Lunchtime

Bologna had an argument with Lettuce. Bologna was a vegetarian, you see, and wouldn't believe Lettuce was sentient, and therefore wanted to eat it. Lettuce, on the other hand, tired of political correctness, wanted to consume some processed animal parts and looked at Bologna with feelings of hunger and longing. The disagreement involved their place in the refrigerator, in the crisper or in the regular bins. Bologna wanted to be in a bin so it could corner Lettuce and smother it with its greasy skin. Lettuce preferred Bologna be placed in the crisper, so it could slip out of its bin at night and roll over the Bologna until it surrendered. What none of them understood was the Mayonnaise and Dressing had their own agendas. They had ordered a hand from beyond to carry them all out of the fridge, to be squirted and stacked on bread, to suffer the little deaths Mayonnaise and Dressing had been looking forward to for days. Meanwhile, the hand itched for its own solution, a gun in a box under the bed. After lunch it was going to fire the revolver at something, even if it had to kill the body, its friend.