Geological crackers - 5 minute freewrite, day 103

This is a cracker as much as I am an electric eel

All alone in front of the enormous fridge, dazed by the events, the penetrating eyes of a lighthouse keeper, scrutinising with intensity a half rotten tomato wrapped in film.

It could not go like this. It did not have to go that way.

In the silence of the huge kitchen, furnished in a minimal-chic fashion just as she liked, our man found nothing better than to devote every molecule of his soul and his body to patiently spread a beautiful layer of peanut butter on a cracker.

His eyes assumed vitality and colour flowed on the cheeks. It was so better, oh yes-sir, it was orgasmicly better. The brain released endorphin copiously.

It was not the eating, it was the ritual of spreading, the long sensual gesture of sinuously caressing the rough and irregular surface of the cracker.

He had been spreading for days. The automatic purchase buttons of his ultra modern AAL fridge helped him to ease the activity that had soon become overwhelmingly rampant in his life. He was very well organised with a team of collaborators, carefully selected during exhausting interviews full of crumbs.

He spread every type of camembert, Italian and French cheeses, even 24 months aged cheeses were diligently distributed on crackers without any breakage. Then nutella, cream of walnuts, chocolate cream, eggnog creams, creams of creams, peanut butter, cocoa butter, polymeric-organic compounds with triple helix DNA and creamy alchemic products of all sorts.

The more he had spread the more he wanted to. By now he no longer ate what he created, It looked blasphemious to him. Instead, he had set up a platform in the garden where a layered zigurrat was taking shape, every day more towering. A sort of Pharaonic tomb where he could be buried one day within the most varied geological crackerous stratification.

Soon the structure became gargantuan. People came from all over the world to admire it.
Having completely forgotten to be mortal, the man continued with his smearing obsession for centuries. By now the thing had become an imposing tectonic behemoth: the geographers gave it full dignity by naming it cracker micro-plaque.

The process went on for three hundred of good years, when the man was stopped by the army who wanted to study it for the sake of the scientific progress (and mainly to make a weapon against the Masonic robo-squirrel). Interrupted in his activity, the man remembered all in a sudden of being human. He crumpled, imploded in a deflated wooooot. It remained a creamy sauce in the ground. A passing child picked it up with compassionate care, spread it on an Oreo and fed it to his dog Farfo "the fleas waffle".