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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.