This, as you can tell, is Part 4 of an ongoing short story about an old and arrogant slice of pizza. Read from part 1 for proper context.
I’m a pizza of my word. So I’ll give you what I promised. Calm down. Keep it in your pants. I know this is the most important and interesting thing you’ve ever heard. And that’s okay. That’s no reason to pull those genitals out.
Anyway, this story is from back when my crust was still crunchy and hard. As you know, I was a vagrant for a while in my fresh days. I took on any job I could get. I became a brawler. Don’t look so surprised, I still had some jalapeno in me back then. You wouldn’t believe it, I trashed all kinds of pizzas. Even the disgusting pineapple ones. Yeah yeah, I know we can’t speak about them offensively. God, you liberals have made even complaining hard these days.
Point is, pretty soon I earned a reputation. I had earned the title of the one true slice. But that wasn’t enough, I wanted more. I wanted everything. I travelled across the base land. Everywhere. Even in the roughest of neighborhoods like ‘Spicy Slicy’. And I beat up all of their prize fighters. I got challenges and I took them. I didn’t care what size the pizza was, I was ready to take ’em down.
Don’t be intimidated by this but this one time, I tore a Pepperoni in pieces. He died on the spot. In order to show some emotion, I behaved as if I felt bad. But I felt nothing. In fact I felt happy about ripping his bread into pieces. Just crushing the crust. I remember slices in the viewing gallery vomiting their sauce. They couldn’t take it. Some asked for a refund, but hey, a Pizza’s gotta live, right? I told them to fuck right off. There was no way I was gonna let those cheapskates get their hand on my pizza money.
What? Oh right, the story about the big challenge with Kimbo Slice. I just don’t feel like talking about it anymore. Maybe later.