It’s the end of the world, apparently. Let me just finish this wing.
I’m burnt to a crisp and starved of water, greased up and sweating from the amber heat.
What happens when the end of the world hits as you’re mid-mouthful in fried chicken? Wings float in to the air as meteorites and explode; burger buns are fossilised in their own grease; bodies turn to bones and topple into their JD Sports bags; the counter top melts into lave, forming a portal; chips glow and fizzle from their own heat; barbecues transform into crabs, scuttling nonsensically in desperate search for water; fizzy drinks detonate like fireworks; Pepsi hardens to ice.
The fire alarm sounds like a trap beat.
A New Earth is created.