Creepy - These Impossible Human Burgers Don’t Taste Plant-Based & Living Dead Carrion

Episode Date: March 31, 2022

These Impossible Human Burgers Don’t Taste Plant-Based***Written by: schaeffernelson and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt ***Living Dead Carrion***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea 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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting 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 simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. These impossible human burgers don't taste plant-based. Written by Schaefer Nelson and narrated by Cole Burkart. It is possible that I am wrong, but my gut is pretty sure, and my gut isn't stupid. These impossible human burgers, they don't really taste plant-based. And unlike most of the people eating these, I actually know what the genuine article tastes like. And these patties are real damn close. I've been a vegetarian since exactly one day after my 14th birthday, and I'm 34 now,

so I'm pretty familiar with vegetarian meat substitutes on the market. I've eaten enough black bean patties. to keep an entire farm in business. When Burger King dropped their veggie burger, I ate it like three times the first week it was out. It wasn't that it was so good. I just felt good to be included. I'm not an especially social person,

but the friends I do have are important to me. And they're mostly broke. So typically we get fast food. When Burger King released its veggie burger, it was like, thank God, I don't have to be able to. bring my own P.B. and J from home when we all go out to eat. That's what a lot of carnivores take for granted. Eating food isn't just about eating food. It was about eating food together. It's about having the

shared identity. We are all burger eaters. So yeah, any fast food joint that has a veggie burger, it's a win. It allows me to belong. The flavor is irrelevant. Then, just a few years. years ago, a savior was born. Impossible Meats. Suddenly, I could have burgers that were really good, that browned and bled and everything. The first time I hosted everyone for a cookout, I was anxious. Was this done a land? But after a few bites, it was clear. My friends loved the impossible burgers. I teared up. I was happy. It felt like how eating food used to feel. truly communal. So, I started hosting a cookout every Sunday night. First, it was just impossible burgers, but a few months later, impossible sausage came out, and then impossible chicken nuggets.

My friends preferred the impossible burgers, but they ate it all. We had impossible sausage spaghetti, impossible beef burritos. We ate good. I didn't actually see the impossible human meat patties at first. My friend Kunzi told me. She calls me up one night and is like, Morden, you will not believe what I just found at the grocery store. And then she told me, I felt all of the blood had drained from my skull. Kunzi goes, hello? Morden. Morden, you're still there? But I was speechless. My first thought was, how did she find out? I didn't tell anyone about my childhood. The part of my life is over and buried, and had a Concey did that up, and why is she making it a joke? But I composed myself and asked her what the hell she was talking about.

She texted me a photo. Sure enough, it wasn't a joke. It was real. They were testing them in our market. Impossible human meat burger patties. Concey goes, this is hilarious. Maybe it's like a Halloween special? I'm buying them, you're cooking them. See you this Sunday. For the next three days, that picture of the

impossible human meat patties was like a billboard in my mind. I could barely focus at work. My co-workers kept asking if I was okay. I wasn't, but I lied. I didn't sleep a minute that Saturday night. My friends could tell when they came over on Sunday. They asked if I was okay. I lied it again. And then, Conce pulled out the package from her paper bag. My friends giggled, and Concey handed the package over to me. But she could tell something was up, that I was zoned out. She asked if I needed help. I told her no. And so I just, I just did it. I took to the patties. The general consensus was that the impossible human meat patties were better than the impossible chicken nuggets and the impossible sausage, but not as good as the original impossible burgers.

Concey's like, it's spicer than I expected. Maybe it's supposed to come from like really hot people. Everyone laughed, except me. And then Conce's like, Morgan, you haven't even touched yours. Are you feeling sick? Of course, I felt sick. It was actively suppressing vomit. But here's the thing. I know this tacted well. I mastered it in my early teens. I'm good at making my body do things that doesn't want to. So I ate it. I ate the whole burger. My friends cheered, and then they asked what I thought. And I just go, yeah, this tastes a lot like the real thing. My friends howled with laughter. And to my shock, I started laughing too. I started laughing so hard that I couldn't stop because,

God damn it, the burger tasted like home. It tasted like temple dinners. Tasted like family. As my friends left, I sat in silence. I stared at the packaging for the patties. I read it over and over. I doodled every ingredient. Of course, it all checked out as plant-based,

but my gut didn't buy it. There was something else in there. At 1.35 a.m. that night, I called my sister. I kept dialing until she picked up. She didn't recognize my voice at first. She hadn't heard it in years. I didn't waste time catching up. My sister wouldn't have fallen for that anyways.

Once she realized who she was talking to, I just came out with it. I just go, you have to make them stop. She pretended not to know what I was talking about And I'm like, you know exactly what I'm talking about Make them stop or I will turn you all in And then the line went dead In retrospect, calling her was the wrong move I lost a key advantage

Until I called, they didn't know that I knew Oh well, no time to waste then I called in sick to work I got in my car, I drove all night, and into the morning, and then into the next night. I stopped only to nap and eat. I stopped with Taco Bell. They have those potato tacos. I wasn't in the mood for fake meat.

I got to the family house around dawn. It's in Leewood, Kansas. It's a wealthy suburb, lots of lavish beige houses, luxury pickup trucks that never see. sea mud, a trump flag here or there, humongous evangelical churches everywhere. But my family isn't Christian. They worship a different god. We were always outsiders here, albeit in secret. I parked at the curb. A kitchen light was on. Someone was up. Probably dad. Probably drinking coffee, reading the Atlantic. I considered sneaking around the back, heading straight to the temple. But my parents are well armed.

There was a real wrist they'd shoot me before they realized I was their kid. Better not to surprise them too much. Better to knock. So, I knocked on the front door, and Dad answered. God, he was old. He didn't say hi. I didn't either. We just stared.

Finally, Dad goes, Morgan, come in. and immediately I had to suppress vomit again. It's not the sight of my dad or even the house. It's the smell, the odor of the house. The one my childhood friends always thought was barbecue. They weren't entirely wrong. Dad, I told him, I'm not here to visit. I know what you're doing.

You have to stop. Dad said nothing. Mom interrupted the silence. She came down the stairs in her pajamas. Morton? Mom said, shocked. She rushed over to hug me. I let her.

I hadn't touched her in so long. But I couldn't get emotional. I had one errand here and one errand only. And as soon as I got what I needed, I was turning around and driving away. I repeated, Mom, Dad, I'm not here to visit. I know what you're doing. I know you didn't stop. And I know you're selling the offerings. Again, my parents were silent. Then dad goes, Morgan, you may live your life as you please. Let us live ours.

I guess he thought that would deter me. It didn't. I pushed Mom and Dad out of my way, and I headed straight, for the back door. I barrel off the back porch and into the backyard. I only slowed down when I reached the temple. It hadn't changed at all. It was like a time capsule from 20 years ago. My recurring nightmare, 10 feet in front of me under the willow tree.

The neighbors all think it's a big tool shed for my dad, and it is, but not the kind of tools the neighbors imagine. Mom and dad were coming after me now, so I grabbed my phone. I got the camera ready, and I pushed on the temple door. It was locked. Of course it was. How could I be such an idiot?

There's no way they'd leave it open overnight. Mom and Dad were dashing across the backyard now. I didn't want to get physical with them, and the temple door was heavy. It wouldn't be easy to kick in. But then I got lucky. I got real lucky. Because someone opened the... the temple door for me. My sister, bleary-eyed. She'd been sleeping in there, and she assumed it was

mom and dad at the door, or who knows. Maybe on some level she knew it was me. It's not like I asked. There wasn't time. I just shoved her aside and entered the temple. The hatch on the floor was already open. My sister had been down there. Is that where she'd been sleeping? Down next to the altar? Well, the question was the answer. Over the past 20 years, clearly, my sister had become extremely devout. I climbed down the stairs into the cellar of the temple. It was lit by candles. My sister had been prepping a ritual. I didn't have time to digest any of this. I raised my phone. I took pictures. I took picture after picture after picture of everything. Of the altar to Baram, the all-consuming seven-wind pig god,

of the idol of Baram, made of bones and skin and tendons, and of those wooden signs you see at Michaels, and says, food is my love language. I took a picture of the massive wrought iron oven, and of course, all the corpses. There were about 12 suspended from the ceiling. Some were pretty intact. Some were just a final limb. After I took pictures of all of it, I spun around.

My family was gathered around the hatch. They were not happy campers. My dad was enraged. My mom was crying. My sister just looked ashen. I raised the phone over my head. I said, I hit one button and every photo I'd just took get shared with my friends, including my location. Let me leave. They stared down at me. We all just breathed for a moment. I continued, You're not going to kill me. Baram has commanded you. Thou shall not shed the blood of one who has partaken. Let me leave. Mom was the first one to step aside. then Dad and my sister budged.

I climbed back out of the temple, but I gripped my phone tight. I knew Dad would try and take it from me. And he did. All three of them did. As soon as I reached the top of the hatch, my family attacked me. They clawed at my hand and banged on my fingers. It would have worked, too. A few more seconds, and they would have gotten my phone.

But I knew it was coming. I was ready for it. I vomited. I... Projectile vomited. All over the three of them, I emptied myself. Two days' worth of Taco Bell and anxiety splattered all over my family. They jerked away from me in horror, and I ran out of the temple. Once I was safely free from their grasp, I turned back. They were trying to shake the vomit off of their clothes. I yelled, if I see one more impossible human meat patty in a grocery store,

Every newspaper in the country gets these photos, too. You're done. Mom called back. She yelled. Oh, Morgan, don't you see? We're trying to save them, sweetie. If the world will only taste and see, they will know our father, and he will spare them. I turned to leave.

I learned 20 years ago you can't argue with crazy. But Mom had one last one. Morgan, you will always be. a child of Baram. You cannot run from him, no matter how far you go. He will find you. He will shelter you beneath his glorious wings. My stomach growled. I lit Mom dead in the eyes. And all I said was noted. And then I ran into the house, out the front door. I hopped in my car. I drove away. I know what my family does is unacceptable, but I have never been able to bring myself to condemn a life behind bars.

Maybe that makes me a bad person. I don't know. A few weeks later, Impossible Human Meat Paddies disappeared from the grocery shelves. My friends were bummed, but I was satisfied. My friends were more bummed now that I refuse to cook any, possible meats. I just can't anymore. I told them I developed an allergy. It's true enough. But eating together is too precious. I decided that I'm not willing to be the weird vegetarian one anymore, so screw it. On Sundays now, I still cook for my friends, but I serve pork,

pulled pork, bacon, ribs, anything that used to be a pig. Creepy presents Living Dead Carryon Written by no one of consequence And narrated by Megan McDuffie The normal day in and day out of life Is nothing but a smokescreen Underneath is a seething

Mass of depression and self-loathing At least that's what my parents always thought of me So I didn't smile a lot And black was my favorite color Is that reason enough to be labeled the way I was? I don't think so. It's one of the reasons I left home as soon as I could. The girl can only hear her parents talking shit about her music of choice for so long. Yeah, I was a dark teenager. Angst was a synonym to my name. It started off listening to some

angry girl music, then moved on to Manson, didn't take long for me to reach even farther into the darkness. Death metal, metalcore, and finally, Deathcore became the soundtrack to my life. I guess I could pin it all on my first girlfriend. She's the one that got me into this stuff. When he broke up, I began shifting into harder music. My first boyfriend took me to a concert, and I fell in love with it. All those like-minded individuals pressed up against each other, jamming out to the tunes. It made me feel included.

No longer an outsider to the norm, but right in the middle. Sure, it wasn't the mainstream, but it wants to be part of that. It's all sunshine and rainbows happiness. induced by prescription drugs from overpaid doctors trying to shape the world into a happy, candy-coated wasteland. Okay, I guess it's not a stretch to say that I'm cynical, but growing up in one of those pill-popping antidepressant families, can you blame me? As soon as I could, I got myself a cubicle job doing data entry.

The only good thing about school was the social aspect, so college wasn't in my future. Just another thing for my parents to fight with me about. but whatever. The pay is good, the work is easy, and it affords me the opportunity to live on my own. Monday through Friday, 9 to 5. It's as close to mainstream as I've ever gotten, or care to get. Currently, I'm between relationships,

but that doesn't stop me from going out and having a good time. There's this guy at work, Trent, that I like hanging out with. He uses almost as much eyeliner as me, and sticks to dark colors as much as work allows us. Recently, his boyfriend broke up with him, so we've been going out to clubs and bars after work every Friday night, not really looking for a hookup or anything, just a good time that won't result in the need for penicillin. Though one of the biggest reasons I became friends with Trent is for his connections. There is a drug aspect to it, but that's not the kind of connection I focus on.

Sure, I'll smoke some weed now and again, maybe a hallucinogen in the safety of my apartment. I would hardly call myself a drug addict. No, the connections I use Trent for are his music contacts. Deathcore as a genre can be found online and on streaming services. Trent is plugged into the underground, the true underbelly of the subgenre that caters to the macabre. The first time I got a taste of that life was at an illegal concert at an abandoned meatpacking plant. There was an underlying odor of blood and death, almost as intoxicated. as the drinks being passed around.

That was two years ago. Since then, I've been to 11 other concerts, which isn't that much. The underground is very reminiscent of high school cliques. Fan groups will get into it without any real provocation. All it takes is proximity. Most members of the community belong to one group, but not everyone. Some of us just love the genre as a whole

and get along with everyone that isn't a hardcore Nazi fan. Trent and I are such easygoing fans. If you were to put a gun to my head and told me to pick one band, I do have an answer. Living Dead Carion has a pureness to them that reaches down to the core of my soul. I've got some of their bootleg discs, which is the only way to listen to underground music. More often than not, when I lay down and drift off to sleep after a long day at the office, it's their music I'm listening to. The way I feel about it, you'd think I was talking about some soft jams that make you float on a class.

The music is heavy and hard, with screeching vocals so shrill they'd make a dog howl in pain. In a few of their choice tunes, there's a freaking chainsaw slamming into a trash can in the background. I can't tell you why this appeals to me, only that it does. Sometimes I don't blame my parents for wanting to take me to a shrink. I just condemn them for it. Out of the twelve concerts I've been fortunate enough to go to, only three were living dead carrion. Everything in the underground is word of mouth, so no one knows about a concert until a few hours before it starts. With that kind of timing, if I'm fortunate enough to hear about it, it's usually too late.

As much as I'd love to blow off work the next day because I went to a concert, I know I can't. If I lose this job, I run the risk of needing to move back in with my parents. That is not an option. Trent comes up to me at work while I'm on my last smoke break of the day. It's been a long week, and if I'm a long week... never been more grateful that we don't work weekends. Without any sort of greeting, he whispers to me, cancel whatever plans you have tonight. Normally, I don't put up with his sassy, bossy tendencies, but the uncontained energy threatening to break free tells me something's up. In an unprecedented

move, one of the LDC band members let it slip that they are having a show tonight. It's six hours away. Three times the heads-up anyone has ever gotten about one of their concerts. They've always played their showtimes close to the chest, which has always annoyed me. They've given the chance I'd never miss one of their shows. As soon as the clock hits five, we're out the door and rushing home. Trent has a stash of party clothes at my place for just this sort of occasion. We're both quick to change and on our makeup. With both of us getting ready at the same time, we managed to finish only two hours before showtime. It gives us plenty of time to get an Uber, find the boarded-up asylum, and sneak inside. There's no doorman for these events, no cover charge. As far as I know,

the only revenue the band gets is from drink sales and donations. You'd be surprised how much they can make in a night, nothing compared to the sell-outs in the mainstream, but enough that they can keep playing and dedicate their lives to their art. It sounds cliche that there's an abandoned insane asylum in the outskirts of the city? Think about it. Who wants one of those in the city? What business wants a hospital catering to the mentally challenged right next door to them? None of them.

Especially since a hospital like that needs to have grounds for the crazies to wander on, unless they're in lockdown. Even the loonies need fresh air and exercise. The halls are dark and dirty. Trash litters the ground, and only our phone lights reveal the dark remains of the building. paint peels off the walls, water stains on the ceiling, and a smell of rot. Not like old meat and dead animals, a smell of an old building left to ruin, elements slowly

eating away at it. We must have come in on the wrong side because there isn't a soul in sight. Maybe I should say person. Mentioning a soul at all might conjure up the dead and there's enough dark elements to the night as it is. As we make our way down some nondescript hallways of supreme, creepiness, the only sign of life is a low hum in the distance. I'd swear when we'd turn a corner I'd catch a glimpse of some pale naked figure in our subpar phone lights. I know it's just my imagination playing with me, but when Trent says he saw something too, I begin to panic. If it had been any other band, I'd say, fuck this, let's get out of here before we are horribly

mutilated. But this is living dead carrion. I'm not a very much. going to miss this if I have to murder my best friend to get there. Rounding what has to be the 20th corner, we find ourselves in a large room, what might have been the cafeteria in the old days. The most surprising thing about it, it's nearly wall-to-wall people. Nearly 200 people are crammed into the space, and it's eerily quiet, unnaturally, even. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the crowd has been enchanted in the silence. No crowd this large is this quiet.

I also find it surprising there's this many people. Not because the band doesn't warrant this level of popularity. Far from it. They're one of the few bands that doesn't have a large, dedicated fan group. Mostly because their concerts are so few and far between. Nearly everyone is lucky to hear about a show before it's too late. Fans from every underground band will come together and enjoy an LDC performance. Damn near everyone must have heard about this one.

I've never seen a crowd this large. There's a reason for this. These concerts are illegal, and large crowds, even this far out of the city, risk getting busted by the cops. We managed to weave our way into the crowd, working toward the stage. Best to try this before the concert starts. If you wait until the music starts, your chances of getting that close to the front are slim. I'd say we make it about halfway before the brutal guitar screams out at us in the intro of the first song of the night. The first song is always an ear-bleeder, loud, and raping the senses, like a light-headed

from the violation, and it makes me tingly. I always love the second song more than the first. They don't play the same set every time, but there are patterns. First song is always a perfect example of extreme deathcore. Following it is what I think of as a death-core power ballad. It starts off soft, a deep guitar chord playing over and over in a cacophony of insane beauty. Soon, it is joined by the bass, combining its juicy chords before the vocals kick in. Hard to understand the words, but they whisper sweet lies that tickle my brain. As soon as the drums kick in, all hell breaks loose in a scream that rips my mind apart. Noise pounds into my head, dominating my life and manipulating the beat of my heart.

I feel this down to the bone, and it arouses me. My loins are on fire. A song after song rolls over me like a frat boy after the roofies kick in. I'm violated by their brutal music, a shrill voice being yelled at by a deep voice to shut the hell up. Trent is next to me, feeling everything that I feel. We've discussed it at great length, what the music does to us, and we are nearly identical,

as identical as two people of the opposite sex can be. Bodies flow in a sea of movement, like a mind-controlled drug is pumped into the air and tells us what to do. My body sways side to side, contact with another body on all sides. It's a welcome touch, something I crave. Six months is too long to go between LDC concerts. Losing myself in the bliss of this demonic madness, I feel movement to my right.

It's not what I expect, a flow going against the current that everyone else is moving to. At first I choose to ignore it, but quickly it gets to the point that I begin to hurt. It's not the pain of brushing against someone's clothes that's wearing spikes or other metal accents. This is skin against skin, bare arms at the most, but the other person's skin is crazy rough. Looking over, I see skin in desperate need of moisturizer. It's practically scaly, and the longer I look at it, the more it changes. Instead of being slightly reptilian, I watch as genuine scales emerge. Whoever's next to me is transforming right before my eyes.

There must be something in the air, an airborne hallucinogen, because I cannot be seeing this. The man next to me is turning into some kind of monster with horns and yellow eyes. Those teeth are sharp And could tear the flesh off my bones I turned to the other side To get Trent's attention Wanting confirmation that this is either happening Or I'm on something

He's not there He's not anywhere around me Wasn't he here just a minute ago Or was that an hour ago The band has been playing for a while I get so lost in it that time has no meaning Searching what part of the crowd I can see from my spot

I can't locate Trent However, what I do see is more of these monsters amongst the masses. They range in size, color, and horrifying features, but all have a similar flavor in my mind. Demon. Fucking demons are emerging from the crowd like my parents always worried would happen. To them, this music was evil, and it attracted the wrong element. I never thought they were right. I'm the only person that seems to see them.

At first, slowly, other members of the crowd noticed the changes as their neighbors become increasingly demonic. Looking back at the guy next to me, I'd swear there's something familiar about it. That can't be. I've never known something as horrendous. Not even my last boyfriend was this bad, although his personality did come close. I guess the same could be said for my last girlfriend, too. Seriously, Trent is the best relationship I have, and he's not even here. to see this fucking demon right next to me. All this is happening while the music plays on. More and more people are becoming aware

until it reaches a breaking point. Going into another song, I can feel the change in the crowd, the change in me. Not something physical like with the demons, but a change inside. Here we are, a group of like-minded people enjoying a concert,

and these monsters are homing in on our good time. That makes me. angry, furious. The closest I have ever come to being a violent person was the breakup with my worst boyfriend. He tried to take half my shit, and instead of rolling over and letting him, they sort of pushed him down the stairs. The asshole made me so mad, all I could see was red, and the next thing I knew, he was falling. My hand was outstretched, so obviously I had pushed him.

Of course, I didn't tell the cops or paramedics that, and with his fractured skulls, he wasn't in a position to point fingers. Rage like I have never felt before grips me inside, and I am outraged. This demonic asshole doesn't belong here, and I'm going to express my feelings. My fist is a blur as pain explodes in my hand, my first closed fist punch.

The demon looks at me with surprise, not knowing why I just hit it. Reaching back for another assault, the evil bastard doubles over as someone else punches it in the stomach. That's all it takes. The crowd erupts in a fury of motion. All of us normal humans are beating up on the fucking demons.

We won't stand for this invasion. We are going to send them back to the hell that they came from. Wet and warm, my hands are covered in blood as the demon lays still. Living Dead Carion moves to their last song of the night, and it's not one I've heard before. This is a true power ballad, not the ear-raping music I love. It's soft and melancholy, a song inspiring remorse and regret. I'm so caught off guard by this,

especially after the frenzy of violence we just expressed as a group. Uncharacteristic doesn't even begin to describe this change in atmosphere. A woman screams from a few feet away. She's on the ground next to the body of a man, broken and bleeding. I saw him earlier. He was young for this crowd, maybe even still at high school. and one of the demons got into him before the people nearby killed it? Then I see everyone in proximity to the dead boy, blood on their hands, clothes, and faces.

They had beaten the boy's death, but why? There were demons in the crowd. How had he gotten caught in the crossfire? And what had happened to the demon's body? It's at this moment I feel the wetness covering my hands and my own blood grows cold. There was no dead demon on the ground, not there, not anywhere. All over, the crowd breaks into hysterics, and I dread looking at the ground. The demon had been on my right when I noticed it changing,

but what I had forgotten was that had been where Trent was. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-Lite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production.

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