Grizburger

The Deluxe Corruption

  In the fetid heart of Grizburg's Rustwater District, where industrial runoff mingles with goblin ambition, stands the most notorious culinary venture ever to poison mortal palates with gleeful malice. Grizburgers emerged from the fevered entrepreneurial dreams of Skreet and Mangle, two goblins whose previous enterprises included selling "medicinal" rat droppings and operating an unlicensed body-part brokerage. When the Rust Barons cracked down on their organ trafficking operation, the enterprising duo pivoted to what they termed "revolutionary sustenance distribution"—though their customers learned to call it something far less charitable. The establishment's crowning achievement, the Deluxe Shitburger, represents either the pinnacle of goblin innovation or the nadir of culinary civilization, depending on one's tolerance for ingredients that defy both identification and digestion. Skreet claims the secret lies in his proprietary blend of "meat-adjacent protein sources," though whispered rumors suggest the patties contain everything from sewer rats and discarded shoe leather to the occasional finger lost by careless dock workers. Mangle handles the "flavor enhancement process," which involves dunking each burger in a vat of what appears to be River Vo runoff mixed with fermented cabbage juice and the tears of disappointed customers.  

Ate there once during my smuggling days. The burger tasted like it had been marinated in orc piss and regret, but damned if it didn't keep me full for three days straight. Haven't been able to taste anything properly since.

— Korvin Blackboot, Former River Trader

The ramshackle wooden structure groans under the weight of its own audacity, constructed entirely from salvaged materials that Skreet and Mangle "liberated" from various demolition sites around the city. The grease-stained signs, painted in what customers hope is merely rust-colored pigment, advertise their wares with the sort of brazen honesty that would be refreshing if it weren't so deeply disturbing. The cooking area remains visible through gaps in the rotting planks, allowing patrons to witness the full horror of their meal's preparation—a transparency policy that has somehow increased rather than decreased sales, as morbid curiosity proves stronger than survival instinct.   The clientele represents Grizburg's most desperate or adventurous souls: dock workers seeking cheap sustenance, mercenaries too drunk to care about food quality, and the occasional House Brinkburn engineer conducting what they claim are "metallurgical experiments" on the burger's indigestible components. Regular customers develop a peculiar immunity to both disease and conventional notions of edibility, with some claiming the Deluxe Shitburger grants temporary resistance to poison damage—though this may simply be their digestive systems surrendering all pretense of normal function.   Despite health inspectors fleeing in terror and City Watch attempts to shut down the operation, Grizburgers endures with the inexorable persistence of a particularly virulent plague. Skreet and Mangle have achieved something approaching immortality through sheer commercial stubbornness, their establishment serving as a monument to the triumph of goblin entrepreneurship over mortal concepts of sanitation, dignity, and basic survival instinct. In a city built upon the bones of Dead Gods and powered by toxic innovation, Grizburgers stands as perhaps the most honest business in Grizburg—a place where customers know exactly what they're getting into, even if they lack the wisdom to walk away.