Humanity craves the Extreme sandwich.
They put french fries on a sandwich, along with mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers. A swaggering jock-bro named Tommy seeks immortality with the invention of his very own Extreme sandwich. But Tommy will only get his name on the menu if our over-achiever-over-eater consumes five Extreme sandwiches in under forty five minutes. Tommy fails and vomits in a trash can. Folk legends aren't what used to be.
And up next on "Extreme Pig Outs" is the Heart Attack Cafe where waitresses (too-dog-faced-to-strip) wear nurse's uniforms and serve calorie soaked lunches to grossly obese, chauvinist pigs. A sweaty, chinned beast that resembles Tommy-at-fifty propositions a nurse-waitress for "mouth-to-mouth" after sucking on a lard slathered "quadruple by-pass" burger. The burgers are named after cardiac procedures and the establishment's owner is named, simply, Dr. Jon.
Dr. Jon is not a doctor, by the way. Yeah, your world is rocked. Mine was too.
"Dr. Jon" informs the viewer that there's a grand reward for the littlest of sins: gluttony. Eat the whole thing and your choice of nurse will roll you out to your car in a wheelchair, and if you weigh over 350 pounds then you eat FREE, for LIFE!
FUCK YOU HUMANITY!
Fuck you. I'm HAPPY I'm powerless to save you. I've spent months freezing and starving in third world ghettos pursued by the nastiest creatures unimaginable, all for this? So fat Tommy can eat for life at the Heart Attack Cafe? Yep, I'm feeling bitter. Yep, I'm feeling useless. And for the first time in my life, I'm watching daytime television. And it's not a good thing!
My new nighttime occupation serving less-than-Extreme sandwiches continues this miserable eve. Where once I vanquished nightmares and creatures of darkness, now I'm the vanquisher of midnight munchies at a Williamsburg greasy spoon. Once in Hungary a ghoulish horde cried for my brains. Now a hungry horde of guylined hipsters cry for organic, "violence free" fare. My secret words of power, once so familiar and now powerless, have been replaced with "do you want fries with that... sir?".
And every single night, a shadow sits in booth twelve.
And it recognizes me for what I once was, and what I am now: a failure. It pours sugar into a phantom cup of jet black coffee. And Patrick, my persistent manager, constantly reprimands me because booth twelve's sugar is half empty, but he doesn't understand what is sitting there! HE DOESN'T SEE IT! NONE of the sickening cattle who squat in those filthy booths and stuff their smacking mouths SEE it. You're all meat and bone and chicken fingers and nacho cheese ... and there was SO MUCH MORE to my life before all the death was taken away from me, and by the very fuckers who claim to protect you, the Church! That's the hilarity of all this.
Maybe it's Death himself sitting in booth twelve? Is the master of The Void stirring his black coffee with a crooked, boney finger; his eyeless sockets fixated on my repetitive actions.
Fill the sugar...
Place the sugar...
Fill the sugar...
Place the sugar...
Fill the sugar...
Suddenly I'm one of the trapped repetitive specters I so pity. No...
I think I'm more like fat Tommy (aka fat Humanity) than I realized. My skills were renowned. I was on that menu board. I practically wrote the menu! Five extreme sandwiches? Fuck that. Give me eight, ten, a dozen! Destroy me and I will still be stronger than anything you can shove down my throat! (Vaguely sexual, yeah?) But it wasn't that midnight world who made me choke. It was Man himself.
In all my pride (another of our littlest sins) I failed to see my own arrogance had corrupted my journey. And here I am. What will happen if I don't fill that sugar? If Death runs out... will it be Patrick (humanity) who snaps first - or The Void in booth twelve?
It might hurt... but let's find out.
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