Every room hums with the same feeling: desperation. People clawing at hope like it’s their last breath.
I know not all of these practices are fraudulent. I know breathwork is beneficial. I know meditation is powerful. I know that mind over matter is a real thing at times. I know all this wellness stuff here isn’t all bogus.
But it’s the angle this place is taking.
They’re feeding off people’s desperation. Their pain. And Phoenix—slick bastard—he’s figured out how to package it. How to sell holiness to the dying.
You hear about the toxicity of wellness cult-ure, it’s been a social issue for years. The way it works, and the way it thrives, is that so much of this stuffishealing. There’s some truth in every bit of what Phoenix is preaching. But there must always be a balance. There must always be reason. And pushing people past their limits is not okay. These people are actually sick.
I walk with the herd, hands shoved into my pockets, keeping pace. Inside, my skin is crawling. If Willow were here, she’d already be sharpening her daggers and have a plastic bag tucked in her back pocket.
We march into a “kitchen” like a field trip group about to get a lesson on farm-to-table kale. The smell hits first—sterile bleach fighting against roasted garlic. Weird combo. My brain can’t decide if it wants to tell my digestive system to gag or get hungry.
Phoenix is already waiting at the front, standing behind a long butcher’s block like he’s about to crown himself the Gordon Ramsay of Godhood. His voice booms, smooth, hypnotic.
“What we put into our bodies matters more than anything. Medicine tells us the body breaks down with age. That it decays, grows frail. And our food is designed to make this happen. The amount of toxins in food these days would have killed someone who lived two hundred years ago. The addictive additives that are in our food keep us slaves.” He places a hand reverently on the counter, like he’s about to bless it.
Again, he's not wrong.
Fuck. This is why he’s good.
“Our ancestors knew better. They ate every part of the animal. Nothing wasted. Because they understood the truth—that the life force doesn’t just sit in a filet or a drumstick. It lingers in the blood, in the marrow, in the organs.”
People nod like he just solved world hunger.
Phoenix spreads his arms theatrically. “But modern man? We’ve grown soft. Afraid. Conditioned to believe that the richest, healthiest parts are somehow grotesque. And because of this fear, you are starving. Starving for the fuel that will make you whole again.”
And that’s when the chefs walk in.
Not line cooks. Not smoothie-jockeys in aprons. These guys look Michelin-star-level—towering hats, pressed whites, stainless steel trays glinting under the overhead lights. And on those trays?
Oh fuck.
It takes me a beat to process what I’m looking at. Wet. Shiny. Slabs that jiggle when they move. Squishy tubes, pale and lumpy like someone skinned a sausage. A bloody heart still twitching—or maybe my brain’s just filling in the horror show. One tray looks like it’s holding a prop from The Walking Dead.
The woman next to me clasps her hands to her chest. “Ohhh,” she whispers. “Divine fuel.”
No, sweetheart. That’s a damn spleen.
Phoenix beams like this is the grand reveal of his magic trick. “Tonight, you will taste life itself.”
I want to vomit.
The chefs line up their instruments with surgical precision. Knives gleam. Boards are set down. And then the chopping starts.
It’s a symphony ofschlup, schlop, thud.Wet meat slapping wood. Knife blades carving through connective tissue. The squish of fat splitting open.
I’m transfixed and horrified. My brain keeps running captions:That’s definitely a kidney. Oh hell, is that a pancreas? Nope, don’t think about it. Don’t think about how it smells like pennies and wet dog in here.
One chef lobs a lobe of liver into a blender. It lands with a meaty slap. Another scrapes minced heart into the pitcher, the pieces sticking to the blade like crimson Play-Doh. Then in goes something tubular, chopped into chewy-looking rings. Calamari if calamari was designed in hell.
The blender whirs, high-pitched, mechanical. Red froth spatters against the glass.
Finally, a few normal things make an appearance. Kale. Ginger. Turmeric. Sure, I can deal. I know that stuff is good for you. Then, powdered mushrooms. Still manageable. And finally—a jar of something unlabeled, a pale dust Phoenix calls his “sacred wellness powder.”
Yeah, that screamsdefinitely not FDA-approved.
Phoenix lifts the jar, eyes glittering. “This completes the alchemy. The body cannot reject what the spirit embraces.” He sprinkles it in like he’s salting a steak, smiling while the audience murmurs in awe.
