George Saunders - In Persuasion Nation

"Yes please," says the remaining half a head.

"Yes please, it is sweeter to me than the most profound nectar?" says the grandfather.

"Yes please, it is sweeter to me than the most profound nectar," says the remaining half a head.

"Fat chance," says the grandfather. "You're not good enough for even a tiny fragment of a Dorito!"

Then he kicks the remaining half a head into the street, alongside the mush, and the Doritos truck backs up over the second half of head, reducing it to a second pile of mush.

"Do you still believe that Doritos is merely a bag of corn chips, with a ton of salt and about nine coloring agents?" the grandfather screams at the two piles of mush.

The piles of mush are too frightened to answer.

The bag of Doritos and the grandfather and the grandmother walk off, stepping comically over the two mushes with exaggeratedly high steps, as if revulsed.

They are escaping from the old folks' home, going to live in the land of Doritos, which is not in Mexico, exactly, but is very much like Mexico.

The grandfather and grandmother and the bag of Doritos can now see the land of Doritos in the near distance, beautiful and arid. Everywhere they look are bags of Doritos, working industriously.

Suddenly their path is blocked by the two piles of mush.

"What the?" says the grandfather who loves Doritos. Suddenly the piles of mush are joined by Grammy-the woman who died in a bush, neglected by her grandson Timmy, having been hit by a truck.

Then Grammy and the piles of mush are joined by the orange violated by the Slap-of-Wack bar.

Then Grammy and the piles of mush and the orange are joined by Jim the penisless man, who is still limping a little, and occasionally gaping down incredulously into his pants.

"Get out of our way," says the bag of Doritos.

"We're trying to get home, to our sacred land of Doritos," says the grandmother who loves Doritos.

Just then the man briefly involved with the gigantic Ding Dong comes running up and joins Grammy, the mush piles, the orange, and Jim the penisless man.

"Sorry I'm late," he says.

"Actually?" says the orange, with a hint of bravado. "You're right on time."

The grandfather, the grandmother, and the bag of Doritos see that they are badly outnumbered.

Luckily, at that moment they are joined by the giant DingDong, the Slap-of-Wack bar, Timmy, grandson of Grammy (even now eating from a container of MacAttack Mac & Cheese), and Kevin, the man who tricked Jim out of his penis.

"We don't get it," says the grandmother who loves Doritos. "What's your problem?"

"You took our dignity," says the orange.

"You took my fiancée," says the man briefly involved with the Ding-Dong.

"You took my penis," says Jim.

"You split my head in half, then reduced both halves to piles of mush, completely betraying the grandchild/grandparent relationship," says one pile of mush.

"Oh for crying out loud," says the grandmother who loves Doritos. "Don't you people believe in the concept of 'fun'?"

"In the concept of 'funny'?" says the bag of Doritos.

"We just want to express ourselves the way we want to express ourselves," says the giant Ding-Dong. "We find that fun."

"Well, we don't find it fun," says Jim the penisless man.

"Well, we do find it fun," says Kevin, the man who tricked Jim out of his penis.

"Looks like we'll have to agree to disagree on this," says the Ding-Dong.

"No," Grammy says. "This has gone on long enough."

The orange, the man briefly involved with the Ding-Dong, Jim the penisless man, Grammy, and the piles of mush, frustrated beyond reason by years of repetitively enduring the same physical/psychological humiliations in replay after replay of their respective vignettes, attack.

It is a bitter fight, which we know because out of a big cloud of dust fly a number of limbs, a bottle cap, bits of delicious flaky chocolate, and part of an orange peel.

When the dust settles, we see that the entire Ding-Dong/ Doritos/Timmy/grandparents-who-love-Doritos/Kevin/Slap-ofWack coalition is dead, except for the Slap-of-Wack, who is almost dead.

"Please, mercy," the Slap-of-Wack says.

"When did you ever show us any mercy?" says Jim the penisless man, and finishes off the Slap-of-Wack with a brutal karate chop.

The orange, insane with pent-up rage, falls upon the Slapof-Wack and tears it asunder with its tiny teeth until the other members of the coalition pull him off.

The members of the orange/Grammy/man-briefly involvedwith-a-Ding-Dong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition drag the remains of the members of the Ding-Dong/Doritos/Timmy/ grandparents-who-love-Doritos/Kevin/Slap-of-Wack coalition outside, and bury them in a shallow mass grave.

Then they leave the area, a little sick at what they have done, especially the orange, who several times becomes so distraught it stops rolling altogether, and must be picked up and hurled down the path by Jim the penisless man, who, turns out, has a very good arm.

One torn green triangular corner of the murdered Slap-ofWack bar blows across the desert, eventually coming to rest in a cactus.

Panning in, we see that the torn green corner is still breathing.

Over the next few hours, its breathing stabilizes. It is alive. It will live.

Stuck in the cactus hour after hour, day after day, full of shame and rage, the ton corner has a series of deep spiritual realizations concerning the true nature of that supreme power which brought it and everyone else and everything it has ever known into existence, and is the sole reason for their continued existence.

What does this power want?

It doesn't know. How could it know that? It is just a torn corner.

But surely there is a plan at work. It can feel it. They are born into vignettes, and these vignettes are their homes. These vignettes are what give their lives meaning. If they were not intended to do their vignettes in exactly the way they do them, why would they tel so strongly inclined to do them in that exact way? Therefore, the way to live righteously is to enact one's vignette with as much energy as possible, and oppose, as fiercely as possible, those who would undercut the proper enactment of the sacred vignettes. This is one way-perhaps the only way-or a lowly being such as itself to be in touch with the supreme power.

Take me, it prays, humble me, make me more open to your purpose.

Suddenly it feels a great surge of power, filling it, changing it, and its former identity as the mere corner of a Slap-ofWack bar is all but forgotten, subsumed in this new and greater identity.

Over the next week, via constant prayer, the corner more than quadruples in size, and begins to subtly glow, while attempting to free itself from the cactus via a series of energetic forceful shrugs, each of which leaves it utterly exhausted.

Finally it is free, and falls to the ground.

After several days of being blown around indiscriminately by the wind, the corner learns to adjust its posture in such a way that it can control its trajectory. Soon it actually learns to fly, via kind of hunching itself in the middle while simultaneously straightening its "neck."

Over the next few weeks, as it practices flying during the day and meditates on these new great truths at night, it is gradually, almost imperceptibly, transformed, from a mere green plastic-cellophane comer into a beautiful glowing oblong green triangular symbol.

Abe Lincoln stands giving the Gettysburg Address. Everyone is rapt, except for one guy in the front row, who keeps raising his hand and hopping up and down in his seat.

"Did you have a question, sir?" Lincoln says.

"Wendy's GrandeChickenBoatCombo," the man says.