light. It gave him a purpose. A rageful quest. From that moment on, Brayden dedicated his life to proving the lethality of sharp bread. “Those who doubt me will feel the slice of my wrath.” Brayden traveled to various marital arts tournaments, determined to demonstrate what he knew to be true. And it was in the parking lot of the Des Moines Elks Lodge #48765 (after the midday Karate Tournament / Pancake Jamboree) that Brayden triumphed. In a minor scuffle with a condescending bystander, Brayden accidentally cut himself with a half-eaten piece of quattro formaggi. Blood was drawn. And in that blood, a movement was given life. It was only months later that Master Sensei Brayden and his subjects commandeered a small island off the coast of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and dubbed it “A Slice of Heaven.” Of course, the local and federal governments rejected any such land claims and ordered Master Sensei Brayden to leave. But that would never happen. This was now their land. A land with no laws. A land where life could be taken with just a small combination of flour and yeast. “Will you stop the invaders from spoiling our home?” “Yes, Sensei!” “The government infiltrators fear us! And they want to take me out. Well, if you come for the Sensei, you better slice to the bone! Because I will defend myself to my last breath!” The words exited Sensei Brayden’s mouth, but he was still lost in his thoughts. And in his diverted daydream, he noticed someone approaching him. A subject, yes, but in no way did this approach seem friendly. A usurper! Brayden yelped as the attacker hurled a slice of chorizo and pineapple (a spicy take on the Hawaiian) like a tri-pointed throwing star. He dodged the leavened weapon, but the attacker quickly rearmed himself and lunged forward, taking Brayden to the ground. They wrestled in a feat of strength, each struggling to survive. Brayden’s muscles resisted with all their strength, but his thoughts again retreated. How had he lost himself in this quest of death? He longed for home. Overcome with a deep yearning for his days of simply dropping ‘zas, Brayden began to sob. He convulsed as tears flowed from his pent-up ducts. Brayden expected his emotions to weaken him, allowing the stale provisions to enter his body. But the slow slice of death never came. “Aw, shit, dude! You ruined my pizza!” the usurper exclaimed while holding a limp slice. “You cried and snotted all over it. It’s totally soft.” Another voice bellowed from the crowd, “Super grody! Wait, so, any liquid will ruin a slice? What a big bummer!” And with that, the subjects dispersed, their dreams of a better world, a world with pizza weapons, crushed. But not for Brayden, no. Brayden was given life anew. A simple life. He spent the rest of his days in quiet solitude, living in the basement of the YMCA, subsisting off the pizza crust Mr. Rutherford discarded (he especially hated the stuffed crusted with the garlic butter drizzled on top). In the end, it was the pizza that got him. But Brayden did not meet his maker through a violent encounter with a slice, no. Brayden had a massive coronary brought on by a singular diet of leavened dough, processed cheese, and extra pep that he consumed by the fistful. His tombstone reads: “Here lies Master Sensei Brayden Jennings. A man who taught the world that the bubbling yeast of anger can be stymied by the sweet salt of tears.” 19
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