About the Author: currently under self-quarantine in a New York Fries grease trap, Buster Manwomb has been super busy playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons and getting day drunk off of vodka distilled from discarded french fries.

They have coronavirus symptoms but worry not, their adoptive wolf pack is dropping off R̶o̶a̶d̶k̶i̶l̶l̶ groceries on a regular basis.

Chapter 2: Down under, out back

"Cheers for driving me all the way up to the snowy shithole that is the Canadian rockies, Bean Rider!" The Bloomin' onion got out of the car, thanking Bean Rider: private driver and coolest anime character not voiced by Steve Blum in North America.

"No sweat, food boy." Bean Rider said nonchalantly yet powerfully. "Thanks for letting me eat you a couple times."

"No problem!" The bloomin' onion said, growing back the substantial body mass Bean Rider had repeatedly bitten off over the past several hours, like a cannibal carpooling with wolverine.

Why? The Bloomin' Onion was birthed in Outback Steakhouse in Calgary, back when they had Canadian locations outside of Niagra falls. I received a tip from a coked up oil rig worker behind a donut shop that resembled a wind mill that everyone in Alberta has Wolverine's regenerative abilities. I've only been in Alberta long enough to realize that their marmots are much worse than rats, so I'm in no place to assume otherwise.

Bean Rider drove off as the Bloomin' Onion walked up to the cabin the gay sandwich lovers were supposedly holed up in, gun at the ready.

There was a sign. Welcome to Alberta! Canada's Texas, Montana, and Florida!

The sign struck the Bloomin' Onion as odd, since they crossed the border from the states nearly four hours ago. Most likely either a mischevious bear had made it as a prank, or the sandwiches had put it there to scare away British Columbians.

Side note, what a weird name for a landmass that's not British, and even less Columbian. It's the Tacotime mexi-fries of provinces.

The Bloomin Onion pulled out his gun. The lights were on in the cabin. Screams and sounds of moist percussion pulsed from within.

The Bloomin' Onion kicked open the door with the tactical precision of some rando in Medal of Honour: Warfighter, only to have his aim swerved by the blast of eggy sex fog as soon as he opened the door.

The scene that the Bloomin' Onion saw as soon as he cleared the condensation off his glasses was –not unlike traditional straight porn- confusing and disturbing. A sausage costume was working a plunger into a bucket of cabbage patch kids and crushed tomatoes that a taco costume held before its abdomen, screaming like the scientist in Flash Gordon when the rocket is taking off.

"It was never God's plan for mankind to know vaginas this juicy!" The sausage screamed.

Thoroughly convinced that he was about to rid the world of a great evil, the Bloomin' Onion aimed his gun.

"Can we help you?"

The Bloomin' Onion turned to the corner. The gay chicken sandwiches were sitting at the table drinking tea -as is custom after gay sex- pointing shotguns at their unannounced visitor –as is custom after gay sex in Alberta- staring at the Bloomin' Onion expectantly.

"Look," Pablo said. "I worked very hard on that quilt on the wall behind you. I'd hate to have to clean three of your favourite brain lobes out of it."

The Bloomin' Onion took the hint and dropped the gun. "Crikey! What is going on here?"

"Well you see" Steve the sandwich explained. "when a mommy and/or a daddy love each other very much, they'll sometimes mix things up by taking a boat paddle and a jar of-"

"I mean that!" The bloomin' onion pointed at the costumes. "Those costumes should not be bloody moving!"

"Okay, first of all, said the pot." Pablo said, grabbing a broom with his free hand. "Secondly, we were having so much gay sex, our costumes memorized our motions and just kept going at it well into our post-coital tea. We let them be because it's kinda hot." Pablo whacked the costumes lightly with the broom handle, and the collapsed into piles on the floor. "I like pretending I'm Darth Vader when I do that."

"Well…" The Bloomin' Onion trailed off, remembering the two shotguns pointed directly at his tear ducts. "I don't actually mind the gays going about living and all that other stuff that bothers Chick Fil-A so much, so… I'll be on me way."

"I don't think so." Steve the sandwich said. "Not with the moose tornado heading straight for us.

And now a word from our sponsor:

The preceding and following acts of sweaty penis-on-penis action are brought to you by Chick Fil-A. When you think 'Chick Fil-A', think percussive homosexual intercourse.