Earl's Sandwich

Earl's Sandwich


My name is Sandy. Well, technically it still is. I think. Can you still have a name, even if, every few minutes or so, another piece of you--a vital piece, too, no doubt--disappears down some human's gullet? I should probably start at the beginning.

I was--born?--about thirty minutes ago, I guess. My earliest recollection is hearing an admiring voice say, "That's some sandwich you got there, Earl! Dagwood himself couldn't have done any better!"

I felt myself puff up a little with pride (although it could just have been Earl letting go of my upper bun, er - head), so I took stock: the aforementioned top bun, zesty sauce, a slice of tomato, a couple of layers of lettuce, two pickles, some more sauce, a slice of American cheese and a slice of Swiss, catsup, mustard, my main ingredient--corn-fed Angus beef, by the feel of it--another tomato slice, some more sauce and, finally, my bottom bun holding everything up.

I was a work of art! Surely, I thought, that's why this Earl guy picked me up so carefully, set me on a nice wide plate, and carried me into the main room. I was going to be the center of attention! He was going to put me on the table, so everyone could see how wonderfully made I was! Then, Earl picked me up and took a bite out of me.

It didn't hurt, exactly, but I could feel my innards shift between my buns, and my liquids start to run down my sides. What was going on? I couldn't believe it. Mere moments earlier, I'd been a shining example of the perfect sandwich; now, I was horribly deformed. Earl picked me up again, and another piece of me vanished. Then, it came to me: he was eating me, and there was nothing I could do to stop him!

Bite followed bite. With each one, my once-beautiful structure became more and more compromised. My tomato slices shifted this way and that, and I grew smaller and smaller. What will happen to me, I wondered, when he takes that last bite? Will I be aware of my trip down his throat? What if--


[366 words]