No one was surprised when it turned out that every form of sentient life in the universe had some form of bacon. Vegans everywhere were highly offended, but, as it turns out, there’s just something about slaughtering an animal, taking the fattiest part you can find, curing it and frying it up that is inherent to all advanced species.
The Balonghesh of Siti Prime called it “varesh” and it came from an animal that resembles a cross between a pig and a cow. The Yetsiki of New Borland had three distinct varieties from three distinct animals. On Baikurr, it was considered holy and only consumed by Monks during their yearly Festival of Bonnezing.
George was not responsible for the massive success of Zane Intergalactic Meats. He inherited the company after his father died of a massive cholesterol-induced coronary. Well, almost died… his brain lived on in a bell jar enshrined in his old office, bitter not about the fact that he was legally dead, but about the fact that he would never again taste the succluent sweet salty flavor of bacon.
“Tell me again what it tastes like…” asked George Senior for the third time that morning.
George Junior shighed. “It’s salty. Like, extremely salty.” Junior shuffled the virtual papers on his desk. “Like, it’s best when chopped up small and sprinkled over something else, like a salad.”
The brain in the jar audibly gasped; quite a feat for an entity with no lungs. “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to use the “S” word in my presence! Have some respect for your elders.”
Junior rolled his eyes. “I’m the same age now as you were when they put you in that jar. I don’t think you can pull the “elder” card much longer.”
“Watch your mouth, young man. I brought you into this world, I can take you out.”
It was a hollow threat, and one he’d heard a million times.
“Anyways…” he continued. “We’re still waiting for the FDA approval on several worlds. I’m not sure what’s holding up this particular variety.”
“Humph.” said the brain. “It’s bacon. It’s cured. What could possibly be unsafe?”
“You mean besides the sodium induced high blood pressure and coronary-inspiring cholesterol?”
“Very funny. That jibe never gets old. I mean, in three hundred and fifty seven worlds with four hundred and eighty-two distinct varieties of the stuff and countless variations on the theme we have never found a single variety that wasn’t safe for humans to consume.”
“Yeah, well…” George was really sick of sharing an office with his dear ole’ Dad. But the contract said he would be allowed to share the office “for the foreseeable future” and, well… the brain had lived far longer than expected. Of course, a significant amount of his fortune was spent in improving bell jar technology.
“But it tasted fine to you? Extra-salty, but otherwise good? Did it have a good balance between chewy and crispy? Was it…”
“Good grief, I swear, we have the technology for you to see and hear, we really need to work on the technology for you to chew and taste.”
“Fine, Dad. I’ll have some more of the samples we have fried up and sent in. I’ll give you a play-by-play. Would that make you happy?”
Soon, George Junior was munching away. He balanced the meat with a generous amount of cantaloupe, which helped to kill off the salty flavor. George Senior was insatiable, asking about the nuances of texture and flavor. Junior was starting to feel sick of the stuff.
And then he started to feel sick.
The doctors could not save him. All the dietary and lifestyle choices he’d made in response to his father’s untimely demise could not save him from the fact that the Gidrasyl used arsenic as a preservative in the curing of their meats.
George III quickly learned to tune out the constant bickering coming from the bell jars who shared his office. At least they usually spent their days talking to each other, ignoring him.
That was a good thing.
He had an empire to run.
This story isn’t related to any others I’ve done in any way. It was just sparked by a random comment on a friend’s facebook!
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