It was an abomination. An aberration, spawned from what unholy, swirling pit of twisted despair I could scarcely imagine. No god could conceptualize this, no mortal comprehend it. Its very existence battered at what remained of my sanity.

Its form was horrible: a horrific conglomerate of every conceivable evil arranged haphazardly into a bestial mockery of reality. Sloppy and amorphous, it appeared to undulate under my gaze, for my eyes could find neither purchase nor reference on its surface. No top, bottom, or distinct side could be ascertained. The mere observation of the thing threatened gastrointestinal distress.

The background offered no respite. Endless planes of white assaulted my vision, encapsulating all I knew until there was only the horror in the center of my attention. I could not stand to regard it, yet neither would my eyes be diverted! What sadism has been brought upon me!

Even worse than the sight was the stench. I care not to dwell upon what living matter must have been sacrificed for this darkest of ritualistic construction. Seared, rotting flesh met my nostrils, accompanied by the tang of blood and black, bitter smoke. This, too, was combined with salty sulfurous fumes originating from unknown parts of the terrifying monstrosity. My nerves screamed in protest, and yet there it remained, offensive in the highest of degrees!

The effect on the rest of my senses I have not the words to describe. I can say only that it was detrimental. Unearthly wails of deceased brutes echoed through the underworld to curse the thing’s continued being. My head rang and trembled in the wake of such a dastardly presence, futile in its attempts to rationalize its continuation.

What cruelty to allow this into the land of the living! Begone, hideous atrocity! Begone, foul bane of the midday meal!

“Yo, Jake! You okay? You’re kinda staring, and it’s starting to creep me out.”

The owner of the voice knows not what he has done, what destruction he has wrought. I dare not remove my eyes from the hellish creation as I articulate a reply: “I can’t believe you would put salami on white bread. You know it would go better on a rye!” 

“Hey, I got an idea: I don’t tell you how to live your life, and I get to eat my lunch. C’mon, just bring ‘em in, man. The show’s about to start!”

“Your funeral,” I growl, and snatch my plate off the counter as he mirrors my motions. I could swear I hear his sandwich growl back in response.