Lasagna!
The trip began with unreasonable optimism.
That should have worried everyone.
It was a golden, cloud-dotted morning in Snowdrift Bay, the kind of morning that made people say reckless things like “This will be fun” without immediately knocking on wood, iron, bone, or whatever nearby object seemed spiritually available.
Yorn stood in Thorvald’s driveway beside The Longvan, Thorvald’s oversized Viking-themed road-trip van, which looked less like a vehicle and more like a longship that had lost a custody battle with a minibus. Its sides were painted with curling silver runes. A plastic dragon head jutted from the grille. The horn, Thorvald had proudly explained, could produce either a standard honk or “battle mode.”
Yorn had begged him not to explain battle mode further.
Elara waited by the passenger door in dark travel flats and sunglasses, calm and elegant enough to make road travel look mildly Gothic. Brenda loaded her camera bag into the back, purple hair tied high in a ponytail. Spike brought three bags of snacks, a travel pillow, and a sombrero.
No one knew why.
Ramses arrived last, carrying a small satchel, a travel thermos, and three scrolls bound with faded cord.
Yorn looked at them. “Are the scrolls necessary?”
“One never knows when prophecy may become geographically relevant,” Ramses said.
“We’re going to Crimson Hollow.”
“Ruins, cliffs, artisan cheese. All environments in which prophecy has historically overperformed.”
Brenda clicked her camera lens into place. “I’m with Ramses. If cheese prophecy happens and we don’t document it, that’s on us.”
Elara opened the passenger door. “Let’s get moving before Thorvald gives the van a farewell speech.”
From inside the garage came a distant roar: “SHE RIDES WITH HONOR!”
Yorn sighed. “Too late.”
Thorvald emerged carrying a travel mug the size of a small cauldron. “Remember, The Longvan is a proud machine. She responds to confidence, clean oil, and moderate praise.”
Yorn accepted the keys. “Got it.”
“Do not insult her suspension.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“She hears.”
The group loaded in quickly after that.
The destination was Crimson Hollow, a scenic town several hours away known for old ruins, sweeping cliffs, strange little museums, and an artisan cheese shop Elara had described as “perhaps worth daylight.” From Elara, that was high praise, so the trip had become real.
For the first hour, things went beautifully.
The Longvan rumbled along the highway with surprising smoothness. Snowdrift Bay fell behind them, replaced by rolling hills, pine forests, roadside farm stands, and the occasional sign advertising attractions with names like Mystery Cavern of Slight Regret and World’s Third-Largest Spoon, Possibly.
Elara connected her phone to the van’s ancient Bluetooth system, which only worked if one shouted at it with firm disappointment.
“PAIR DEVICE,” she commanded.
The dashboard crackled.
“PAIR DEVICE.”
The speaker hissed, beeped, and then blasted gothic rock at a volume that made Spike’s sombrero tremble.
“There,” Elara said, satisfied.
The playlist became an unpredictable mix of ska-punk, gothic rock, obscure horror movie scores, and one song Brenda swore was from a lost vampire surf film.
Yorn drove. Elara navigated. Brenda took photos. Spike cracked road jokes. Ramses spent twenty minutes explaining the spiritual symbolism of traffic cones.
“They are warnings,” Ramses said, gazing out the window. “Markers of disruption. Temporary guardians of human error.”
Spike nodded. “Also hats if you’re brave.”
“They should not be hats.”
“They shouldn’t be, no.”
At the two-hour mark, the optimism remained intact.
This was when they made their mistake.
They got hungry.
Yorn spotted the sign first.
OASIS IN THE ASPHALT DESERT
CLEANEST BATHROOMS WEST OF THE CRATER
HOT FOOD • LOCAL GIFTS • HISTORIC POSSUM STATUE
Brenda leaned forward. “Historic possum statue?”
Spike adjusted his sombrero. “We have to stop.”
Elara looked at the sign as it passed. “It also claimed clean bathrooms.”
Yorn put on his turn signal. “Lunch, restroom break, ten minutes. Then back on the road.”
Ramses folded his hands. “A confident plan.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant it ominously.”
Yorn ignored him and pulled in.
The building was bizarrely charming in the way roadside places could be when renovated by five owners who never spoke to each other. Faux-adobe walls. Green metal roof. Wagon wheels beside glass doors. A neon WELCOME TRAVELERS sign with half the letters flickering in what may or may not have been Morse code.
The landscaping was worse.
Plastic flamingos stood in a gravel bed. Three garden gnomes had been duct-taped to a tumbleweed. A statue of a possum dressed as a chef stood near the entrance, one paw raised triumphantly, the other holding a frying pan.
At its base was a plaque:
CHEF POSSUM PETE
LOCAL LEGEND / HEALTH CODE PIONEER
Yorn stared at it. “I already regret this.”
Brenda raised her camera. “I don’t.”
The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit them.
Scorched marinara.
Not a hint. Not a trace. This was structural marinara. The kind that seemed to have entered the walls years ago and now paid rent.
The interior was busy and strange. A food counter occupied one side. A convenience shop sprawled across the other. A hallway marked RESTROOMS / CONFERENCE ROOM / TAXIDERMY HALL disappeared toward the back. Somewhere out of sight, something clanged. Someone shouted, “Not the ricotta!” and then a door slammed.
Elara stopped just inside. “No.”
Yorn looked at her. “We just got here.”
“I am registering my position early.”
They approached the food counter, where a sleepy teenager in a paper hat leaned beside the register with the dead-eyed exhaustion of someone who had seen too much before noon.
Yorn glanced at the menu. “Five sandwiches, please.”
The teenager blinked. “Yeah, no can do.”
Yorn waited.
The teenager did not elaborate.
Yorn said, “No sandwiches?”
“We’re out of bread.”
Brenda looked at the fully stocked menu board. “All bread?”
“Yeah.”
Spike peered behind the counter. “This feels like a story.”
The teenager sighed. “There was a lasagna sandwich situation.”
Elara lowered her sunglasses. “A what?”
“The chef got ambitious.”
“That phrase never leads anywhere clean,” Ramses said.
The teenager pointed toward the kitchen door, which had been blocked with a mop bucket and a handwritten sign reading:
KITCHEN CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
DO NOT ASK ABOUT THE LOAVES
“He stacked an entire lasagna between two sourdough loaves,” the teenager said. “Then he tried to run it through the slicer.”
Yorn stared. “An entire lasagna.”
“Yeah.”
“Between two loaves.”
“Yeah.”
“And then through a slicer.”
“Briefly.”
Brenda whispered, “Briefly.”
“What happened?” Spike asked, delighted.
“The slicer broke. The bread supply collapsed. The chef cried into a pan. Now nobody’s allowed in the kitchen except Carla, and Carla left.”
Ramses looked toward the kitchen door. “Where did Carla go?”
“No one knows.”
The teenager tapped the register. “We call it The Carbastrophe.”
A long silence followed.
Elara said, “Of course you do.”
Yorn rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. What do you have?”
The teenager turned and looked at the display case.
Inside sat three items: a hard-boiled egg in a cup, a bowl of shredded lettuce, and something wrapped in foil with a label that read MAYBE.
They did not order.
The group split up in search of alternatives.
This only made things worse.
Elara found a café kiosk where all the muffins were dyed neon chartreuse and the coffee had names like Moon Broth, Witch Bean #9, Grandma’s Static, and House Blend, Probably. She returned with nothing but judgment.
“They offered me a muffin that glowed.”
“Glowed how?” Brenda asked.
“Defensively.”
Spike tried a vending machine. He put in money for a candy bar and received a rubber duck wearing sunglasses.
He stared at it.
The duck stared back.
Yorn looked over. “Snack?”
Spike nodded slowly. “For the soul, maybe.”
Ramses wandered into a cluttered souvenir shop and emerged holding an amulet shaped like a falcon holding a waffle.
“A flawless replica of the sacred Amulet of Feathered Nourishment.”
Elara flipped it over. “It says ‘Made in Utah.’”
Ramses reclaimed it with dignity. “A convincing forgery, then.”
Brenda bought three postcards featuring Chef Possum Pete stirring soup, riding a motorcycle, standing in front of a canyon, and officiating what appeared to be a wedding between two raccoons.
“I don’t know who needs these yet,” she said, “but someone will.”
They regrouped near the restroom hallway, still hungry, when a man in swim trunks and flip-flops came sprinting out of the corridor shouting at the top of his lungs.
“IT’S IN MY BAG! IT’S IN MY BAG!”
Everyone turned.
The man skidded across the tile, clipped a rack of keychains, and slammed chest-first into a TAKE A PENNY, LEAVE A PENNY tray.
Coins flew everywhere.
The man did not care.
He dropped to his knees, fumbled open his duffel bag, and yanked out a scalding-hot glass tray of bubbling lasagna.
Steam rolled off it. Cheese stretched from the bag like molten rope.
Yorn stared.
Brenda slowly lifted her camera.
The man held the tray above his head like a sacred object.
“NO ONE TOUCH IT!” he shrieked. “IT’S NOT READY YET!”
Then he sprinted down the hallway toward a neon-lit conference room marked:
PRIVATE EVENT
LASAGNA FELLOWSHIP LEVEL THREE
His flip-flops squeaked wildly. A trail of sauce followed him.
The group stood silent.
Then a custodian emerged from a supply closet, took one look at the melted cheese streaking across the floor, and muttered, “Not again.”
He picked up a mop.
Ramses watched him begin cleaning.
“There is no way this location is zoned for so much lasagna.”
Yorn turned to the teenager at the food counter, who had watched without expression.
“Is that related to The Carbastrophe?”
The teenager looked toward the hallway.
“Depends who asks.”
“I’m asking.”
“Then no.”
Elara said, “We are leaving soon.”
“We haven’t eaten,” Yorn said.
“I am aware. I have chosen hunger.”
They returned to The Longvan and opened the snack bags.
This should have helped.
It did not.
Somehow, despite Spike claiming he had packed “road trip essentials,” the available food consisted of half a bag of chips, two juice boxes, one orange, gummy spiders, and a sleeve of crackers that had turned into powder.
Yorn held up the crackers. “What happened to these?”
Spike examined the package. “Travel.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains crumbs.”
They sat on the van’s bumper and shared what they had.
Elara took half the orange. Brenda photographed the duck beside a juice box. Ramses inspected the falcon-waffle amulet and concluded it had “moderate false power.” Spike placed the sombrero on the duck and announced that morale had improved.
Yorn ate three chips and stared at the rest stop.
Through the windows, they could see people moving around inside with growing urgency. Someone wheeled a cart past carrying industrial quantities of ricotta. The possum statue outside stared into the parking lot with culinary confidence.
Then a speaker crackled overhead.
“ATTENTION, TRAVELERS.”
Everyone looked up.
“THE REST STOP IS NOW HOSTING A SPONTANEOUS LASAGNA COOK-OFF IN THE MAIN HALL. ALL ARE WELCOME.”
A crash came from inside.
Someone shouted, “FOR GLORY!”
Then came the unmistakable splat of pasta hitting tile.
Yorn stood. “Nope.”
Brenda lowered her camera. “Not even a little?”
“No.”
Spike looked toward the entrance. “There might be prizes.”
Yorn pointed at The Longvan. “In the van.”
Ramses nodded. “Agreed. This place has entered its second act.”
They climbed back in, relieved to escape.
Then they discovered The Longvan was blocked in.
A flower-covered food truck had parked diagonally behind them, sputtering smoke and playing a tinny instrumental song no one recognized. Its side read:
LETTUCE PRAY
HOLISTIC SALADS • CHAKRA WRAPS • SOUP ALIGNMENT
A barefoot woman with bells around her ankles stepped from the driver’s side and waved apologetically.
“Sorry,” she called. “My truck’s chakras are out of alignment.”
Yorn stared through the windshield.
Elara slowly turned to him. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to become reasonable.”
Yorn rolled down the window. “Could you move it?”
The woman winced. “I totally would, but the engine is processing grief.”
Spike leaned forward from the back. “What kind of grief?”
“Root vegetable.”
Ramses closed his eyes.
Yorn got out.
So did Spike and Ramses.
Elara stepped out carefully, avoiding a ribbon of fettuccine that had somehow made it into the parking lot. Brenda followed with her camera, because by this point the trip had become journalism with snacks.
The food truck driver clasped her hands.
“I appreciate you holding space for this.”
Yorn placed both paws against the back of the truck.
“I am going to hold space by pushing.”
Spike joined him. “Just so we’re clear, if this truck leaks soup on me, I’m becoming difficult.”
Ramses positioned himself beside them and began murmuring encouragement in ancient Coptic.
“What are you saying?” Brenda asked.
“Roughly, ‘Move, stubborn vessel, or be judged by the river.’”
“Good.”
They pushed.
The truck did not move.
Inside the rest stop, someone rang a bell.
“ROUND ONE TO THE LASAGNA ACOLYTES!”
Yorn pushed harder.
The food truck coughed.
Spike grunted. “I think its chakras are resisting.”
Elara stood near the front of The Longvan, arms folded. “Try threatening its aura.”
Yorn glanced at her.
She shrugged. “I’m learning the local terms.”
Ramses changed his chant.
The food truck lurched.
The woman in bells gasped. “That was emotional.”
“No,” Yorn said, pushing again. “That was physics.”
The truck rolled back just enough for The Longvan to escape.
The woman bowed. Her ankle bells jingled.
“Thank you for assisting the healing journey of Lettuce Pray.”
Then she brightened.
“Oh! As thanks, would any of you like some vegetable lasagna? It’s gluten-conscious, spiritually centered, and made with locally sourced zucchini.”
The entire group stared at her.
Blankly.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
After everything that had happened, after the lasagna sandwich situation, the Lasagna Fellowship, the lasagna cook-off, the lasagna man, and the industrial ricotta trafficking, they simply did not possess the emotional resources to process another lasagna-related event.
The woman looked around uncertainly.
“...It’s very good?”
The silence somehow deepened.
Finally, Yorn climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Never speak to us again.”
The woman blinked. “Oh.”
Elara closed her door. “A little harsh.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Fair.”
They pulled out of the parking space.
As The Longvan rolled toward the exit, the rest stop doors burst open and the man in swim trunks sprinted out again, now wearing an oven mitt on one hand and carrying a trophy shaped like a noodle.
He shouted, “IT ACCEPTED ME!”
Behind him, three people in aprons gave chase.
Brenda twisted in her seat to watch. “I need to know more.”
Yorn kept driving. “You absolutely do not.”
Spike looked out the rear window as the rest stop shrank behind them.
“I didn’t get lunch, but I got a duck.”
Ramses held up the amulet. “And I acquired a counterfeit relic.”
Brenda checked her camera. “I have photographic evidence of a man whispering to lasagna.”
Elara looked through the side window, where the bizarre building receded into the heat shimmer.
“That may have been the most cursed roadside stop I’ve ever seen.”
Spike placed the sunglasses duck on the dashboard.
“Should we name him?”
“No,” Yorn said.
“Too late. His name is Gary.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Gary has seen things.”
Elara glanced at the duck, then at Yorn.
“Let him have Gary.”
Yorn tightened both hands on the wheel.
“Fine. Gary stays quiet.”
Spike leaned toward the dashboard. “You hear that? Respect the driver.”
The duck, being a duck-shaped piece of rubber, said nothing.
That made it one of the more reasonable personalities they had encountered all afternoon.
For several miles, the van was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the occasional crinkle of someone searching the snack bag in vain. The playlist resumed on its own, choosing a dramatic horror score heavy on strings.
Then Brenda looked at her camera and began laughing.
Yorn glanced in the rearview mirror. “What now?”
“I got the exact moment the lasagna man hit the penny tray.”
Spike leaned over. “Are the coins midair?”
“All of them.”
Ramses nodded. “A blessed image.”
Elara, despite herself, smiled.
Then Spike held up the rubber duck beside the falcon-waffle amulet.
“Gary and the sacred forgery are friends now.”
Yorn stared ahead at the highway.
“Crimson Hollow better be worth it.”
“It has ruins,” Ramses said.
“It has cliffs,” Brenda added.
“It has cheese,” Elara said.
Yorn took a breath.
“All right.”
For a while, that was enough.
On the drive home, no one suggested stopping at the Oasis in the Asphalt Desert again.
When they passed the exit, everyone went silent.
The sign glowed in the darkening distance.
OASIS IN THE ASPHALT DESERT
NOW FEATURING LASAGNA FINALS
Yorn accelerated.
Spike pressed Gary to the window. “Farewell, cursed birthplace.”
“Gary was born in a vending machine,” Yorn said.
“That’s what I said.”
Ramses stared at the sign until it vanished behind them.
“I believe that place will still be there when the stars go out.”
Elara leaned back in her seat. “Then let us never test it.”
Some road trips gave you scenery. Some gave you memories. This one gave them cheese, trauma, postcards, a counterfeit relic, and a rubber duck with sunglasses.
In Snowdrift Bay, even leaving town did not mean the weirdness stayed behind.