Noah’s Ark Between 2 Buns
Lotus Rose
Published by Lotus Rose at Smashwords
Copyright 2005 by Lotus Rose
Discover other titles by Lotus Rose at loteyrose.com
Books by Lotus Rose~ The Corruption of Innocence, MachoPoni: A Prance with Death, The Redemption of Reckoning, SinEaster, Faerie Brace-Face, The Doll Queen, Mein Poni-Kampf: A Biography of the Leader of the Nazi Ponies
Author's note: All of the sexually active characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
Greg stepped into the Burger Despot restaurant. He was hungry and he had a coupon. He thought to himself, Here I am, entering a Burger Despot restaurant, with each of their burgers comprised of a mixture of a hundred cows, like Noah's Ark between two buns.
As a child, he'd been born without arms. But now he had two, though he kept them covered all the time.
He handed the coupon to the counter-girl, who had eyebrows that were drawn on. The coupon was for a Glory Meal with "chicken-like" nuggets. She said they had to cook the nuggets up. He grabbed two of the little tub-of-sauce packets and a cup.
He had started thinking about his arms because of the picture of the smiling nugget-creatures on the coupon. They were little happy creatures with eyes and a mouth on a chicken nugget, with no arms or legs—and they seemed to have a perpetual smile on their faces, but strangely their heads were not separate from their bodies…their bodies were their heads, like some kind of bizarre body-head combination.
He sat down, slurping his soda while he waited for his order to be filled.
He was a poet, and boy did he know it. He enjoyed being a poet—enjoyed the romanticism, the allure, the artistry of connecting with the muses—and he liked how easy it was. His poems were all one page long—being a poet was easy—all you have to do is write a page and you're a poet!
For some reason, he knew not why, he felt compelled to write a poem at that very moment.
He grabbed a napkin, then took out the pen he carried at all times, and scribbled these words:
We have no legs!
It's hard to run!
But we're not eggs!
Or meat in a bun!
He gazed, puzzled at the words he had written. Why had he written such a thing? Perhaps it was the sugar going to his head. Or maybe the five oxycodone he had just taken…or the three benzodiazepine. Yes, he was taking medication, but it wasn't the medication his psychiatrist had prescribed.
And each burger is a combination of a hundred cows. And what if they had ground Noah's Ark up and put it in a burger?
Would Noah have liked that?
Had the nugget-creatures been on the Ark? Had they been hopping happily as the human race was drowning beneath the worldwide flood?
Did God punish them for their sin of inappropriate glee by forcing them to jump into sauce, and making them biologically unable to stop smiling, no matter how horrendous they felt inside, unable to stop their grotesque compulsion, their nagging death wish to dip their own bodies in sauce?—oh, cruel joke of a vengeful God!
Now he felt his mind becoming obsessed with the subject of chicken nuggets.
As a child, he would have nightmares about smiling nuggets—for some reason he had been obsessed with them, perhaps because they didn't have arms, just like him. In one particular nightmare, a gang of them viciously attacked a chicken, tearing it apart with their mouths. In other dreams, they might happily be doing things like playing badminton, the rackets magically levitating by their sides, since they had no arms.
No arms.
He shouted out, "Oh, but I didn't have arms either, did I? Did I?"
Customers turned to look at him—a little girl gaped at him with her jaw dropped and a little piece of burger fell out of her mouth—the old lady sitting with the girl scolded her.
He looked over at the girl, sweet little girl, maybe six-years-old, with red, braided pigtails and freckles, the-cutest-thing, big huge dimples—he imagined you could probably stick a quarter of your finger in one of those dimples and make the twisty motion—yeah, give the girl a lollipop—so damn cute I could puke, he thought. He stuck his finger forlornly on the tabletop, solemnly making a twisty motion. What would it feel like?—to have a child of his own, to reproduce.