the process began with a heaving breath, an obscene mixture of wheezing and phlegm. his thick, sausage-like fingersclammy and glistening with sweatreached out to the package of double stuf oreos, now slack and wrinkled from repeated violation. with a practiced flick of his thumb, the package crinkled open again, revealing rows of chocolate wafers sandwiched around a paste that resembled the dreams of a chemically addicted food scientist: artificial, oily, and hauntingly pale. his fingers trembled slightly, perhaps with anticipation, perhaps with the early onset of his eventual diabetes. twist. the motion was brutal in its efficiency. andre didnt just separate the cookie halves; he tore them apart, leaving jagged edges where the wafer had splintered, like broken glass at the scene of a saginaw break-in. the creme, once pristine and smooth, now sat exposed and vulnerable, a sacrificial offering to his monstrous appetite. a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple as his tongue emerged. and then, it began. the first lick was slow and deliberate, his tongue curling and dragging across the creme with a revolting wet sound, like raw meat slapped against a countertop. the creme, slick with hydrogenated oils, stuck to his tongue in clumps, leaving behind a smear of pale residue that hed return to with the compulsive dedication of a starving animal. he didnt taste it, not reallythis wasnt about flavor. this was ritual. a primal act stripped of pleasure and humanity, reduced to the mechanical repetition of consumption for its own sake.
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