Creepy - My Regular Customer Only Wants One Thing

Episode Date: July 8, 2020

Mind the regulars...***Written by MikeJesus and narrated by Mike Dent***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents.

My regular customer only wants one thing. Written by Mike Jesus and narrated by Mike Dent. Consider this. A newlywed couple gets into an argument one morning. It starts off as a petty squabble about a clogged-up drain, but ends up becoming a gutty tour of every single issue that has ever plagued the relationship. Insults are heaved, parental comparisons are made, recurring themes are established, when all is said and done that the two parties march off to the separate sides of the apartment

and quietly sieve. Yet the anger doesn't last long. As a lazy Sunday morning turns into a lazy Sunday afternoon, the words used in the bloodletting seem overly sharp. They both feel kind of guilty. She's sprawled out on the bed with a book, rereading the same paragraph for the seventh time. When he peeks into the bedroom, she pretends not to notice him. He's about to apologize, but he's a bit too proud for that. Instead, he offers an olive branch. Are you hungry? She shrugs. Kind of? I'm off to Pavils. You want something? Chipotle cheeseburger and a soda? She bats her eyelashes. I love you. He blurts out, surprising.

himself. Love you too, she says, going back to her book. It isn't until he's in the elevator that he realizes he didn't have breakfast. His mouth waters with the thought of Pavel's Bistro's Chipotle Cheeseburger. The image of his future lunch looms in his mind's eye, a tangible delight hiding just a couple of blocks and minutes away from him. By the time he walks out onto the street, the thought of the burger becomes tangible. He can smell the freshly baked bun. He can feel the juices from the meat trickled down his chin. It's as if the burger is already in his mouth. His stomach feels warm and satiated,

as if it had already accepted the first bite. A perfect manifestation of the Pavel's Bistro to Polet Cheeseburger exists in the man's head. The thought remains in his mind as the man is blindsided by a gray scota thabia. The taste of the burger lingers in his mouth as he's lifted off his feet and propelled at breakneck speed into the asphalt. The first time his skull connects with the pavement, the taste jumbles into a burnt facsimile

of a Chipotle Cheeseburger. On his second bounce, the man loses consciousness. On his third, his brain spill across the sidewalk. The more spiritually inclined among you might wonder what happens to this man's essence, to his memories, to his sense of self, his soul, if you will. Will he carry on in some other form? Will the argument of the morning keep him tied to the mortal realm? The question no one asks, the question that truly needs to be answered,

is the question of what happens to that perfectly manifested thought of the cheeseburger? There was a constant flow of customers in and out of Pavel's Bistro. We were, after all, one of the best burger joints in Prague. Every day, dozens of hungover tourists and picky hipsters and grumpy locals would give me their orders, yet all of their words were just background noise. There was only one customer who would always have my full attention. A single mystery that kept my mind occupied through the long hours. The Chipotle guy.

Early 30s, drab jacket, receding hairline, he didn't look like anything special, but beneath that urban camouflage, there was something eerie. He'd be in the bistro every day at precisely six past one. But there was a line he would patiently. wait, but if he watched him closely, you could see a nervous tap in his foot. It was the same order every day, too. Two Chipotle cheeseburgers and a soda. He refused to hear the specials or recommendations or any attempt at small talk. Just two Chipotle cheeseburgers in a soda. Not a thought to spare for anything else. He'd order the food to go, but as soon as his order was finished,

he'd take out one of the burgers from the bag and eat it in the restaurant. The moment. The moment moment he was done with his burger, he would get up and leave. Every day, six past one, two Chipotle Cheeseburgers, and a soda. When I brought up the specter of the Chipotle Guy to my co-workers, they laughed, they joked, and when they realized I was serious, they avoided eye contact. I knew that there was something impossibly odd about the Chipotle guy. I just couldn't put my finger on it. For weeks, I doubted myself, questioned my own sanity, but my suspicions became certainties during a spring thunderstorm. It was the type of storm that makes you fear flood.

The world outside was condensed into roaring thunder and the occasional splashing of cars passing by. All morning we only managed one sale, a single cup of coffee to a drenched dog walker. He ran in when the storm picked up, ordered a hot drink to dry off, watched the unrelenting downpour for 15 minutes and then ran back out to take his chances. I watched the clock the whole day, counting down the minutes, gathering all of my doubts, six past one.

Right on cue, the Chipotle guy was there. He ordered his two burgers, sat down to eat one of them, got up and left. Yet as I saw him walk out of the restaurant, as I traced back his path to the table, into his seat, A jittery satisfaction crawled at my spine. The man had not left any tracks. It was pouring outside, yet somehow he was completely dry. I did not have the answer yet, but my doubts had vanished. There was something unearthly going on.

I could feel myself inching closer to uncovering the true nature of the Tripoli guy. I knew I had to follow him. My lungs didn't approve, but I negotiated my morning cigarette break to be. moved to the early afternoon. The park outside of the bistro made for a perfect vantage point. The eccentric vagrants which hung around the benches were harmless, but discomforting enough to ensure that nobody spent too much time on eye contact. With my apron off and a little bit of luck, the Chipotle guy wouldn't notice me watching him. The afternoon after the thunderstorm I lit up and patiently waited for the mystery to unravel. Half past one, he was out of the bistro. The man

walked past the benches, completely oblivious to my presence. He simply stared ahead, his takeout bag dangling in his hand. As he reached the edge of the park, however, the takeout bag slipped from his hand and ended up on one of the benches. It didn't stay there long. Within a blink, one of the transient park dwellers had snatched it up and rustled through its content with hungry eyes. The Chipotle guy just kept on walking.

Letting go of the bag wasn't a slip. The whole affair played out with the smoothness of daily routine. I got up from my bench and followed the Chipotle guy further. We walked through the maze of Prague for nearly half an hour. We crossed through the well-lit passageways etched into the Brazilian homes, through the winding Gothic streets, through crowds of stag parties looking for Irish pubs. Not a single second of the man slowed down.

He moved with measured determination, not letting anything get in his way. He wasn't until we reached a quiet residential area that he stopped. The street was completely empty. He was the type of place where drivers would sneak peek at their texts or readjust GPS directions. The Chipotle guy stopped at a crosswalk, took a deep breath, and stepped out onto the crossing. What I saw next obliterated any of my doubts about the unnatural nature of the Chipotle guy. Before the man's foot connected with the crossing, as if he were whisked away by a four, foreign to irrational thought. He disappeared. After I returned back to Pavel's

Bistro, I was chastised for my extended smoke break, yet the yelling of the manager was nothing but a screeching backdrop to my internal monologue. I knew what I had seen. I was certain of it. Research was in order. I traveled to the forbidden aspects of the internet. I peered into unsecured hyperlinks, inaccessible through all but the most niche of browsers. I scrolled through forums where poor rambling grammar gave way to forbidden secrets, read other accounts of mysterious customers. My evenings became filled with stories of recurring demands for outdated menu items, of strange requests, of desperate beings struggling to find meaning and family-owned businesses.

Only after weeks of inquiry, when I was certain of the true nature of my mysterious customer, did I confront him. One smoke? I asked. I wasn't hiding this time. I was right outside the bistro as he walked down. The man looked confused, as if he was unaccustomed to being spoken to you about anything unrelated to his order. No, I don't smoke.

He finally said. It started to walk away. Why not? I yelled after him. My heart in my throat. It's not like they can kill you! He stopped. What do you mean?

His voice was completely devoid of emotion. You can't die from lung cancer, I said, if you're already dead. The takeout bag rustled in a shaking hand. Something horrid rested behind his beady eyes. A steady burning flame ready to crackle to life at a moment's notice. He hissed through his teeth. Details, I said. I want to know how you died.

He strode up to me. He smelled just like a burger grill. A burger grill covered in the charred mistake. of yesteryear. I owe you nothing. His tone made me feel unsafe. There was a threatening hollowness to it, and in human quality.

He stared at me, stoking my dread with his lifeless eyes. And then, when I was sure he would snatch me away and take me to some horrible realm, he left. The knowledge that I had instigated some sort of primal eldritch force kept sleep for me that night. My mind filled with thoughts of death, of a shrieking, desperate sentience,

demanding to walk the world after being rid of its mortal coil. I promised to find myself a new job, one where I would not have to interact with spirits. Yet before I could fully commit to quitting, I found myself standing at the counter of Pavel's Bistro. Six past one, he walked in. The man made his order. As he always did.

And I told him the price. It was as if nothing had changed, as if the previous day was a figment of my imagination. Yet, as he paid me, our eyes met. The same hollow expression from the day prior lingered on his face. I owe you nothing, he hissed. I nodded. He placed the money on the counter, paying far too much.

With the cash he had put down, he could have afforded a dozen Chipotle cheeseburgers, but instead he just repeated his order. Keep the change, he said, sitting down at his usual spot. Then he patiently waited for his order, ate his burger, and was out of the door by half-past one. The scene repeated itself over the coming days. Each time the man would pay for his order, he would buy my silence with some change. The details of the mystique surrounding the Chipotle's, like I were still foreign to me.

But the extra income that he provided was enough to let me be content with not knowing the location or circumstances of his passing. His daily tips slowly bloated into a rainy day fund. If there ever was to be a storm, a lack of work or injury, or a mystery that required my full attention, I would be just as dry as the Chipotle guy.

We carried on our secret dealings for months. Our exchanges became wordless. I would simply provide his two Chipotle cheeseburgers without asking needless questions, and he would put a dent in my rent. It seemed as if our partnership had reached a perfect equilibrium, but the waters of the Prague burger trade are seldom calm. Prague, being a stone's throw away from Hamburg, takes its burger scene seriously. Each summer there is a burger festival or any restaurant that offers anything remotely similar to a hamburger is in attendance.

Those who fare well at the Burger Festival are flooded with customers who crave the best of the best. That summer, Pavel's Bistro's presence was undeniable at the Burger Fest. And so were the crowds that followed our awards. The owner was beyond static about our newfound fame. The sight of the lines made him puff up his shoulders and approached the grill with a newfound gusto. The Chipotle guy tolerated the crowds, although his dislike of waiting in line became much more pronounced. His foot tap it became audible.

He would break out into coughing fits if the uninitiated customer started taking up my time asking about the sourcing of our meat. The Chipotle guy knew he couldn't do anything to change our situation. Yet there was another party that disliked our newfound fame. Our competitors.

Palms were greased. Evidence was fabricated. Strings were pulled, and before we knew it, Pavell's Bistro was shut down on health code violations. The shutdown only lasted a week, but any hint of a health code violation is a blow in the restaurant industry. I am ashamed to say that during my week of long vacation, I did not think about the Chipotle guy. I simply enjoyed sitting around in my pajamas all day, dwelling into the darker parts of the internet,

and dining lavishly thanks to my raining day fund. I thought about how work would be calmer once the crowds left, how I would have more time to explore fantastic concepts in my daydreams at work. At no point did I consider how the Chipotle Guy might be handling his hunger for the cheeseburgers. I will never forget what I saw that Monday morning when I returned to work. The ghastly apparition of the Chapoelais guy will forever remain embedded in my dreams. The memory of his wild, pleading voice will forever haunt any silence I encounter. The creature that I met that morning was a far cry from my regular customer.

He leapt at me. As I walked through the park to get to work, he leapt at me. Chipotle! Cheeseburger! He screeched. If it was not for his clothes, I would not have recognized him. That drab coat, which I had seen day after day after day, was the only thing that was familiar about him. It was the only thing that even suggested.

humanity. The man's skin had gone a horrid, ashy shade of gray. His pupils had completely dissipated into the milky glow of his eyeballs. His fingers had morphed into sharp black claws which were digging into my arms. Chappoly! Cheeseburger! He screamed. His breath smelled of hot rot. His teeth moved in impossible rose spreading deep down into his throat. The Chipotle guy's mob promised to be fed one way or another. How many? As many as can. As many as can.

Chipotle. Cheeseburger! That horrid flame, which shimmered behind his eyes in the day of our confrontation, was now in full force. His voice was no longer hollow. It was wild, desperate. It came from a hunger beyond human comprehension. Chipotle cheeseburger!

Suppolet! Cheeseburger! Yes! Yes, I'll bring as many as I can! I felt his grip around me loose and... I just need money! I desperately searched for understanding in those bleak eyes. For a second, it seemed like there was none to be found. Like the Chipotle guy would tear apart my throat from sheer madness.

But after a terrifying eternity, the creature stood up. He fished his wallet out of his coat and handed it to me. As many Chipotle cheeseburger as ten! He hissed. I ran to the bistro and fired up the grill. I returned with half a dozen burgers that his wallet afforded him. The gray creature jumped upon the food as if he was a rabid animal.

The first burger disappeared within mere seconds. The second followed soon after. It was only after the third that beat Chipotle guys started taking breaks to breathe. His eyes started to clear with the fourth burger. By the fifth, his collar was starting to return. He started to speak as he ate his final Chipotle cheeseburger. Thank you. Thank you.

He said in between bites. Thank you. I'm sorry if I heard or scared you. I don't know what this is. This... With this hunger is, all I know is that every day, I woke up with a full wallet, and I crave the Chipotle cheeseburger. I have to have something within me screams for it. It's the only thing in life that makes sense to me.

I eat my burger and then... He shoved the rest of the burger in his mouth. I disappear. The Chapulte guy had transformed from a horrifying creature of the dark into my regular, aggressively boring, daily customer. How did you die? I asked. He shrugged.

He didn't know. All he knew was that he needed his daily Chipotle cheeseburger. He needed to smell the freshly baked bun. to feel the juices of the meat trickled down his chin. It was the one truth that drove him. What about the other burger? Why do you leave it behind? He shrugged again.

I don't know, he said. I just feel like it's not mine to eat. And with that, he got up and left. I saw him again at six past one, but we didn't speak of the morning. We simply went on with our usual arrangement. He ordered his burgers, and I collected an absurd tip. We never spoke of the morning. Our exchanges soon became silent once more.

For months, we carried on. My burgers feeding a mysterious metaphysical need and the Chipotle guy's wallet preparing me for a rainy day. Then one day, the rain came. The world was struck with a plague. On the 12th of March, 2020, the restaurants of Prague closed its door to business in order to prevent the spread of the infectious disease,

a once thriving city of gourmet burgers and had to bow its head low to McDonald's deliveries. After months of silence, however, the streets are to fill with good food once more. Pavel's Bistro and other businesses will be able to reopen outdoor seating. The Chipotle guy's money has kept me afloat over the rainy months, but the thought of returning to work next week

makes me shiver to my core. I saw what one week was being denied his calling caused him to turn into. I cannot imagine what monstrous effects 50 days of deprivation will have. I fear that there's no amount of burgers to satiate the Chipotle cheeseburger guy.

I fear that his daily order will change. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. At CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram. Stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license.

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