TumbleDweeeb

       “Thoshe peepuh who fink they’re famoush,” Logan mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed fries, bits of potato flying across the table with each syllable, “buh only haff four frensh.” He continued chewing open-mouthed, a glob of ketchup sliding down his chin unnoticed as he gestured emphatically with another fry clutched between greasy fingers.
     “What?” Lizzy said in a disgusted tone, leaning away from the spray zone. “I wish you’d have some manners and stop talking with your mouth full. Didn’t your momma teach you anything?” She grimaced as a piece of soggy potato landed dangerously close to her hand.
   Lizzy wiped a speck of potato from her sleeve with obvious disgust. “Seriously, Logan, I can’t understand a single word when you talk like that.” She slid her plate away from his danger zone as he reached for the ketchup bottle, squeezing it with such force that a red glob erupted from the top and splattered across his shirt. Logan didn’t seem to notice, or care, as he dunked three more fries into the puddle forming on his plate and shoved them into his already full mouth. His cheeks bulged like a chipmunk’s as he attempted to form words again, this time pointing enthusiastically at his phone with a greasy finger, leaving a smudged trail across the screen.
       “Imma tlkn bout thse Fashebuuk foosh tha make evryone fink they’re gettin big tyme,” Logan spewed, soggy bits of hamburger bun launching across the table like tiny projectiles. “Itsh been free yearsh shince Drollar Shtore shed he wash gonna be in a moovee,” he continued, chunks of lettuce and bread tumbling from the corners of his mouth as he proceeded to stuff the second half of his cheeseburger into his already full mouth. His cheeks bulged impossibly wide as he struggled to chew, a mixture of ketchup, mayo, and meat juice dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt, adding to the growing collection of stains. He attempted to nod emphatically, causing a pickle slice to slide out from between the burger layers and plop wetly onto the table between them.
   Lizzy recoiled as a spray of hamburger particles landed on her side of the table. She grabbed a napkin and meticulously wiped her area clean, shooting Logan a look of pure revulsion. “You’re disgusting, you know that?” she hissed, but Logan seemed entirely unfazed. He somehow managed to force his jaws to keep working despite the impossible amount of food packed inside. A glob of special sauce escaped and slid down his wrist as he reached for his soda with greasy fingers, leaving smudgy fingerprints on the cup. He took a massive gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically as he attempted to wash down the enormous mouthful, only to have cola dribble out the corners of his mouth and add to the mess on his shirt. Logan’s eyes suddenly widened as he struggled momentarily with the sheer volume, briefly looking like he might choke before managing to force it all down with an audible gulp.
   Logan reached above his tray to grab his third cheeseburger when he jumped from the sudden impact of something striking him in the side of the head. “Well, gahhh da…” he exclaimed, cutting himself short of cussing. His three-year-old Ephanie had been tinkering with his keys since they got to the mall, keeping her occupied and busy while they sat and ate. The entire jangling keyring had now become an airborne missile, hitting him squarely on the temple.
       “Why are we even here Lizzy? She doesn’t even know who Lionel the Clown is,” Logan complained as he unwrapped the third cheeseburger, raising it up towards his mouth. The paper wrapper crinkled loudly as his grease-slicked fingers fumbled with it, revealing the squashed burger inside. Despite the keyring assault, his appetite remained undeterred as he prepared to add to the impressive collection of stains already decorating his shirt.
   Ephanie giggled wildly at her father’s reaction, her tiny hands already reaching for the sippy cup as her next potential projectile. Lizzy lunged across the table, snatching the cup before disaster could strike again. “Logan, I told you we should’ve gotten the Play Place option,” she scolded, shifting Ephanie to her other knee to keep her away from anything else throwable. “And it’s not about knowing who Lionel is—it’s about giving me a break from being cooped up in that house all week while you’re at work.” Her husband, undeterred by either the flying keys or his wife’s lecture, took an enormous bite of his third burger, his cheeks bulging outward. A glob of special sauce squirted out the back end of the burger, landing with a splat on the tray. He attempted to grunt some unintelligible response, but only managed to spray more food particles across the table as Ephanie clapped her hands with delight, clearly entertained by her father’s disgusting display. Lizzy rolled her eyes, wondering for the thousandth time how she’d ended up married to someone who ate like a toddler with even less manners than their actual toddler.
     “Dollar general golsh turning shkin greener than…” Logan paused to forcefully swallow a portion of his mouthful with a gulping sound, then continued even more unintelligibly, “…than when Uncle Shteve fell ‘sleep in the kiddie pool las’ summer!” He erupted into a wheezy laugh that sent a spray of partially liquefied burger across the table like a malfunctioning ketchup dispenser. Mid-guffaw, a sizable chunk of burger lodged sideways in his throat, transforming his laughter into a series of cartoon-like choking sounds. His eyes bulged comically wide as he frantically pounded his chest with one hand while simultaneously trying to reach his soda, knocking over the salt shaker in the process. His face cycled through an impressive rainbow of colors—red to purple to an alarming shade of blue—before he managed to dislodge the rebellious food chunk with a dramatic hack that launched it directly into an empty chair at the neighboring table. The pickle slice that had been performing a high-wire act on his chin chose this precise moment to make its grand finale, sliding down and landing with perfect comedic timing on his shirt—a faded black tee featuring a cartoon buzzard roosting on a dead branch with the quote “Death awaits all things. I am merely its patient harbinger” printed beneath it. The pickle adhered to the buzzard’s beak like some bizarre addition to the artwork, making it appear as if the cartoon scavenger was enjoying a gourmet pickle sandwich. Ephanie squealed with delight at her father’s impromptu dinner theater performance, clapping her tiny hands as if it were the most entertaining show she’d ever witnessed.
   The family sitting at the table across from them had been watching Logan’s culinary performance with a mixture of horror and fascination. The father, a clean-cut man in a polo shirt, leaned toward his wife and whispered something that made her purse her lips in disapproval. Their teenage daughter didn’t even try to hide her disgust, openly filming Logan’s antics on her phone. Lizzy noticed the unwanted audience and shot them an apologetic smile that quickly transformed into a defensive glare. “What? Never seen a man enjoy his food before?” she snapped, surprising herself with her sudden protectiveness over her disaster of a husband. The teenage girl quickly lowered her phone, but not before Logan, still recovering from his near-death experience, noticed what was happening. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing dramatically, and then deliberately loaded up another massive forkful of fries. Making direct eye contact with the horrified family, he shoved the entire pile into his mouth and gave them an exaggerated wink. Ephanie, sensing the tension, chose this perfect moment to grab her sippy cup from Lizzy’s loosened grip and launch it with surprising accuracy at the neighboring table, hitting the polo-shirted father square in the chest.
   Ephanie began laughing hard at the man’s facial expression, clapping her tiny hands with unrestrained glee. “Again!” she demanded, her voice rising with excitement as she looked around frantically for another potential projectile. Her eyes lit up when she spotted Logan’s unused napkin, still folded neatly beside his tray.
   The polo-shirted man at the neighboring table had transformed from judgmental observer to unwilling participant in their family chaos. His face froze in a perfect tableau of affronted dignity—eyebrows shot upward toward his receding hairline, creating deep furrows across his forehead. His mouth hung slightly open in a small, perfect “O” of shock, while his eyes widened to an almost cartoonish degree. A splash of apple juice from Ephanie’s sippy cup had created a darkening stain on his mint-green polo, and a few droplets clung to his chin like morning dew. The color drained from his face before being rapidly replaced by a rising flush that crept up his neck and bloomed across his cheeks in splotchy patches of crimson. His nostrils flared with each indignant breath, making him resemble nothing so much as a businessman experiencing his first bull fight from an unexpectedly intimate position. The vein at his temple began to throb visibly as he looked down at the sippy cup that had bounced off his chest and rolled accusingly across the table, leaving a trail of apple juice in its wake.
   Before either parent could react, Ephanie lunged forward with surprising speed for a three-year-old, grabbing the napkin and crumpling it into a ball. The buzzard on Logan’s shirt, now adorned with its pickle accessory, seemed to be watching the unfolding scene with dark amusement, as if the dramatic quote beneath it—”Death awaits all things. I am merely its patient harbinger”—was playing out in real time through Logan’s repeated near-death experiences with fast food.
   The polo-shirted man slowly rose from his chair, apple juice still dripping from his chin. His wife placed a restraining hand on his arm, but he shook it off. “Control your… spawn,” he hissed through clenched teeth, jabbing a finger in Lizzy’s direction. Logan, still chewing his enormous mouthful, narrowed his eyes and began to push himself up from the table. The movement dislodged several food particles from his mouth, which rained down onto his tray like crumbs from a bird’s nest. Lizzy glanced between her husband’s food-stuffed face and the irate man, calculating which disaster to manage first. Meanwhile, Ephanie’s eyes had locked onto a large, soggy pickle slice that had escaped from Logan’s burger and was lying on the table. She abandoned the crumpled napkin, her tiny fingers quickly snatching up the new, more exciting projectile. Before anyone could react, she hurled it through the air with surprising accuracy. The pickle sailed in a perfect arc before slapping wetly against the angry man’s cheek, where it clung like a green, bumpy parasite. The man froze in shock, the pickle slowly sliding down his face leaving a trail of brine. Before Lizzy could intervene, Logan swallowed his massive mouthful with an audible gulp and opened his mouth to speak. What emerged was not words but a resonant belch that echoed through the food court, causing nearby diners to turn and stare. The unexpected sound startled the pickle-faced man into taking a step backward, knocking into a passing mall employee carrying a tray of sample cups. The inevitable collision sent tiny paper cups of orange chicken flying through the air like festive confetti.