Local Costco Food Court Closure Sparks Famine, Chaos, and Zombie-Like Frenzy

In what experts are calling "the most catastrophic renovation project of the 21st century," the closure of the Costco food court in the small town of Pine Hollow has unleashed a wave of chaos unseen since the Black Friday toaster riot of 2015. Residents, who for years depended on $1.50 hot dog combos and chicken bake sustenance, were left to fend for themselves after the beloved food court shuttered its doors for renovations last Monday.

A Town Unravels

The chaos began at approximately 9:07 a.m., shortly after the first wave of Costco regulars arrived to fuel up on their signature cheap eats before braving the labyrinth of 27-gallon mayonnaise jars and industrial-sized packs of socks. “I walked up to the food court, and it was just... empty,” said local mother of four, Karen McButterly, her voice trembling. “There wasn’t even a sign. Just a locked cage where my churros used to be.”

By noon, reports of fainting spells began flooding the local hospital. Without access to the food court’s calorie-dense pizzas, many Pine Hollow residents succumbed to sudden hunger pangs. “Our entire emergency department is overrun with cases of dizziness, irritability, and cold sweats,” said Dr. Tim Ravencroft of St. Francis Medical Center. “We’ve had to declare a code orange—maximum pizza deprivation alert.”

The Fallout

As hunger gnawed at the town’s collective sanity, the fabric of society began to unravel. The first major incident occurred when an SUV crashed into the storefront of “Dave’s Discount Groceries” after the driver realized they only sold frozen corn dogs. Within hours, power outages swept through the town as desperate mobs swarmed the electrical grid in an effort to extract energy for makeshift pizza ovens.

The local morgue, which had never before exceeded its six-body capacity, was soon overwhelmed. “I haven’t seen anything like this since last year’s power outage that caused all the Costco rotisserie chickens to spoil,” said mortician Linda Graves. “People just... collapsed in the aisles of despair.”

Survival of the Fittest

Among the madness, a few residents have emerged as resourceful leaders of the new Costco-less order. Armed with a Ziploc bag of pre-renovation food court leftovers, high school teacher Greg Tallings has become the de facto mayor of what is now being called "Hot Dog Hollow." His enclave, built from overturned shopping carts and strategically placed pallets, trades scraps of chicken bake for batteries and bottled water. “We’re doing what we can to survive,” Tallings said, carving slices of day-old pizza with a box cutter. “But the mozzarella supply is running low.”

Meanwhile, others have resorted to foraging. “I found a sample station lady hiding in the Costco backroom,” confessed resident and part-time doomsday prepper Barry Piggins. “She was handing out mini quiches. It was every man for himself.”

Costco’s Official Statement

Costco representatives have remained silent on the unfolding disaster, though a hastily typed memo was taped to the closed food court counter. It read, “Undergoing Renovation. Be Back in 2 Weeks.” However, rumors have spread that the renovations may include replacing the beloved condiment station with something horrifying: pre-packaged ketchup packets.

“The mustard dispensers were the only thing holding this town together,” sobbed Pine Hollow mayor Lisa Crumbly, now holed up in her office eating peanut butter straight from a Kirkland Signature jar.

A Glimmer of Hope?

As Pine Hollow descends further into dystopia, some citizens are beginning to take matters into their own hands. A convoy of minivans was seen leaving town late last night, heading toward the nearest Costco 40 miles away. The convoy leader, local youth pastor Jeff Doolittle, spoke to reporters before departure. “We’re hoping they’ll have hot dogs, or at least a slice of cheese pizza,” he said, staring wistfully into the distance. “If we don’t make it back, tell my wife... I love her.”

For now, Pine Hollow remains a grim tableau of humanity’s reliance on $9.99 combo meals. As dusk falls over the shuttered food court, a lone figure can be seen pounding on the metal gate, whispering a single word into the night: “Churro.”