Whoppers

 Whoppers

I keep the malted milk orb
nestled inside my cheek,
waiting for the next film cut—
this Hershey-forged planet,
slowly spinning toward legend,
its lacquered chocolate shell
whispering to my molars,
then sliding past my throat,
down the cathedral of my gut,
until my bowels, reverent and ready,
release the myth in a soft, brown comet.

I was watching—Odysseus Rex: The Iliad Reckoning—
the inferior parody of Nolan’s Oscar-winning Odysseus—
directed by Max Brooks,
Mel’s less talented son,
whose vision was banned in twelve countries
for depicting Achilles as a sentient robot assassin
with the elliptical glow of prophecy
and the voice of a thousand halal sermons.
He spoke only in riddles,
and only to Bluetooth.
Let me tell you this:
the gods wept—
not in grief, but in operatic shame—
their tears a torrent of lightning surges
that shorted projectors,
split the earth beneath concession stands,
and summoned floods that deluged
all three hundred theaters—
which, undeterred,
marketed the carnage
as the newest 4DX enhancement.

The popcorn machines had been destroyed,
only the Whoppers survived, strived, thrived.
I tasted one—like all the other souls,
mouths full of the only candy sold.
It was not chocolate.
It was mead, yes—Olympian mead,
distilled from Dionysus’s karaoke sweat
and the powdered remains of the Tennessee Titans.
It was more than bones, more than flesh—it was Soylent Green—
people eating their own kind—
with a hint of whey and sorbitan tristearate.
It did not crunch.
It moaned.
It melted—
dripped onto my tongue—
Poseidon’s trident dipped in Nutella.

I turned it over in my mouth,
as a modern Hermes would gently bowl
an awaited Fedex package to my front stoop—
a whole carton of Whoppers!—
with a note attached— 
“Eat responsibly. You are not yet immortal.”
I ignored this Delphic musing.
I chewed.

The taste was blood—
 the blood of kings
who had eaten Burger King Whoppers
and declared them inferior.
This Whopper, this candy,
was the true monarch’s meal:
a ¾-inch sphere of malted milk
that made flame-grilled patties
weep into their sesame buns.

I felt it enter me.
Not my mouth,
but my lineage—
My ancestors rising from their graves
wearing milk carton crowns,
chanting “Leaf Brands lives!”
I chewed again.
The taste was gold,
but only the kind that glows in dreams
and contains calcium carbonate.

I swore I would grind it beneath my teeth,
but it refused.
It tucked itself into my molars,
a sleeper cell of sweetness,
waiting for the next film,
the next siege,
the next divine morsel.

I tell you this is true.
It is a Whopper.
And I am its prophet.
I have eaten the gods’ candy.
I have tasted the myth.
I am full.