Ed stood up and rubbed his great big gnawing flapping groaning empty belly-sack and he knew that he was hungry.
Again.
So he walked down down down all the long, long way to his car, his blessed car, and he put wheels under him and a roof over him and he took himself all the way down in a short tight clip to a place where he could eat his fill.
“I will have the pizza,” he told the waiter. “The pizazz. This is necessary.”
The waiter knew Ed and knew his appetites and he nodded and went to the kitchen and they both waited then.
Ed looked out the window and checked cars. All of them had people in them, but he couldn’t see them. He counted five red cars and a blue car and one hundred silver cars and a green car. The green annoyed him, and he itched all over. It must be his allergies. He needed food and fast or all the aches and scratches and biting nags of life would catch up and he’d be flat on the floor and bubbling hot piping steaming.
The pizza came.
It was red like blood and golden like pyrite and brown like a buffalo’s disjointed haunch and all the colours were in their specific purposeful places and he loved them dearly. It was cut neatly into ten slices. Ten was a good number. Basal. Like a spine. It was too hot to handle so he used a fork and knife and then there his plate was full and the pan was already cooling down. Time to eat.
The forkful was good. All the colours and such pretty patterns. It had tomatoes from Central America and it had cheese made from cows from North Africa and it had a bread ground from grains that had sprouted their roots in the Near and Middle East. It was topped with slices of pig from Eurasia seasoned with salt scraped from North American rocks and spices that had grown in America, the Mediterranean, and South and Southeast Asia. The pan was stainless steel and had been made in Spain using the contents of rocks from Australia and South Africa, and power from uranium that had been found in Canada.
Ed ate it. He bit the fork and damnit that hurt.
Then he took another.
Nine slices down and half to go and oh man Ed was full and his belly was groaning a different tune now. One half. One half. One half and it tasted so good but he was so sick of it but come on one half. Right there. You can do it, Ed. You can do it. You don’t want to put it off for later later’s later and right now you want it. Come on Ed. Go get ‘em Ed. Good for you, Ed. Why stop now, Ed? Who would?
Ed ate it. And he bit the fork again and oh MAN that hurt.
He tipped the waiter. It was short, but his teeth ached.
Home came home and oh the walk from the car was a killer his legs ached his belly wobbled his head thundered to the tune of the singing molars in his mandibles and maxillae. He could barely make it up the stairs his breath was waving wildly he put a hand on his knee for support he put a hand on the stoop for support he crawled in head-first through his door like a dog panting a bit a lot oh that’s a wheeze oh
Thud.
No that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. How long had Ed been lying there on his side with his sides aching and splitting and looking up at the golden yellow light on his ceiling through his red eyes fuelled with bulbs that had been made somewhere by someone with power from who knew and feeling himself begin to crisp over at the edges and bubble.
Man, his teeth ached.
Ed laid back and hummed and that didn’t help.
They really ached bad. He shouldn’t have had that one last piece. He should’ve ordered seconds.