Come Hell or High Cholesterol: A Vegan Boot Camp Tale by Bud Pharo

A fast-food addicted billionaire agrees to go to vegan boot camp to try to appease his mistress, but it’s not what he expects.

Image generated with OpenAIAs a modern-day robber baron and corporate raider, I prided myself on not caring what other people thought, but my girlfriend, Wendy, was different. Therefore, I agreed to attend a local dietary self-help program in order to get back into her good graces as well as her bed. As a self-made billionaire, it’s not like I couldn’t find another attractive young partner; I easily could. What I feared most was that a breakup could signal the beginning of a losing streak – and I never lose at anything, ever. As an ultra-rich 53-year-old virile alpha male – blue pill notwithstanding – I had the world firmly by the ass, so the last thing I needed was for it to start shitting all over me.

“My name is Rob, and I love fast-food, especially double cheeseburgers.” After three meetings, this was the first time I decided to share.

“Hello, Rob,” the circle of attendees responded in unison.

“I had hoped I could lick this fast-food thing on my own.” I paused to assess whether using lick and fast-food in the same sentence might seem insensitive. Seeing no signs of salivation, I continued. “As a successful hedge fund manager, eating right is not always possible given my schedule and work environment. Eventually, I hope to lead a normal dietary life again.” I sat down and listened as others addressed the group, despite knowing I would not likely change.

As the meeting progressed, I could not help thinking of the potential stigma associated with attending a SATFAT program. The Society for Active Treatment of Fast-food Adoring Technocrats, a self-serving support group modeled after AA but lacking the anonymity or noble purpose.

According to its charter, the group’s stated purpose was to “reduce saturated fat consumption in the diets of those in high stress jobs and to encourage vegetarian and vegan dietary habits.” Whereas this seemed like a dignified goal, many participants saw it as another chance to whine about how hard they worked and how being wealthy was far more burdensome than the great unwashed could ever imagine. Some just chose to sign in and then have their drivers take them to the golf course for a phony business meeting while others opted to go to their mistress’s apartments for a very different type of meeting.

After forgoing drinks with the boys, I hurried to Wendy’s apartment, anxious to tell her about the meeting. “Wendy, darling, I finally shared at one of those meetings… Frostie, are you here?”

“In here!” came her terse reply from the bedroom, followed by an uncharacteristic demand: “Stop calling me Frostie! My name is Wendy. I think pet names are stupid and demeaning.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” I said more apologetically than I felt, as I generally don’t ever apologize. I met Wendy Frost three years ago when she was a flight attendant for a distressed regional airline my company acquired. When the company declared bankruptcy, she became the lead flight attendant on my Gulfstream, at triple her old salary.

This arrangement provided a convenient cover story for my wife, who could maintain plausible deniability of my infidelity when asked why Wendy was always traveling with me. Despite knowing I was a serial cheater, my wife appreciated my attempt to keep the affair on the DL because her lawyer warned that my ironclad prenup would leave her penniless in a divorce.

Upon entering the bedroom, I found Wendy sitting on the edge of the bed. “Rob, we need to talk,” she said in a calm voice, but I sensed irritation roiling under the surface.

“What’s up?”

“What the hell are these?” she asked, holding a fistful of buy-one-get-one-free Tallowburger coupons. “You agreed to stop eating this crap! Also, you’re a freaking billionaire who owns seven houses, a private jet, and two luxury yachts, so do you really need BOGO coupons?”

I winked and said, “Well, how do you think I got so rich?” Hearing that, she wadded up the coupons and threw them at me.

Damn, it took me over ten visits to get that many Tallowburger BOGO coupons. Yet it was her superior, judgmental attitude that really pissed me off. “So, it’s okay for you to get a large cappuccino with whipped cream after your spin class, but I can’t have a burger once in a while.”

“You are what you eat! And the shit you eat will eventually kill you; an occasional cappuccino won’t,” she protested. “Fun fact: did you know the beef industry generates more greenhouse gases than automobiles, and destroys natural grasslands?”

“Where did you read that, Vegan Weekly?” I smirked.

“I’m getting tired of your snide remarks. Maybe it’s time to go home to your wife.”

“Come on, Wendy, just please tell me what you want – I’ll do anything.”

“If you are really serious about your health and want to be with me, I’d like you to attend a special immersive program called Vegan Boot Camp near Albuquerque, New Mexico. I’ve read it’s life-changing. But if you don’t go, it’s over between us!”

I reluctantly agreed. “Okay, I’ll go – it should be a piece of cake.”

During the flight to Albuquerque, I devised a new dietary game plan that would, hopefully, enable me to get back with Wendy, thus preempting any potential losing streak. Goodbye to fast food! Hello to fruits, veggies, and, who knows, possibly even kale – well, maybe not kale. However, before I left the private terminal, I revised this plan to include one last fast-food finale.

As I still had some time before the meeting, I directed the limo driver to take me to see Sandia Peak. Sandia Peak rises from the plateau east of Albuquerque to over 10,000 feet, providing a breathtaking view of 11,000 square miles of “The Land of Enchantment,” according to the tramway brochure.

As we turned onto Tramway Road, I saw the sign for a fast-food restaurant I had never heard of before, Blue Book Burger. I ordered the driver to pull in. As an avid reader of alien abduction stories, I was fascinated by its circular silver exterior ringed with translucent windows, just like most sci-fi flying saucers. Undoubtedly, a design aimed to capitalize on New Mexico’s infamous UFO history. In addition to seating inside, it had a walk-up window for patrons who preferred to eat at the tables adjacent to the scenic overlook. Blue Book Burger was as good a place as any for my farewell to fast food.

The driver waited in the limo while I went in to grab a burger. I scanned the menu and began mentally translating from Tallowburger to Blue Book Burger when a voice broke my train of thought.

“I’d recommend our signature Parsec Starburger,” came a pleasant young voice emanating from behind a fully tinted face shield on their helmet. The nametag on the blue flight suit read Ms. Bea, Mission Commander – an impressive uniform for a fast-food outlet. I was surprised that Blue Book Burger made their employees wear such unwieldy uniforms in the sweltering Southwest, but it was probably all part of their marketing strategy. No doubt, Blue Book Burger action figures would be available in time for the holidays.

“Parsec Starburger,” I repeated.

“Yes, sir, a Parsec Starburger of the First Magnitude.”

“Does that come with cheese?”

“Yes, the First Magnitude comes with everything, including a payload of Orbital Fries, which is the same size as a large at BK.”

“OK, I’ll take that along with a large Diet Coke.”

“I’m sorry, but we only have Diet Pepsi. Will that do?”

“That’ll be fine,” I said grudgingly, not able to remember when I ever received my first choice of soft drink at any fast-food place.

Minutes later, Commander Bea returned to the window. “Parsec Starburger of the First Mag, Orbital Fries, and a large Diet Pepsi,” she announced with what I assumed was a smile under her visor.

“I guess it’s a good time for the great taste of a Blue Book Burger,” I said, attempting to make an old fast-food tagline seem chill and relevant. Unfortunately, I could sense from the lack of response that my attempted humor was deemed neither chill nor relevant, as my words fell irretrievably into the generational abyss between us.

I sat at an outside table and started enjoying my first, and probably last, Parsec Starburger while taking in the spectacular view. As I relished the last bite, I closed my eyes and tilted my face toward the sun.

“Hello, Rob,” a gruff voice said.

I popped open my eyes and saw the backlit outline of a large figure. “You startled me,” I said, with enough emphasis to show displeasure.

“Sorry, about that. I’m your new driver, Charles, but you can just call me Chuck. Your other driver had an emergency, so I’ll be taking you the rest of the way.”

“Still, you shouldn’t sneak up on people – especially if you’re expecting a tip.”

“Again, I’m sorry, but I’m supposed to get you to the facility ASAP. My boss, Ferdinand Moore, is hosting an icebreaker before the formal program begins.”

“No thanks. I’m just planning to check in and start first thing tomorrow.”

“But Mr. Moore insists on having you there.” He deliberately drew out Moore’s last name with too much emphasis on the Os.

“Just stop!” I commanded. “I’ve already eaten, as you can see.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand; you absolutely must come to Mr. Moore’s icebreaker.” Again, he drew out the Os in the name Moore.

This driver’s insolence was pissing me off. “No, my dimwitted friend, I’m afraid you don’t understand,” I thought I said, but only heard a slurred “doe udder stan -” as my face went numb. I struggled to gather my thoughts and tried to speak, but nothing came out. Everything seemed to slow down, followed by the sensation of falling backward. As my head rotated skyward, I saw Sandia Peak come into view, then heard a dull thud as I stopped falling. Had Commander Bea spiked my Diet Pepsi because she mistook my attempt at humor for a lame pickup line? Damn, those Gen Z kids are harsh.

“Put him in the hauler,” Chuck ordered two beefy men who appeared out of nowhere. Each grabbed an arm and dragged me toward a cattle hauler parked along the access road. I tried to struggle and cry out, but my motor skills and voice were gone. My limbs felt impossibly heavy. Chuck, that insolent bastard, must have drugged me, I thought as my vision faded. Sorry, Commander Bea, can you ever forgive me?

“Rise and shine, Robbie,” a distant but familiar voice said, breaking through my mental fog. “It’s your old pal Chuck, and it’s time to meet your host,” he said a little too cheerfully. As I gained situational awareness, I could see that I was seated in a large, overstuffed chair in what appeared to be a very well-appointed barn. The barn had large windows that overlooked a verdant pasture, with grazing cattle.

The pastoral scene was soon interrupted. “Here’s my tip for you – you cheap bastard!” Chuck touched my shoulder with the tip of a metallic rod. As soon as it made contact, a searing charge of electricity coursed down my left side.

“Holy shit!” I screamed in pain.

A deep voice spoke, from just out of my view. “High-voltage livestock prods; they’ve been used on cattle for decades to make them enter the chute on the way to certain death. You’d think a man who owns a dozen slaughterhouses would already know that.”

“I own them; I don’t work in one!” I snapped.

“Oh, by the way, Rob, Vegan Boot Camp closed years ago.”

“So why am I here, then?” I asked the voice, still out of my view.

“You’ll see,” the deep voice said. I heard a heavy shuffling sound and became aware of a large Texas Longhorn coming into my peripheral vision. It had to weigh 2,000 pounds! As if seeing a large steer ambling around me was not disconcerting enough, it wore a well-tailored black Brooks Brothers suit topped off by a matching black Stetson. His horn-rimmed glasses and the University of Texas crest on his left breast pocket gave him an air of sophistication. He then turned his head toward me and spoke.

“Hello, Rob. I’m Ferdinand Moore.” This had to be some kind of elaborate hoax, made all the more plausible by the drugs. These immersion program people were dicking with me just so they could boast about punking some rich dude from back east.

Just then, the steer gingerly approached me, coming close enough for me to see a green wad of something in his mouth. Was that some mint chewing tobacco? No, it was a wad of grass – he was chewing his cud. That detail really added to the authenticity of this charade.

“All right, you’ve had your fun!” I shouted. “Now take off the stupid steer costume! Tell me, does it take two of you dipshits to operate a costume that big? If so, do you rotate who gets the ass-end, or is it highly specialized?”

“Au contraire, I’m 100% prime beef, the genuine article,” Moore protested, flashing a somewhat sheepish grin for a steer. “Also, as I still have my balls, I’m clearly a bull, not a steer.”

“Bullshit,” I spat, poor pun intended. “More like beef jerky if you ask me.”

“Oh, you want bullshit? I got your bullshit right here,” Moore bellowed as he edged up next to the chair, dropped his trousers, raised his tail, and deposited a steaming pile of dung right next to me. I was stunned into silence, having never seen an animal ‘drop trou’ before taking a crap.

Despite being a dapper dresser who just literally gave me a load of bullshit, I was still able to take solace in the fact that Moore’s belt did not match his hooves. Apparently, he did not get his fashion sense from watching “Queer Eye” or the more bovine-appropriate “Steer Eye” on CMT. Furthermore, his tailor should have advised him to dress left when putting on his trousers to minimize his huge nut-sack bulge, which definitely affected the line of his suit.

Still admiring his rather impressive mound of dung, Moore continued, “Now, that’s some fine, Grade-A bullshit! Go ahead, Rob, let the subtle tones of alfalfa and hints of feed corn envelop your senses.” This bull was a pompous prick.

“What kind of drug did your stooge slip me? I still can’t feel my arms or legs.”

“So, do you think you’re being treated inhumanely?” he asked.

“Well, your henchman drugged me and hauled me here against my will, so, yeah!”

Suddenly, Moore’s nostrils flared, and he charged. Just as I was about to be on the wrong end of the running of this particular bull, he pulled up inches from my face, snorted a rope of mucus toward me, then backed off. “Sorry, I lost my composure, but you pissed me off,” he said, looking somewhat contrite.

“Was the snot necessary?” I asked, attempting to blink a mucus glob from my eye.

“Okay, Rob, let me tell you about inhumane treatment. How would you like to have your balls banded until they wither and fall off? By the way, it takes 10 to 50 days for that to happen; no vasectomies for us, just crimped balls. Or, how about having a pneumatic cattle stunner drive a two-inch steel bolt into your skull rendering you brain dead while they slowly bleed you before slaughtering commences,” he said, wiping a tear from one cheek.

When he saw that I was looking at him, he quickly turned away, not wanting me to think he was a bull with cow feelings. Things were getting weirder by the minute. Maybe I stumbled into a CIA experimental narcotics test facility. That had to be it. What else would explain seeing a sharp-dressed talking bull ranting about the ills of the beef industry?

“This seems like I’m living in a Carlos Castaneda book; I’m high, right?”

“So, you’ve read Castaneda. What did you think?” Moore asked, seeming interested.

“He’s okay, I guess; I just read the Cliff Notes.”

“That tracks; you always seem to take shortcuts,” Moore said. “Conversely, when it comes to hallucinogenic-inspired writers, I’m more into Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

“So you like an opium-addicted poet over Castaneda – who really gives a shit?”

“Coleridge was a visionary,” Moore said, then began, “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree -” he abruptly stopped. “Chuck, come in here. Rob needs to get prepared for the barbecue.”

“I already told you, I’m not going to your icebreaker! I just want to get out of here!”

“But, Rob, you’re the guest of honor. You have been selected to participate in a very special ritual,” Moore explained.

“So, exactly what kind of ritual do you want me to participate in?”

“My bad, I guess I wasn’t clear; you don’t get to decide whether you’re participating – this ceremony is a rite of passage!”

“Then let’s get on with it you bovine bastard.” This had to be my worst high ever.

“First a quick explanation: the Blue Book Burger Crew are not exactly what they seem. Did you notice how much their restaurant looks like a flying saucer? Well, guess what – it is!”

“What the hell are you talking about, they’re people like us… well, like me, I mean.”

“No, they are alien hybrids who are here to conduct animal research.” he said.

“Wow, I’m really trippin’ – this shit makes LSD seem like a light beer.”

“Your high wore off hours ago; you’re sober. Now, back to our story: a few years ago, one of their advanced gene editing experiments imbued a few of our herd with intellectual and communication capabilities that far surpass those of humans. Their gift enabled us to negotiate an end to the cattle mutilations that had gone unsolved for years. In turn, we agreed to provide them with another source of well-marbled protein – you guys! It turns out that humans make delicious – their word, not mine – cheeseburgers.” He winked – what a prick!

“I’ve died and gone to hell, right?”

“Nope, not yet, anyway, but I’m sure Satan’s saving you a seat,” Moore quipped. “You’re here to help us fulfill our agreement with the aliens.”

“What agreement?”

“Since they can’t use beef under our agreement, their food production scientists found an ingenious way to convert you fleshy critters into living cheeseburgers,” Moore said as he approached me with a large hand-held mirror. “Here, take a look…”

As I gazed into it, all I saw was this huge cheeseburger. This had to be some kind of sick parlor trick! I moved my head from side to side to see if this was just a simple case of trickery. My level of concern increased from irritatingly strange to downright terrifying; the cheeseburger was also rotating side to side, perfectly tracking my movement. Then I saw it: two eyes peering out from between two all-beef – or were they now human – patties. I blinked my eyes, and the cheeseburger blinked. It was true! I had morphed into a large double cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, and onion. No wonder I could not feel my arms and legs – I didn’t have any!

As I stared in disbelief, I felt the cool, damp sensation of shredded lettuce overhanging the edge of my bun. Despite the dire circumstances, the warm melted cheese on my back – I mean, top patty – felt oddly comforting.

That idea faded when Chuck burst into the room, followed by Commander Bea, sans helmet. She had an oval-shaped head with pale blue skin, large, opaque eyes, three small nostrils, and a large mouth containing several rows of pointed teeth. Behind the commander were five similarly dressed but smaller Blue Book Burger crew members: her drones. They doffed their helmets to reveal a similar facial structure as Bea’s, but smaller.

The drones began robotically chanting, as if in response to her pheromone signal, “We want Rob! We want Rob! We want Rob!” Their chants grew at a fever pitch.

Moore raised a cloven hoof. “Silence!” The chanting ceased.

“Remember our deal,” Bea said to Moore. “We’ve come back to claim this month’s protein substitution. Hand him over, or more accurately – hand ‘it’ over!”

“Yes, I remember our arrangement – no more cattle mutilations as long as we provide you with a suitable monthly substitute for your ritual feast,” Moore said, nodding toward me.

“Come on, Moore, you got me into this mess, so please help get me out!”

“I really can’t help. You’re a cutthroat businessman; you always hold people to the deal, regardless if it’s in their best interest or not. Looks like you’re about to reap what you’ve sown.”

“If you can’t help, who will?” I screamed, but my plea fell on deaf, bovine ears.

“Beats me,” Moore said with a shrug of his massive shoulders as he turned his hooves up. “I mean, the last thing I need right now is to get on the wrong side of these ravenous cheeseburger-loving aliens and destroy our fragile détente; besides, they only eat once a month.”

With that, the chanting resumed as the drones surrounded me. They pushed closer, baring their razor-sharp teeth and salivating as they began yanking out handfuls of my shredded lettuce. I felt several drones grab my bottom patty, and in response to another pheromone signal, they all bit down in unison. Goddamn, that hurt! Suddenly, something wet oozed down the backside of my bun. Oh, shit – they’ve scared the secret sauce out of me! Then everything went dark.

Three days later I awoke in a hospital bed tethered to an IV line, as technicians and nurses bustled around me checking my blood pressure and looking at my chart. I looked at my hands; great, I still had them. I patted down the rest of my torso and checked my manhood. Yep, all there. What the hell happened to me?

Just then, a tall gentleman wearing a black suit came into the room accompanied by a dark-haired woman wearing a lab coat with the Vegan Boot Camp logo. He doffed his Stetson and introduced them. “Good morning, Rob, I’m Dr. Ferdinand Moore, the facility director, and this is Dr. Beatrice Dauber, our Chief of Psychopharmacology. We’re glad you’re doing okay after completing the extensive detoxification protocol.”

“Detox, what the hell?”

“You selected our shortest, most concentrated program that includes the administration of our proprietary drug regimen, which induces complex dream states that seem incredibly real – it’s our scared-straight option.”

“So, scaring the shit out of me is part of your program?”

“No, Rob, for the option you selected, it is the program.” Moore smiled. “Once you’ve signed your discharge papers, we’ll get you moooving,” he said, chuckling as he drew out the Os. “Oops, sorry, just a little post-treatment humor. Anyhow, our driver should be here shortly to take you to your aircraft.”

A few minutes later, a large man filled the doorway. “Hello, Rob, I’m Charles, but everyone just calls me Chuck. I’ll be your driver.”

“Ah, no thanks; I think I’ll Uber.”

Upon returning home, I squared things with Wendy and swore off cheeseburgers. Now, those little compressed chicken things – well, that’s a different story.