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Song of the Sandwich
By Cardboard Warmachine at 2007-10-10 | Printable version
Song of the Sandwich
A modest chronicle of 'The Bloody Brunch'
A modest chronicle of 'The Bloody Brunch'
"All the vitamin-C in the world won't save you now," gloated Citragi. He swaggered towards Sandwich, pounding a chubby fist into his mottled palm.
"I'm gonna beat you into a pulp!"
Sandwich stood stock still, holding a hand to his side. Between his fingers he could feel the cold pressure of mayo ebbing out of his body. He had lost a lot, and was starting to feel lightheaded. Despite the avulsion that marred his side, Sandwich swelled with serene confidence, clutching his Nakiri blade close to his side.
With it's carved bamboo handle, and tempered steel, it was the finest of Japanese cutlery, made to slice through sushi. But this was no Yakuza; Citragi was hardened in the groves of Orlando, ripened in the sun and filled with seeds of hate.
In his mind, Sandwich could see how this would play out; the Orange makes a run at him, fists swinging, possibly frothing with searing citric saliva. Sandwich parries left, and takes a sweeping step forward, pairing the rotten fruit on the spot. What he didn't expect was to be flanked by Bisquad, and the Sausin twins. Like grim specters of a balanced breakfast, they materialized out of the shadows; grinning and brandishing dulled butter knives.
Bisquad cried out through a sickening mask of Aunt Jemima, "This is the end of the line grinder boy. You're going into the trash!"
Sandwich dropped into a relaxed stance, and curled his fingers tightly around the handle of his blade, staring down at the ground.
"I'm no grinder, I'm a hero."
He spun on his heel, sending gobs of mayonnaise flying towards Citragi's bulbous eyes, blinding him temporarily. He cried out in a raspy voice, clutching at his burning retinas.
Sandwich pulled his blade in a practiced arc, drawing a clear circle between himself, and his deliciously fortified assailants, and then returning his whetted steel back to his side. The Sausin twins gargled inarticulately as their torsos cleanly parted ways from their waists, their greasy lips spewing gobs of pork and questionable filler. Bisquad paused in his assault, skidding on his heels and shooting a frantic glance down at his midsection.
"Oooh, OH GOD NO!' His doughy hands worked frantically to keep his insides from pouring out of the wide gash in his midsection, as a putrid mixture of butter and syrup cascaded into the wound, mingling into an amalgamation of gore that pooled at his feet. He slumped forward, falling face-first into the puddle of sugary lifeblood that lay before him.
Sandwich pulled a sheaf of lettuce from his side, and lovingly grasped his blade, wiping away the stink of pork, and butter. He did so in full view of his would-be assailant; and act that would have been smug were he not so subtle and deft in his movements.
By the time the acrid cultures had been wiped from his eyes, Citragi's comrades were already lying dead on the ground, neatly perforated by Sandwich's Japanese steel. It was then that two things happened simultaneously; Citragi, panicked, began to run, and Sandwich's blade flashed once more from his side as he swept forward like the cold flowing milk of death. A flurry of strikes punctuated the air, and before Citragi could get more than a few steps away, a quarter of himself had been sliced away, bisecting his tattered "Tropicana" sticker that he wore like a perverse badge of honor. He tumbled to the surface of the table, skidding on the cheap fabric of the checkered tablecloth, trailing orange pulpy liquid from his gaping wound. His eyes froze into a mask of terror as Sandwich approached him, placing a foot against the gash in his side, and glaring down at him cooly.
Citragi sputtered, terror-struck, "H-h-have muh-muh-mercy!"
"Sorry, im a cold-cut."
Sandwich kicked his foot forward, sending Citragi's juice-slicked, rotund form careening over the edge of the table. He hit the tile floor with a sickening splat, spattering the linoleum in a series of artfully grotesque patterns. There was no five second rule where he was now.
Sandwich gazed around the red and white checkered table at the ruined meal before him; sliced fruit, mutilated meats, and even Toost, baked from the very yeast that Sandwich himself descended from, all felled by his knife. He sat down on a pad of butter, spreading generous quantities on the gash in his side. It would never quite heal the same, but it didn't matter. As the last drops of mayo dribbled to his feet, he gazed at the clock which hung ominously on the wall; it was almost lunchtime, but his work had been finished.
Thanks to Mullanaphy for the divine inspiration. His triumphant lunchtime fare is a beacon of light to us all.
"I'm gonna beat you into a pulp!"
Sandwich stood stock still, holding a hand to his side. Between his fingers he could feel the cold pressure of mayo ebbing out of his body. He had lost a lot, and was starting to feel lightheaded. Despite the avulsion that marred his side, Sandwich swelled with serene confidence, clutching his Nakiri blade close to his side.
With it's carved bamboo handle, and tempered steel, it was the finest of Japanese cutlery, made to slice through sushi. But this was no Yakuza; Citragi was hardened in the groves of Orlando, ripened in the sun and filled with seeds of hate.
In his mind, Sandwich could see how this would play out; the Orange makes a run at him, fists swinging, possibly frothing with searing citric saliva. Sandwich parries left, and takes a sweeping step forward, pairing the rotten fruit on the spot. What he didn't expect was to be flanked by Bisquad, and the Sausin twins. Like grim specters of a balanced breakfast, they materialized out of the shadows; grinning and brandishing dulled butter knives.
Bisquad cried out through a sickening mask of Aunt Jemima, "This is the end of the line grinder boy. You're going into the trash!"
Sandwich dropped into a relaxed stance, and curled his fingers tightly around the handle of his blade, staring down at the ground.
"I'm no grinder, I'm a hero."
He spun on his heel, sending gobs of mayonnaise flying towards Citragi's bulbous eyes, blinding him temporarily. He cried out in a raspy voice, clutching at his burning retinas.
Sandwich pulled his blade in a practiced arc, drawing a clear circle between himself, and his deliciously fortified assailants, and then returning his whetted steel back to his side. The Sausin twins gargled inarticulately as their torsos cleanly parted ways from their waists, their greasy lips spewing gobs of pork and questionable filler. Bisquad paused in his assault, skidding on his heels and shooting a frantic glance down at his midsection.
"Oooh, OH GOD NO!' His doughy hands worked frantically to keep his insides from pouring out of the wide gash in his midsection, as a putrid mixture of butter and syrup cascaded into the wound, mingling into an amalgamation of gore that pooled at his feet. He slumped forward, falling face-first into the puddle of sugary lifeblood that lay before him.
Sandwich pulled a sheaf of lettuce from his side, and lovingly grasped his blade, wiping away the stink of pork, and butter. He did so in full view of his would-be assailant; and act that would have been smug were he not so subtle and deft in his movements.
By the time the acrid cultures had been wiped from his eyes, Citragi's comrades were already lying dead on the ground, neatly perforated by Sandwich's Japanese steel. It was then that two things happened simultaneously; Citragi, panicked, began to run, and Sandwich's blade flashed once more from his side as he swept forward like the cold flowing milk of death. A flurry of strikes punctuated the air, and before Citragi could get more than a few steps away, a quarter of himself had been sliced away, bisecting his tattered "Tropicana" sticker that he wore like a perverse badge of honor. He tumbled to the surface of the table, skidding on the cheap fabric of the checkered tablecloth, trailing orange pulpy liquid from his gaping wound. His eyes froze into a mask of terror as Sandwich approached him, placing a foot against the gash in his side, and glaring down at him cooly.
Citragi sputtered, terror-struck, "H-h-have muh-muh-mercy!"
"Sorry, im a cold-cut."
Sandwich kicked his foot forward, sending Citragi's juice-slicked, rotund form careening over the edge of the table. He hit the tile floor with a sickening splat, spattering the linoleum in a series of artfully grotesque patterns. There was no five second rule where he was now.
Sandwich gazed around the red and white checkered table at the ruined meal before him; sliced fruit, mutilated meats, and even Toost, baked from the very yeast that Sandwich himself descended from, all felled by his knife. He sat down on a pad of butter, spreading generous quantities on the gash in his side. It would never quite heal the same, but it didn't matter. As the last drops of mayo dribbled to his feet, he gazed at the clock which hung ominously on the wall; it was almost lunchtime, but his work had been finished.
Thanks to Mullanaphy for the divine inspiration. His triumphant lunchtime fare is a beacon of light to us all.
Posted by Mullanaphy! at 2007-10-11
Damn right he's a Hero. Grinders are for suckers.
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