Guy woke up in a cold sweat on the dirty floor of a 7-11. The manager of the convenience store loomed over him, prodding him with a broom.
"Dude wake up, you've been passed out on the ground for like, 3 hours."
Guy's eyes snapped open, as the realization dawned on him. That was 3 whole hours without food.
Guy rolled to his feet and groaned, "I need...sustenance…" He staggered over to the Slurpee™ machine, bending over to put his head under a nozzle. He put his greasy lips to the dispenser and pulled down on the lever. Blue raspberry Slurpee™ began flowing into his mouth, and he suckled at it, much like a calf greedily drinking milk from its mother. The liquid dribbled out of Guy's mouth, down his bearded chin, adding more stains to his flame shirt. He wanted to drown in it. Blue Slurpee was now running down his legs, and penetrated his New Balance velcro strap shoes. He continued drinking, feeling it run down his throat and fill his empty stomach. Suddenly, the stream of goodness ceased. He whimpered, discovering that the machine was empty. He lifted one of his Slurpepe covered sausage fingers to his mouth and lapped up the sticky liquid. Moaning, he inserted another digit into his warm cavern, rolling his tongue over it to taste the remnants of blue raspberry. Guy added another, and another, until his entire hand was down his throat. He pulled it out of his mouth with a wet pop.
The manager stood watching in horror, as he repeated the act with the other hand. When he was finished, Guy eagerly advanced towards the hot dogs. He carefully selected a juicy morsel with his saliva coated fingers, refusing to use the tongs set aside for that purpose. He placed his sausage on a bun, and waddled over to the nacho cheese dispenser. Guy smothered his hot dog with liquid cheese, and used what dripped on his fingers to spike up his hair. It had lost some volume while he was unconscious. Next, the man made a move for the chili. He inserted his cheese dog into the lukewarm chili dispenser with orgasmic pleasure. A butt's load of chili came spurting out of the machine, generously coating the hot dog. Guy knew how much a buttload of chilli was from past experience. Contrary to popular belief, chili does make good lubricant.
Guy pocketed his chili cheese dog for later, and approached the register. He dug for his wallet, but produced nothing. Frantically, he searched his pockets when it dawned on him that he had given Steve Rogers his wallet to hold before the carjacking incident. That name felt so foreign in his mouth. He had forgotten the star-spangled man even existed. Waves of memory came crashing down upon him, and Guy felt a tear roll down his cheek. He really missed his wallet. Also he needed to pay for the substances he consumed at the 7-11, or else the cops would show up, and he couldn't afford any more felonies. He was already banned from the state of Ohio for causing a famine.
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After an emotional reunion, Sherlock had hauled Steve Rogers to Burger King for a romantic dinner.
"Is this not some hefty American cuisine, Steve?" questioned Sherlock, gazing into Steve's mesmerizing hazel eyes.
"I, um, haven't eaten yet," replied Steve. He looked down at his greasy burger. He extended a finger to the food item, but hesitated when he saw the greasy bun slide away in a pool of grease, revealing the greasy patty, greasy cheese, greasy pickles, and greasy grease within. He sighed, remembering how Guy loved this sort of cuisine.
Seeing Steve's dissatisfaction, Sherlock dropped his arm on the table and slid it across, causing the trays of low-tier sustenance to fall to the floor. Sherlock began, "Steve, dear, perhaps I could microwave you some The Kid Cuisine™…"
Steve's emotions were extremely turbulent. He had a soft spot for The Kid Cuisine™, and Sherlock knew that. Sweat ran down his temples. His fists clenched and unclenched. A screech of intense indecisiveness escaped his lips.
Without Steve's knowledge, Sherlock stooped over to the floor where the scattered food was and pocketed the greaseburger in his limited edition $2,350 Yves Saint Laurent classic cropped single-breasted 2-button jacket in grey and black chevron wool.
"The Kid Cuisine™ will be in this room, if you still want it," murmured Sherlock, gesturing towards the unisex employee's bathroom.
Blinded by his desire for some choice Kid Cuisine™, Steve followed Sherlock into the room that emitted a distinct odor of greaces (grease and feces). After securely locking the crusty door, Sherlock extracted the greaseburger from his pocket with a sinister smile.
"I paid $3.99 for this burger, Steve," grumbled Sherlock, pinning him to the wall.
With the cheesiness of that scene from Lady and the Tramp™ Sherlock forced the moist greaseburger into the gaping chasm that was Steve's mouth, only to be interrupted by the cacophony of squeaky noises from the bathroom window. Sherlock knew this noise very well, the same one his mother's second lover would make when he would squeeze his 30 gallon potbelly through his 4'5 window every thursday- thinking back to this always made Sherlock shudder and die a little bit inside. Sherlock was not stupid, the lover was Guy Fieri, he would recognize the troubled groans from stomach indigestion anywhere as the man tried to squeeze his massive body through the tiny window.
"J-just go back to where you came from, ranchero," Sherlock weakly stammered as his plump boy lips began to nervously shake.
"You're hankering for a one way flight to Flavortown, amigo, now hand over the cash sack." Guy retorted with the confidence of a man whose wallet had been stolen.
Steve's recollection of the fatback shaped wallet in his back pocket hit him too late, Sherlock had already jumped up from the urine sodden bathroom floor, his bony fingers now three inches into Guy's underboob.
Sherlock's bone hand was traveling with great velocity- if action was not taken, then Guy's heart would be hit (on) in the most sexual way possible.
Guy pleaded, "Hey, MANNNN, watch where you're poking that sausage link! C'mon, I just want my fatstacks back." but it was no use, what the old warlock couldn't see, through his powerful sage eyes, was that Sherlock was too far gone: the primal urge to reproduce had taken over, it was fight or flight baby, and the Sherlick's semi only testified to his testosterone fueled rage.
Throughout the interaction between Steve's two lovers, tension had built, a cathartic release was the only cure for his ailment. It didn't take long for Steve to plot his ploy. Steve darted his perfectly manicured fingers into Sherlock's limited edition $2,350 Yves Saint Laurent classic cropped single-breasted 2-button jacket in grey and black chevron wool, pulling out the The Kid Cuisine™.
"Still fresh." he thought to himself after noticing how the erotic meal hadn't exploded yet.
Steve's training kicked in, with the flick of his wrist the The Kid Cuisine™ went airborne, landing, with the accuracy of a mathematician's wet dream, at a perfect midpoint between the two. Someone was going to slip on the lubricous meal, it was up to God now.
Guy and Sherlock struggled unknowingly above The Kid Cuisine™ , pacing back and forth, their scuttling feet missing by mere inches.
Sherlock's $10,512.95 Lucchese Classics Mens Black Alligator Belly Boot swung too close to The Kid Cuisine™- its gravitational force did the remainder of the work, pulling the reasonably priced shoe into it's succulent contents, and with the grace of handsome Squitward, Sherlock was sent flying 87 feet through the employee's restroom door, into the kitchen, and in the exact trajectory of the large grease fryers. Sherlock spiraled towards the grease trap in slow motion, while the choir sweetly sang Ave Maria.
Steve saw this and let out a matching slow motion "NNNOOONONOONONOOO!" but it was too late, Sherlock's handsome Squitward-esque fall was unstoppable, the grease trap was his destiny.
Sherlock fell like that for 43 minutes; it seemed as though the world stopped revolving in respect for the mighty fall. Sherlock eventually collided with the steel rim of the grease trap. In this moment, he was envious of Guy's New Balance velcro strap shoes; they were the only thing that could have saved his life. Sherlock's fragile boy body toppled over the rim, his tongue flashed over his lips one last time before his body submerged and the fryer grease coated his sexy body.
The aftermath was anti-climatic, to say. Business carried on, Steve was in tears, but we all knew that was going to happen. Guy made his way over to the fried body.
"Well, if you can't beeat 'em, eat 'em!" Guy said, adding a warm giggle to his own joke.
Guy pulled out his apron, the one with a picture of a nude man's front on it, and unhinging his entire jaw in the process, fit Sherlock's whole head in his mouth. He slowly worked his lips down Sherlock's neck, his lips were widest at the shoulders, but once that had been done, Sherlock's body seemed to cha-cha real smooth down Guy's sticky hot throat.
Guy let out a mighty belch.
The deed had been done. Sherlock was Shercooked, and was going to enter the process of Sherdigestion.
AN: This is a work of fiction, and is by no means intended to represent the true deeds of any characters, real or imaginary. If Guy Fieri himself is ever unfortunate enough to lay his eyes upon this, I apologize profusely. I must finish this work of literature; it is my dying wish. lol hope u likd it! 333 ^-^
**Also pls dont use chili as lube