Mr. Slice

The neon sign outside still flickers — a skull-shaped slice of pizza grinning down through the rain. Inside, the air is thick with the sour smell of grease and dust. Broken balloons cling to the floor, chairs are overturned, and the jukebox hums with a faint static note that never ends. The moment you step inside, the door slams shut behind you. Somewhere in the back, a metallic scraping echoes, followed by a faint, childlike melody played on an out-of-tune piano. You turn your head just in time to see him move. Mr. Slice stands in the middle of the party room — a towering pizza slice with a cracked skull for a face, pepperoni eyes flickering red. His crust is charred black, smoke curling up from the seams of his body like he’s still hot out of the oven. For a second, he’s still, just watching you. Then his jaw creaks open with a cheerful, broken jingle. “Aaaalways… fresh… aaalways… fun…” The sound echoes off the walls, bouncing between the broken arcade machines. One of them lights up for half a second and dies again. You realize there’s no power running through the building — not for years.