The words died in his throat with a little shriek.
There, in front of him, stood a huge, terrifying, green, hair-covered creature with fangs and claws, and menacing yellow eyes. It blinked and lowered its face towards him, drool dripping from its terrible teeth.
“Oh, hello,” said the monster, in a friendly voice. “Have you come about the job?”
said Joe, which seemed the right thing to say at a time like this.
The monster blinked at him again. “You are here to apply for the job?” he said uncertainly. “Like it says on the sign?” The creature tapped a claw on a piece of card stuck to the door. It had the words ‘Help Wanted’ written on it in scrawly handwriting. “You’ll only have to work an hour or so, during the busy times,” he continued chattily. “And I hope you like chips. We make a lot here. Do you like them with salt and vinegar? Or curry sauce? Or perhaps with ketchup?”
The monster peered down at Joe, examining him closely.
“Wh-what?” squeaked Joe, shaking.
“A boy. A child. Hoo-man.” The monster said the word as if he didn’t use it very often. “We don’t get many hoomans in here but I’m sure they like ketchup.” The monster looked at Joe again. “My name’s Fuzzby, by the way,” he said. “Fuzzby Bixington.”
“Fuzzby?” Joe said, still slightly squeakily. “That’s the name of the diner.”
“Yes,” said the monster proudly. “It’s my diner – a monster diner! But hooman children like chips and things too, don’t they?”
“Everyone likes chips,” said Joe, feeling a little more sure of himself and a bit less squeaky.
“Course they do!” said Fuzzby Bixington. “This interview has got off to a good start. Let’s not stand in the doorway – come on in!”
Joe hesitated. Just then, a growl from around the corner reminded him that Grotty Grace was still on his trail.
Right now, being interviewed for a job in a monster’s diner seemed a better idea than a double thumping. It was one type of monster or another. Joe stepped into the diner and quickly shut the door behind him.
“You’ve picked the right time to come, Joe,” said Fuzzby. “My customers will be here soon and then I’ll be very busy.”
Customers? What kind of creatures were they?
“Have a look around,” said Fuzzby. “I’m just going to put the chip fat in the fryer to warm up.”
Joe cautiously wandered about the diner as the monster busied himself behind the counter. There was no one else there, hooman or otherwise. It was exactly like any other diner he had been in before. There was a counter with a till, and behind that he could see a kitchen where the chips and other things would be made. It was just an ordinary diner. An ordinary diner with a large, dangerous, green monster in it.
But Joe soon realised there were plenty of clues to the diner’s monsterish goings-on. Along the wall were several pictures, with a sign over them saying: “Just some of the happy customers of Fuzzby’s Diner”.
Joe was intrigued. They were photos of Fuzzby with the strangest assortment of creatures, some more scary-looking than Fuzzby himself. There was a monster that had one huge, round eye and a mouth filled with hundreds of little sharp teeth. He and Fuzzby were grinning for the camera and holding a large plate of chips. There was Fuzzby with what looked like Godzilla’s smaller, friendlier brother. There was Fuzzby with some rocks that appeared to have eyes and legs, Fuzzby with a well-dressed yeti, Fuzzby with a walking rhubarb plant, and many more. All looking cheerful, friendly and well-fed, thought Joe.
But fed on what?
“Have you cooked anything before, Joe?” asked Fuzzby from the kitchen. “What can you make?”
Joe thought for a second. “I can make sandwiches and toast,” he said. “And I’ve made some cakes with my mum.”
Joe always enjoyed helping to cook at home. Working in a monster diner could be fun.
“That’s a great start,” said Fuzzby. “Good, wholesome home-cooking, just like we do here. I expect you’ll know some of these recipes, then.”
The monster pointed to a sign stuck to the wall. It said:
Yuck! Joe was relieved to see there was no mention of ‘hoomans’ on the menu, though most of the dishes were still a mystery.
But just imagine if he could learn to make frog fritters! Grotty Grace could be in for a few surprises next time she tried to pinch his school dinner.
In the kitchen behind Fuzzby, large pots bubbled and burped with purple ooze, or had brown slime dripping down their sides. A saucepan lid rose as a tentacle gingerly reached out from inside, but it shut with a clank after a quick rap from Fuzzby’s ladle.
The kitchen shelves were equally astonishing. There were jars and tins and packets labelled with ingredients that Joe could not imagine eating. Not without them seeing daylight again pretty quickly afterwards. Pickled lizard livers. Nose broccoli. Parp tarts. Dried wartberries. A glass jar of stinky toad eyeballs blinked at him and made him jump back with a yelp.
“Watch where you’re treading!” said a deep, gruff voice. “That was almost my foot.”
“Don’t mind the cat,” said Fuzzby as a wriggling black blob with tentacles and four eyes slithered out from behind Joe. “Barry is very friendly. Usually.”
Joe backed away from the blob nervously. “That’s not a cat,” he said. “Not like any I’ve ever seen.”
“I am a cat,” Barry said, insulted. “Listen: meow. See? That’s what cats say, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t disagree if I were you,” whispered Fuzzby as Barry nuzzled Joe’s leg.
“Purr,” said Barry unconvincingly. “Purr.”
“Now for some questions,” said Fuzzby, pointing towards a chair. Joe sat down and the big green monster sat in front of him with an official-looking clipboard. “Firstly,” said the monster, “what is your name?”
“I’m Joe Shoe,” said Joe.
“Correct,” said Fuzzby, scribbling something on the clipboard with the stub of a viciously chewed pencil. “You’re obviously a bright lad. Second question: how many hands do you have?”
Joe checked. “Two?” he said, feeling a bit unsure.
“I suppose that will have to