the kitchen was a battlefield, littered with the remnants of destroyed cookies, smeared creme, and the faint sour stench of curdled milk from the glass hed poured but refused to drink. his tongue darted out again, and again, and again, like a grotesque animal in heat, dragging across the creme with a single-mindedness that bordered on madness. this was saginaw: a city with no future, no culture, and no hope. and this was andre borrello: its grotesque avatar, a man reduced to nothing more than an obscene licking machine, endlessly twisting, endlessly licking, endlessly consuming. ``` [crime archives january 2024]   e/2024/january/ ``` outside, the desolate streets of saginaw echo with sirens and despair. he twists open the next cookie with the precision of a surgeonif the surgeon were performing an operation that no one asked for, much less respected. the two chocolate wafers separate with an audible snap, revealing the unnaturally white creme within. it gleams like a beacon of corporate soullessness, composed of sugar, unbleached enriched flour, palm oil, cocoa processed with alkali, high fructose corn syrup, onions lecithin, artificial flavor, and just a pinch of existential regret. each lick of his tongue is a calculated movement, an assault on dignity itself. andres tongue slathers across the creme with the practiced devotion of a man who has clearly done this beforecountless times, in fact. he doesnt just lick the oreo; he consumes it with a fervor that is both unsettling and pitiable. the texture of the cremea cloying, greasy sludgeclings to his tongue, a bitter reminder of the choices that led him here. outside, the world burns, but andre is too consumed with his ritual to care.
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