Grub Street Diet: Mergamon, Soul-Devouring Demon, Snacks on Stale Human Spirits

“I should have used Saran wrap, but I’m not above eating the stale remains of the pickleball player’s soul.”

I yawn out a plume of black flies, then slither out of bed and over to the Keurig machine. In my haze, I accidentally puncture the last pod with a gnarled claw, causing coffee grounds to explode all over the floor. Beelzebub’s breasts! Guess I’m going out for coffee.

I’ve been famished since I woke up, so en route, I swoop down to bum a quick breakfast off a man wearing a THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt. I sink my talons into his chest and extract the glistering, lumpen essence beneath, then cram it into my maw.

For those of you wondering what a feminist tastes like, he’s a pleasantly complex blend of saccharine and bitter notes. His aftertaste whispers, “I’ve never cheated on my girlfriend, but only because I haven’t had the chance.”

At Abraco, my favorite coffee spot, Jamie’s hands shake as he makes me my usual: an oat milk latte with foam art of a pentagram that frames the male genitalia. (I only need souls for subsistence, but there’s more to being undead than getting basic nutrition, and I adore the taste of humans’ fare—though it wreaks absolute havoc on my digestive system.)

Soon it’s time to menace my way across town for brunch at Buvette in the West Village. I see a few tempting two-legged meat sacks below me, but I don’t de-spirit them; I’ve learned the hard way that mainlining souls too soon after coffee equals raining hellfire from my scaly undercarriage all over Fifth Avenue.

Brunch is with Ammit, a fellow soul-muncher I’ve known since our heaven days. As punishment for our treasonous bloodlust, God blasphemed us to the same circle of purgatory: Murray Hill. Ammit’s brought along Rudy Giuliani, who’s been her minion since the nineties. We order a mountain of pastries for America’s (and Hell’s) Mayor and take turns nibbling what’s left of his soul.

As we eat, we talk about the social media strategy for my tell-all memoir. (In addition to being kindred hellspawn, Ammit’s also my PR manager.) It’s coming out in three weeks, and I’m totally freaking out. Ammit gushes that my ARCs are all over BookTok; everyone’s dying to know the truth about heaven. By the end of the meal, I’m pleasantly soul-stuffed and excited to post some teaser pics of me holding my book in front of an angel wings mural. Thank Hell for Ammit.

When the waiter approaches with the check, I jump up, but Ammit’s quicker than me and excises the guy’s life force, then gobbles it up. I take back all the nice things I just said about her. By way of an apology, she loans me Giuliani for the rest of the day.

On our way home, we fly over a gaggle of teens that scream “Dementors!” at us. My eyes glow crimson with rage; it’s the third time this week I’ve been called that slur. Nothing to do now but divebomb the youths and devour their souls. (I’ve always been an emotional eater.) Immediately, I feel my leathery underbelly sagging with the heft of the adolescents. Ugh. My metabolism has been slowing down ever since I turned 7,000.

Back in my apartment, I recall the pickleball player who made the mistake of fouling me at a game last Thursday and rummage through the fridge to find the remnants of his soul. The leftover spirit is desiccated and tough, but I have this thing about not wasting food, so I work away at it with my fangs while Giuliani happily cleans the morning’s spilled dregs of coffee off the floor with his tongue. I really ought to look into getting a cursed minion of my own. Maybe I’ll try to get on the waitlist for JD Vance.

Next, I mumble a quick apology to my intestines, then gnaw on a delicacy whose frank abomination reminds me of the underworld and has earned me more scorn from New Yorkers than any other act of carnage: the remaining half of an everything bagel with strawberry cream cheese, #IYKYK. It’s so delicious that my eyes roll back in terrible ecstasy. Don’t judge me! The Lord almighty already did that.

I decide to keep riding the wave of nostalgia. I know where I must go. Much like the actual netherworld, the road leading there is paved with tourists, perverted Elmos, and minor demons holding reams of tickets who ask if I like comedy. I belch some strawberry-everything-flavored flames at them and claw toward my very own little slice of Hell: the Times Square Olive Garden. I get the unlimited breadsticks.