Pepe Pepperoni wasn't prepared for this. He wasn't responsible either. A human had opened the fridge, maybe George, maybe Sue, or one of their children, had grabbed Pepe, sliced him, and thrown his cuts on the pizza. He wasn't sure which one did it; all humans looked the same, with two mundane ears, two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, almost identical in family and species. He ended up in the blazing cage, disheartened from the other ingredients, the more than expected trio of dough, tomato sauce, and cheese. No spearmint, not basil, just a red dead margherita, the plainest of the plain.

"Oh, dear Lord...," Pepe screamed in utter desperation, "...you who can create miracles and fill the sausages with soy and make them tastier than pork, redeem the poor pepperoni!"

"I'm working on it, give me 5 minutes...," replied the Sausage Lord.

"The oven reaches 300 Celsius (572 Fahrenheit, 573.15 Kelvin), make it quick, SL."

In the heat of the night, he lost track of time. The oven door opened, the pizza cutter rolled like Sisyphus's stone, and in a matter of seconds, Pepe was facing a pair of tonsils.

"If there's something you can do, do it now, SL," praised Pepe.

"I'm working on it, which part is difficult to und..."

Black void. Primordial soup con pepperoni e salmonella. 3-star Michelin.
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