So the delivery guy shows up and gives me the hamburger. His name is Jimbo. At least, that's the name I gave him and he's not speaking clearly enough or making eye contact, so that's the name we're going with.
So Jimbo hands me the burger I ordered. It's roughly 100 degrees outside. So hot you could fry an egg on the driveway, at least that's what I tried to prove by smashing 7 dozen eggs on the pavement. It was everywhere. On the cars, on the trees, on the neighbor's cat. Everywhere. Not just chicken eggs either! I threw a few penguin and ostrich ones into the mix since variety's the spice of life and all. So I says to Jimbo, "hey man, it smells like nasty smoldering eggs out there, wanna come in and relax for a bit?" Before he can say anything, I flip one of the gooey hand-shaped sticky toys onto his forehead with the precision and accuracy of a legendary ninja assassin, one so mighty that no one dare speak their name, and drag him into my humble abode.
Now, I know what you're thinking, and first off, no, I'm not running for mayor this year, but secondly, my intentions were purely platonic. Jimbo sat in the neon green inflatable chair in the center of my otherwise empty living room, partially out of a sick sense of wonder at what could possibly befall him next, an urge to know more, a compulsion so terrifying and beautiful that it guides the chaos we were born in like an oar drawn through a lake full of Mr. Bubble, and partially because I was doing some repairs on my socks and accidentally left a huge puddle of super glue on the seat. "Why am I here?" he asked, his tone sounding like that of a world-class opera singer who was also a deer that just noticed oncoming headlights, "What are going to do?!"
Haha, classic Jimbo.
After placing every manner of gloves onto my hand, both antique and modern, sorted both alphabetically and by color, I reached into the McDonald's bag and pulled out the Big Mac. "What is this?" I asked as calmly as a stream made of molasses. "A... hamburger?" he joked. I have to assume it was a joke because surely no mind blessed with human intelligence, the very weapon our species has used to conquer the world, eradicate disease, and even harness the very power of the sun, the cancerous lifegiver so mighty that our kind once worshipped it as a deity, would call this brilliant creation, this harmonious marriage of meat and vegetables a mere "hamburger". I pulled the end of the sticky hand, which was still firmly secured to his forehead like some kind of unholy chimera born from a tick and a Garfield suction-cup plush like the kind you'd find in some dorky family's car window, and snapped it back. It popped into his head so hard that it drew blood. I prayed that it was his blood, for it was the last he or I would ever see it, smell it, or dream it.
"Nay," I said, my back turned to Jimbo, the glow-in-the-dark number on my faded red jersey mocking him for his pitiful ignorance.
"It is... everything."
I spun around like the finest Russian ballet dancer performing for her favorite haberdasher via satellite during her time on the most extravagant of space stations. The Big Mac, now adorned with several pairs of googly eyes I bought on clearance at Target, stared Jimbo in the face. But not just him. It stared at me, it stared at the portrait of Mr. Rogers I painted onto the wall with melted crayons, it stared out the window and through the ages, right into the home of Ms. Selena Jenkins, the phone psychic who proudly displays her Future Fun Times employee-of-the-fortnight trophy on her fireplace mantel. And as the meaty soul gazed into Jimbo's corneas and clear on into his amygdala, he could feel it drawing ever closer to him, beckoning him, and not just because I had at that point put the patty onto the end of a fishing line and was awkwardly waving it in front of his face.
You see, the ritual had begun 4,000 years ago, and there was no stopping it now.
The patty pulsated, glowing in colors no mortal's "hamburger" would dare dream. It flashed blue, then magenta, then swirled within an ocean of sparkling lights. It projected the universe, and the universes beyond those, and the universes still beyond those, all over the walls. The constellations, Cygnus, Sagittarius, Cetus, probably others that didn't start with an "S" sound... all joined in the glittering, heart-skewering display, spinning and dancing with the joy of children who had been celebrating Infinite Christmas. The stars, comets, planets, all the space in between both explored and unseen, proving that we're just one variety of energy in an infinity that gives every individual quark its own chance to become a savior. He was transfixed. He saw beyond our reality. He saw beyond them all. Every wrinkle, every layer of his mind peeling away and floating away like petals freeing themselves from spring trees. They shattered, one by one, becoming the dust that spiraled into their own galaxies, those galaxies now sustaining their own life, and that life with its own collection of myths and legends about what angels and devils surely birthed them.
Within the walls rose thousands upon thousands of glowing orange lines, cascading, bouncing off of every point of light, playing a game of tag that has no beginning and no end. Fractals that could not be contained, branching, growing, filling every space in every direction and dimension. Soon time itself would be consumed. The light grew, the sounds it projected giggled and fluttered like a parrot imitating a politician turning into silly putty. The noise echoed and reverberated until it was so thunderous and deafening that even the core of the planet screamed for release out of fear of going deaf.
The glorious blaze, the symphony of eternity, underturned itself sideways and shot through Jimbo's body, destroying it. He had no use for it now. He had evolved into something that can not be described. He ascended to an existence we can not even dream, beyond even godhood, as even the gods were bound by mathematics. His essence, everything that made him what he was and what he would have been, expanded at several times the speed of light, like a ham kite being stretched into your imagination by two starving hounds. He became but a new fabric, a new tile on the quilt of possibilities. I thought I would be rent asunder, my internal organs swapping places like an anarchist's game of musical chairs.
As he seemingly vanished, just moments before he lost his ability or desire to communicate in our filthy, confined tongue, I could hear his final words on this plane.
"... Thank you..."
The deed done, I felt as if I had become like a very thin, watery jam. But I knew my mission was not complete. I had to continue. I had to keep building. I hoped this would give humanity a fighting chance, but if out of the trillions of lifeforms beyond space and time, even one survived, all of my joyous suffering would be worth it. Shaking, I picked up my phone and visited the UberEats website again.
Another Big Mac will be here in about half an hour.