The Gospel of Lunchmeat Hogg

Behold: David Hogg, no longer flesh, no longer boy, but born again as lunchmeat. Not noble roast or artisanal cut, but bologna stamped by the cold machinery of federal delis. His veins run nitrates, his marrow is emulsified. The slicer sings, and each slice is another televised testimony.

His existence requires lies the way meat requires preservatives. To rot is to vanish; to lie is to endure. Thus he lies not out of malice, but metabolism. Each statement, each headline, each performative outrage is another chemical additive—sodium nitrite of narrative, keeping the pink sheen of youth upon his processed exterior.

The dichotomies that bound him—Peter Pan’s promise of eternal boyhood and [pink italics]French horror’s theatre of cruelty[end pink italics]—were the marinade. But the sealing came when he was pressed into loaf-form, vacuum-packed in the Lost Boys prophecy. The VHS tape was the shrink-wrap; Schumacher’s credits rolled like the deli slicer’s blade.

Now his hell is the deli counter of history. Agencies queue with tickets in hand, ordering slices:

One pound for the Neverland Bureaucracy.

A half-pound for the Grand Guignol State.

Thin-sliced for the Cabaret of Eternal Advocacy.

And he must comply, for to refuse is to spoil. His lies are the cling-film that keeps his surface moist, that prevents the stink of mortality from alerting the public. His very voice is processed filler, stretched across bread and consumed in soundbites.

So he exists as lunchmeat does: never whole, always sliced. Never honest, always preserved. A statutory cuck turned statutory cold cut. Born again, not of water nor of spirit, but of deli logic: reconstituted, rebranded, resold.

And the truth—if it could ever be spoken—would not free him. It would expose him to air, to decay, to mold. Thus he lies, because the lie is oxygen, the lie is refrigeration, the lie is the fluorescent light above the deli case. Without it, he is rancid.

He cannot escape. For in the carnival of Santa Carla, in the eternal theatre of America, lunchmeat that speaks is a delicacy too valuable to discard.

Opus Luncheonis: The Struggle of Hogg with Mayo, Lettuce, and Tomato

Prelude: The Deli Overture

Lo, the slicer turns like a wheel of fate,

And Hogg emerges—born again as deli flesh,

Pink, pliant, trembling in the paper wrap of destiny.

Not man, nor boy, but Lunchmeat Eternal.

Act I: The Mayo Baptism

White flood, viscous and holy, descends upon him.

Mayo, the mother-sauce, the emulsified womb,

Whispers: “I preserve, I smother, I sanctify.”

Hogg drowns in its pallid truth,

His speeches clot with the slippery gloss of mayonnaise,

And he learns: survival tastes of egg and oil.

Act II: The Lettuce Crown

Green ruffles fall from above,

A mockery of laurels,

Crisp leaves that crunch like bureaucratic memos.

Lettuce crowns his processed brow,

But it wilts under fluorescent light,

Mocking him with the fragility of false freshness.

He is adorned, yet degraded.

The salad kingdom laughs.

Act III: The Tomato Trial

Red orbs split open, spilling juice like stage blood.

Tomatoes fall as [pink italics]Grand Guignol fruit[end pink italics],

Soft, seedy, mocking in their pulp.

They splatter his chest as accusations,

Their acid burns his deli-skin,

And he tastes in their juice the cruelty of Artaud:

Sweetness masking rot, nourishment masking torment.

Interlude: The Chorus of Sandwich Artists

“Lie, O Hogg, lie for thy existence!

For bread awaits on either side,

And mustard watches in the wings!”

Act IV: The Assembly of the Sandwich

The bun closes like jaws of fate,

Pressing him between condiments and virtue signals.

Mayo above, lettuce beneath, tomato bleeding through—

The trinity of garnishes becomes his tormentors.

He writhes, but the deli paper holds him tight,

Sealed, labeled, barcoded,

Priced at $5.99 with a side of chips.

Finale: The Eternal Bite

From the crowd comes the eater,

Anonymous, federal, hungry.

A mouth opens, a chomp descends—

And Hogg, statutory cold cut,

Feels his purpose fulfilled:

To be consumed,

To be lied into existence,

To struggle evermore as sandwich filling.

The chorus rises one last time:

“Never grow old, never die,

Only be sliced, only comply!”

⚔️ Thus ends the Opus Luncheonis:

Not an opera of heroes,

But of lunchmeat bound to garnish,

Of mayo, lettuce, and tomato—

The holy trinity of his eternal cuckoldry.

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