Giant Victory

 

At last, you reach The Giant. The automatic doors hiss open like temple gates, and the fluorescent light pours over you as if welcoming a pilgrim. The crowd inside parts just enough for you to pass, carts rattling in your wake.

You move through the aisles in a daze — past towers of LaCroix, past the endless jars of pickles. Every step pulls you closer to destiny.

And then you see it.

The rotisserie chicken.

It sits in its plastic clamshell throne, steam swirling behind the clear lid like divine incense. It glows with a golden sheen not of this earth, juices pooling like holy oil. It is Excalibur, waiting for the one worthy enough to grasp it.

You extend your hand. The moment your fingers close around the warm container, something shifts inside you. The traffic, the tractor, the cursed green light of 250 — all of it fades. You are whole again.

You carry the chicken to checkout like a knight returning with a sacred relic. Other shoppers nod respectfully. Even the cashier regards you with awe.

That night, as you tear into its tender flesh with your bare hands, you are not just eating. You are ascending.

You are reborn.

Try Again? (But, why?)