Chapter 2: sammich on sammich

About the Author: Buster Manwomb is *very* fucking willing to roam the streets wearing underpants made of brie, coughing on anybody in sight if all you motherfuckers don't stay home and stop spreading covid-19. Don't TRY me motherfucker!

Chapter Sandwich: lovers in a dangerous fridge.

Jesus was wearing a Chick Fil A Manager's shirt. He stared at this unholy dance of sandwich courtship the same way that a thirty-five year old soccer mom named Karen-Lynn would stare at the miserable seventeen year old behind the Dairy Queen counter after they told her the coupons expired two years ago.

"What the fuck, man!" The Jesus said,leaning forward to grab the sandwiches. "This shit isn't right, man!"

"Busted!" The Spicy chicken sandwich, who during the commercial break had introduced himself as 'Pablo' exclaimed, grabbing Steve by the hand and running across the floor together.

The Jesus gave chase. He did NOT get out of jail and escape any consequences for his mild crime spree, only to lose his job by letting sandwiches fuck in his restaurant, no sir. "The menu says sandwich and SIDE, not sandwich and sandwich!" He yelled as he chased the horny sandwiches across the room, losing sight of them as they rounded a corner.

The sanchiwes made their way into the walk-in fridge, nestling themselves between buckets of their unassembled comrades soaking in brine. The Jesus was stomping as loudly as they hearts were beating.

"I think he's gone."

"You know, my dick gets hard when my heart starts thumping." Pablo poeticked. "My heart is thumping pretty thick right now."

"Fuck," Steve moaned with comparable poeticality. "I want to partake of your sex bits so hard."

"Partake me, Steve." Pablo hissed sensuously. "Stuff me with that crispy chicken Joestar."

And so did Steve stuff Pablo with his crispy chicken Joestar, deep into Pablo's Spicy Chicken asshole. It was glorious.

Then Pablo did the same to Steve with his chunky chicken chode. It was just as glorious, but even more percussive. Seriously. If Steve the Sandwich's asshole was a large mass of unkneaded mochi, then Pablo's penis was three loud japanese men with mallet.

Now I know what you're thinking: 'Buster Manwomb, you prune-shaped exemplar of unbridled simultaneous masculinity and femininity, is Pablo's penis actually three loud japanese men with mallets?'

Now, most people who would care to opine on the subject-as well as most who wouldn't- would say something along the lines of 'what the fuck is wrong with you?'. On the other hand, I, as something of an authority of the sexual organs of fast food products, will simply tell you to look into your heart to find the answer.

Anyway, after the two chicken sandwiches finished ass-fucking each other a couple of times, they wanted to do a bit of good ol' sixty-nineing. Unfortunately they weren't well versed in the sensible processes of the gay stuff and quickly realized that doing the ol' upside-downside-double-inny immediately after the phallic inspection of each others' colons would have been all poopy and gross.

So they had a shower right in the middle of the fridge. Sneaking in a little bit of cheeky bum diddles at the same time. Then they did some shit from the gay kama sutra that made them look like they were hit by a truck during a yoga class.

"I'm so close! I can come at any moment!" Julio communicated the way any involved party should communicate mid-coitus: clearly, and with gusto. "What about you?"

"I'm pretty close." Steve answered thoughtfully. "I just need something to put me over the ed-"

Julio poked Steve right in the taint, in the exact spot where the poke reverberated to the prostate, goading Trouser Joestar to scream "I will protect my FatherBLEEUUUUURGH!", joining Julio in the non-Newtonian flooding of hot-sticky mayonnaise.

If you want to imagine what Steve and Julio looked like flooding the fridge with their sexual mayonnaise, get your Invader Zim dvd set, find the episode where Zim has a hypnotic pimple, skip to the part near the end where it explodes, and hold two chicken sandwiches (preferably made by non-homophobes) in the middles of the screen. Go on, I'll wait.

So the jesus had opened the fridge door right in the middle of that, and by the end of it was covered in so much mayonnaise, he looked like a half melted Michelin Man standee, or Donald Trump after jumping into a pool.

"What the fuck, man!" The Jesus screamed, cornering the erotically depleted sandwiches. "Look at this fucking mess you made!"

"Wait.. you're not mad about us doing the gayness?" Steve asked.

"Have you seen my fucking movie?!" The Jesus rolled. Statistically speaking, they didn't. Why would they? Sure, John Tuturro's a good actor, but he doesn't really have that much pull, even among The Big Lebowski fans. (spoiler alert: it's a bit homoerotic) "I don't give a shit about that gay stuff! This is crazy fucking dirty! I need to clean this shit before the fucking health inspector comes, man!"

"Do you… want us to help you clean up?" Julio offered.

"Just get out!" The Jesus screamed.

"Kay! Okay." Julio diffused, leading Steve out of the fridge by the hand.

Much like thousands of lgbt humans and sandwiches in the states between 2005 and 2012, they fucked off to Canada.

THE END

You like that Chick Fil-A, huh? You fucking like that you homophobic stankbankers?

Well there's plenty more where that came from. You know my demands.