Thread by @GailSimone

I have an idea so evil, so startling, that I'm afraid even uttering it might be upsetting to a great number of followers.

It just came to me out of nowhere.

I fear its power.

Shall I share it?

It occurred to me out of nowhere, just now, just a simple phrase, really.

But within that phrase lies our potential destruction.

All our ambitions and aspirations, and yet...all our hubris, as well.

I worry for a future where this might not be a passing fancy.

What is it, that causes me such dismay that I genuinely fear putting this idea out into a world that's proven it lacks the capacity to control its avarice?

What could cause a writer, a storyteller, to want to be silent, lest this idea become an utterance that can't be returned?

WHAT IS IT THAT STRIKES SUCH TERROR FOR THE FUTURE INTO MY HEART?

It is a SANDWICH, my friends.

You laugh.

You won't laugh for long.

Not if, heaven forbid, the wrong person hears this idea and IMPLEMENTS...

...but no. It's too horrific. No one is that evil.

I give this idea unto the world.

Our damnation or our salvation, that is for humanity to decide.

Here is the haunted phrase in my sinner's mind...

Turn away. I beg of thee.

Turn away.

Too late.

We are all.

Too.

Late.

FILET OF McRIB

May God have mercy on my soul.

What IS it.

What constitutes a sandwich that dooms us all?

FILET OF McRIB

Forgive me, I was not made for such purpose.

Filet.

Of McRib.

Now you know. Now you know.

Madness is contagious.

And now you know.

Pork rib-shaped patty.

Fish.

Pickles.

American Cheese.

Tartar sauce.

Barbecue sauce.

Onions.

You summon not a demon, the demon is already here.

You know the ingredients of the bomb are under the bed.

Dare you look closer?

FILET OF McRIB

The geometry of hell.

In a sandwich.

With a two-word phrase that tortures and debases all who hear it.

"Available seasonally."

Forgive me.

I know what I have unleashed.

It all gives credence to their new corporate slogan.

"I'm Lovecraftin' it."

You order it. It's curiosity, you say. It's a goof, you will tell your friends. I ordered it BECAUSE it's so stupid, you say.

But it comes in a box with unfamiliar colors. The arches are there, but there are five of them. No, six. Why did you think there were five?

The woman at the window is crying as she gives you your order. Her hands tremble as you take the bag.

You feel something lurch inside, but justify it as the unlikely physics of food hastily prepared and handled.

But it's not hastily prepared. It's been a LONG time coming.

You examine the box. It is all right angles, but neither a square nor a rectangle. It reminds you of a pyramid, in some way, despite not resembling a pyramid at all.

The scene wafts towards your nostrils and you know a new thing, fear you can smell.

You unwrap the sandwich, realizing you never paid, nor were you asked to pay.

What is uncovered is both oblong and circular, somehow.

Patty upon patty, sauce upon sauce.

You recognize that last sentence as the prayer your nanny made you say before slumber each night.

You don't want this thing in your vehicle, let alone your mouth. But you made your bargain and the devil is impatient.

You bite, trembling.

Soft upon soft upon soft. Pork and fish copulate upon your tongue.

You want to vomit, you want to die.

You want a slice of apple pie.

You see visions of horrible things. You close your eyes, but they are INSIDE your eyes.

The pickles provide only brief respite.

And then the cheese asserts its dominance.

Hell is here, and it's not recyclable.

t'was a joke, you think, but its too late
for heaven cannot compensate
and child of man must eat to live
the porkfish god does not forgive

so if you pray your doomsday wish
through mouth befouled by pig and fish

thank them for the hell redux
for at least it's not McLean Deluxe

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SUPERSIZE THE APOCALYPSE, SIR