We can’t let them take another one of our leaders—to kill us in front of the world. Mama, if you don’t get with it, they’ll take everything. You gotta get with the times. It’s all about progress.”
Progress.
That word again. It echoed in her head, sharp and sour.
He wants to leave you behind. Your own blood.
The voice took over Sweetie’s thoughts.
Flashes of red clouded her vision. She’d sacrificed everything for him. Every dollar went to get him through school. She went without: same old clothes, same worn shoes. Back broken from stooping over the stove. Hands burnt and calloused from pulling meat from the fire.
Every day.
Every damn day. And then a thought occurred to her.
“What you been doing with those payments? I send you money every month. Enough for school, clothes, food…enough to house you. Where the money?”
Akinyemi’s face nearly went white. It was clear he hadn’t thought that his mother would ask.
“Well, I donate most of it to the organization,” he said carefully. “It costs a lot to feed the kids and run the programs. I keep some to cover housing, but the rest is for the people. We can afford to spare a little for the greater cause.”
His people? And what does he know about sparing anything? The boy ain’t never broke a sweat.
Sweetie didn’t know if the words were hers…or the voice’s.
Her son had grifted her, used her up and spit her out like tobacco. And she was the sucker who’d nested him too long, kept him alive with food out of her own mouth. She’d coddled him, built him up to soar.
And the fool wouldn’t even fly.
Sweetie stared at his long neck. The vein throbbing underneath his skin.
How easy it would be to snap it like a turkey neck.
You outta kill him. The voice again. Cold. Certain.
“Mama?” Akinyemi asked. “Are you saying something?”
Sweetie shook the thoughts from her head, but the fury remained.
“We don’t have shit,” she spat. The voice mingling with her own now. “I have a business. I worked my ass off to send you money, to take care of you. Always taking care of you. And now you throw it all away for the people?” Sweetie stood up, her blood boiling. “You ain’t been home. You don’t know they trying to build a highway right through here. Then what will I have, huh?”
Akinyemi’s eyes softened. Sweetie could feel the pity radiating off him.
She detested it.
“Would that be so bad?” he said softly. “Mama, you can’t stop progress.”
He’s just like them.
They want to take everything from you!
Kill him.
The voice thundered through her thoughts. She looked up at her son, fury conjuring streaks of red across his face. His lips moved. His eyes bulged in their sockets.
And then the blood came. Spewing from his mouth like a running faucet.
Something tightened in her chest, wrapped around her like sausage in casing. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
Akinyemi dropped to the floor.
A knife lodged deep in his back.
Behind him stood Mikey, bent over, breathing calmly. His hands soaked in blood.
What have you done? she tried to mouth the words. But they stayed trapped inside her. She crawled to her boy, fingers trembling as they cupped his head.
Her heart beat against her chest, trying to break free. And then the wail came, building up to a thunderous roar.
She looked up at Mikey. His head tilted, like he was studying her pain.
His eyes shifted to the blood spreading across the linoleum, then back to Sweetie.
“You want me to take the meat to the freezer?” his tone calm, expectant.
Sweetie closed her eyes, the voice now humming just beneath her thoughts. Content.
“We can’t stop progress,” she whispered.
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The images created for this episode were rendered using a combination of graphic design tools and generative programs. If you enjoyed this story, please like and share. Your support helps me get closer to my goal of hiring talented artists to create even richer images.
Coming back to read. Like this comment to remind me 😂
Oh SNAP! That's all I'm gonna say to keep it spoiler free😁