Cold Pizza by Saline

The blender whirred.

It appeared that the chocolate milk, that absolute, certain, glorious impurity had again belittled his appetite.

Creaminess, most naturally. Though, now, most had passed into the indignant intestine.

He laid the slight glass goblet into the sink, the wistful chime playing Mozart to his latent thoughts. A pizza, golden and glittering with oil, lay before him.

“Cold pizza,” he said, aloud to none but the plastic bear resting on the counter.

“Cold pizza is the essence of duration. Indeed, should I obtain such a strange pie, there is no other alternative; it must be consumed. I must, for the sake of all such oddities, I must devour, form anew the dough and cheeses, the sauces and meats into the paste of nutrition. Still, inexorably, much of the commodity will remain.

So it will sit.

Now found forlorn, deserted by companions, lowered to belligerent and foul-mouthed assemblies, forms which would desecrate the glorious pie, whore it to produce their disgusting offspring.

But it shall be found again.”

The pizza, tepid and innocent, looked up at him casually through saturated pepperonis.

“Hot pizza,” he repeated, louder than before, as if to both recollect his own thoughts as well as retrieve the cuisine’s surely fading attention.

“Hot pizza is the death of many things, the rebirth of many more.

Propagated wheat, of man’s mechanical institutions, felt the same scorching chop of the blade, as we feel our tongues ablaze, casualty of meteor-burned bread.

Unknowing swine, idly cut there, down and across, one sweep of a fortunate edge to create the beginnings of the ravaging sausage.

Placid cattle, their open range extending for ages of grass and soot and snow, sufferer of the same fate, relinquishing the pepperoni whose relished spices make war against the mouth…

Then, the vibrant tomato, a swirl of lost identity, and, though of the seed, considered by the masses to be only the fifth vegetation on some glamorous cheeseburger, ultimately the singer of taste buds, mother of fiery sauce.”

The pizza held his gaze and there were no sounds.

“I’ll know it when I get there,” he said.

The bear, forever reaching into his vivacious beehive, seemed to agree.