Is this the Second Coming of the BatGod? I will take an order of Deep Fried Batwings extra crispy. I would self-serve but my wrist got caught in the auto slot
Despite my batlike governing countenance, I feel my reemergence is holding court in the landscape of moths - a Sphinx moth spectre to be precise - its chrysalis splitting in a Manitou-saturated soil, then climbing up and through vaginal earth, securing a perch. My wings undergo a pneumatic epiphany as they expand and dry for flight into the Great Beyond.
A helluva headspace in which to occupy; Maya deity lineage not withstanding.
Anyway.
Step on down to the end of the slots - all the way to the large silver bat-shaped coffee urn - and I will have a blue-skinned attendent fetch your sustenance and bring it out from the back. His name tag says CHARON, but that is merely Automat humor. He is harmless.
By the way, I'm pleased you brought up the slot(s).
There is a warning - written in Latin of course - mounted above the entrance of the Automat; it draws attention to the inherent risks of dining on the premises.
Translated simply, it states, "Be mindful of the slots, for each slot has a mind of its own."
I used the common automatic food service term here: "slot."
"Window" is also acceptable.
However, technically, the Latin warning refers to them as "archways to selected oblivion."
(With that, we get within a nadir of truly understanding the phrase "appetite for destruction." )
Be that as it may, in my experience, a plate of turkey, green peas, and mashed potatoes remains the same in any great and standard automat, no matter the food shield lock mechanism's esoteric label.
Enjoy your fried wings.
While I spread mine.
