Tragedy.

"17. Barely. Running on caffeine, trauma, and two gummy worms. I haven’t slept since Wednesday. It’s Monday. Time’s fake. Hunger’s real. I crawl into Burger King like a raccoon in skinny jeans. Order The Whopper with everything on it. EVERYTHING. I tell the cashier, “Make it so wet it disrespects God.” He nods like he’s seen some things. 

I sit. I unwrap. It’s glistening. Majestic. Smells like freedom, grease, and broken dreams. First bite? My soul leaves my body and writes a Yelp review.

Then—calamity.

I sneeze. Hard. Like, tectonic-level sneeze. My hand flails. The Whopper?
Yeets itself off the tray like a suicidal lemming.

Hits the floor with a SPLAT so loud the Bluetooth speaker skips. A single onion ring rolls into the void.

I scream. Not like, “ahh!”
Like “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”
People drop their food. A toddler starts crying. An old man whispers “it’s happening again.”

Something inside me snaps like a chicken fry.

I stand. Dead-eyed. Grab my backpack. Pull out a 2-liter Diet Coke, three packs of Mentos, a roll of duct tape, and a lighter shaped like Shrek’s head. I don’t remember packing it. I’m not in control anymore. This is autopilot. This is destiny.

I stack ketchup packets like C4. Tie straws into a fuse. Someone yells, “He’s building something!!”
Damn right I am.

I yell, “THIS IS FOR ALL THE FALLEN WHOPPERS!”
And then I detonate it.

Full-scale condiment apocalypse.

Fries in orbit. Mayo on the ceiling. My soul ascending through the skylight like a greasy angel. A chicken nugget hits someone in the eye. Sirens in the distance. Kids crying. Boomers diving under booths. Sprite everywhere, as I ascended like a spicy mayo phoenix. Went out in a blaze of sodium and shame."