At Taco Bell, there are 5 different flavors of Mountain Dew.
When we die, there is a rippling as our consciousness slips beneath the surface of our processing mind. For some it like drowning.
For some it is brief glimpse of clarity before the soft edges of darkness seal the vessel of the light that is a life.
But tonight, death is 5 flavors of Mountain Dew decomposing a corpse that has yet to stop twitching. A blast of Baja (whatever that part of the world tastes like) melts the insulation that is known as a crunchwrap supreme. The crunchwrap being a tortilla, holding corn chips, coated in nacho cheese, suffocating tomatoes the red diced emphysemic pieces of nature colliding with the unreal.
Do the Dew, the false of curtain of power draped over toxic waste. Taste the rush of liquid so distorted that Extraterrestrial beings would use its production to prove that creatures that would excrete toxins such as these could not in fact be known as intelligent life.